Page 28 of A Deal with the Burdened Viscount (Marriage Deals #3)
“Let my strength hold.”
Oliver whispered under his breath as he stood in the drawing room before the window, where his nightmare unfurled before his eyes. It was dark outside, the thunderclouds rolling in to obscure the last of the sunset’s reddish-pink glow. The lawn, the rose garden, the pond—all disappeared, hidden under a rolling cloak of darkness and the eerie flash of lightning. He ran a hand through his black hair, rolling his wide shoulders that were corded with tension. Lightning flashed, illuminating the lake and the surrounding forest. He winced, shutting his green eyes. The flash took him straight back to the battlefield.
It was night, and the rain began to fall. They had been fighting all day. Oliver and his men, weary and battered, were trapped not only by the storm closing in on the hillside but also by the regiment of French soldiers who had broken from the main battle to strike at their position.
“Major! Major Moore!” Captain Harrow called to him. “We can’t hold them. We need to go back.”
Oliver gritted his teeth. He bit back a harsh reply and tried to think. They could not go back down—the French had surrounded the hillside. And they could not go up, because that would take them nowhere at all, only further up the hill. They could not spend the night up there because of the raging storm.
“We have to go east,” Oliver muttered. He gestured to the bugler, who was with him on the hillside. “Sound the call for retreat. We need to go east.”
“Sir?” the bugler demanded. Even in the near-pitch darkness, Oliver could see his worried expression. They were supposed to be fighting on the right flank of the main force, firing on the French troops from the safety of the hillside. It had been Oliver’s plan, and the lieutenant colonel of their regiment had approved it. Oliver surveyed the chaos around him as the plan disintegrated. He gritted his teeth, fighting to block out the sounds of groans and the evident suffering of the men, as well as the disbelief on the bugler’s face.
“Sound the retreat,” he said grimly. “We need to get as many men off this hill as we can before the French charge up here.”
The bugler gaped at him and Oliver tried not to swear. The main battle was already lost, and the French had turned their sights from the valley—where the main battle took place—to the hillside, where Oliver and his men had concealed themselves. With a company of sixty men under his command, Oliver’s first responsibility was to them.
“Sound the retreat,” he repeated. “We need to get back fast.”
The bugler, seeming to finally heed the orders from his major, lifted the instrument to his lips and blew the retreat signal. Oliver raised his sword and turned his horse sharply to the left.
“To me!” he yelled across the sound of the storm. “Men! To me!”
They had already started to retreat as the cannon fire tore through the night. Oliver heard the screams of men and horses, and he bit his lip, tasting blood. He had hoped the rain would dampen the French cannons' effectiveness, that the near-darkness might make them hesitate before firing. Cannons were the most feared weapon on the battlefield—he had witnessed their devastating power, and the thought of them haunted every soldier.
“Blast it,” he muttered under his breath. “We need more rain.”
He repeated the words over and over as he led the men off the hillside. The cannon rocked back and blasted again, and the sound echoed in his head, the roar dulling his ears and rocking through his bones and filling him with uncontrollable urgency that he had to try to rein in. He needed to lead an orderly retreat, not a scramble of men escaping.
The rain came—icy, torrential, and drenching them to the skin. It washed over the men, turning the ground to thick, sticky mud, and soaking the gunpowder until, at last, the cannon fire ceased.
Oliver reached the main body of the army with a little over half the men. He did not notice the ones who had survived—Captain Harrow, Lieutenant Knott, Corporal Burns, and so many others whose names he did not remember. It was the faces of those who had not survived that haunted him, that rose up before him, that tormented his dreams from that day.
Oliver blinked as the lightning flared again, pulling him back to the present. The thunder was far away, and for that, he was grateful. When the thunder started, he could not bear it for even a second. That deafening roar, ripping through the sky, shaking the windows, and vibrating through his body, took him back to the battlefield, to the cannon fire and the storm. Then, the memories, the horror, and the faces of the men who had been lost became too much for him to endure.
“Son? Son! There you are. Beatrice is here.”
Oliver jumped, whirling around at the sound of his mother’s voice. Locked in the horror of the battle, he had not recognised his mother calling him, but had thought the shout was an enemy soldier, shouting in a language that Oliver barely understood and bringing one of the lethal cannonballs down on the men.
Oliver gazed at his mother, blinking as his mind returned to the moment. She was dressed in a grey-blue velvet dress, her grey hair arranged in curls around her face. Her blue eyes were wide and round with concern.
“What is it?” Oliver grunted. He was shaking and he hated it. He did not want her to see that, or that his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides. She would think that he was weak. She did not understand the torments in his head. Nobody did. If he tried to explain—if he spoke of the things he had witnessed, the stench of the medical tent, the constant terror of the battlefield—people would recoil from him.
“I wanted to tell you that Beatrice is here,” his mother said gently. Her blue eyes watched him caringly. “Son...are you well?”
“I am well, Mother,” he said through clenched teeth. “Just...just one of my headaches.”
“Oh. I am sorry to hear that. Do go and lie down, if it will help,” she said swiftly. “I had hoped that you would talk with Beatrice and Robert. They will be here any moment. For the house party at Rosebrook. I am sure you remember...” she trailed off as Oliver drew a breath.
“Please, Mother,” he said in a small, strained voice. The thought of attending their neighbour’s house party was unbearable, even in the best of times. Since his return to England after the war, he had not once ventured into society. He simply couldn’t face it. The politeness, the endless formalities—all of it seemed trivial, almost absurd, after having stood in the thick mud of a battlefield and witnessed the horrors of war.
Her brow creased with a frown. “If you really are unwell, son, then you should rest. I do believe that we should try and go on the morrow, though. It will be diverting, and you need a diversion. I...”
The first roll of thunder sounded, making Oliver gasp, his body going rigid. Any loud noise had that effect on him—years of battlefield experience had made every sound a reminder of a shot or some other threat. Thunder was the worst of all. It brought back the horrors that had nearly broken him.
“Your Grace?”
A familiar voice sounded from the doorway, making Oliver relax instantly. Captain Harrow was there. The captain had followed Oliver back from the war, and—when the captain’s missing leg had made all other options impossible—he had come to work for Oliver, taking a place as his steward. He managed the household accounts, the stables and the estate with rigid, military precision and Oliver was grateful to him. He turned to look at the captain as he limped in, leaning on his crutch.
“Harrow. What is it?” Oliver asked. With Harrow, he never needed to pretend. Harrow understood—he had been there, at the same battle. He had lived through the same war. He knew what Oliver had seen and when the shaking came, when the rage and horror closed in, he knew what was happening.
“Begging your pardon, Your Grace. Your Grace,” Harrow added, bowing respectfully to Oliver’s mother. “Some letters arrived from your solicitor in London,” he explained, returning his glance to Oliver. “I thought you might like to have them now?”
Oliver inclined his head, the barest nod. “Take them to the study, Harrow,” he said quickly. “I will look over them when I have a moment.”
Harrow nodded. His dark eyes filled with understanding. He limped to the door. As he reached it, Oliver’s sister walked in.
“Brother! I hope you’re not planning to go and work in your study,” Beatrice, his sister, said as she glided into the drawing room. Her black hair—so like his own, except that hers was curly and long where his was trimmed ruthlessly short—was arranged in a loose chignon, her big black eyes, identical to their late father’s—wide and round. She gazed up at him hopefully. “It’s the house party tomorrow. You have to come.”
“Sister...” Oliver began desperately. She had to understand. If the storm continued, he would not sleep and then he would be terrible company the next day. Social events were almost impossible anyway, but if he had not slept, he could not manage to hide the constant tension, the constant alertness that never dimmed, no matter how much he needed it to do so.
“Uncle! Uncle Oliver!” a small, high-pitched voice called. Oliver’s eyes widened as his sister’s small son, William, ran into the room.
“William, Uncle Oliver has a headache,” their mother cautioned the young boy. William ran to Oliver and stuck out his hand, gripping Oliver’s big, callused hand in his own two small, cool ones.
“Uncle! I missed you. Are we going to ride on the morrow?”
Oliver let out a breath. When he stared into the seven-year-old boy’s dark eyes, so like those of Beatrice and those of their own father, he could not be angry. There was something so artless, so trusting, in the boy’s gaze that made the horror of battle melt away. He could not see his trustful smile and remain trapped in the broken, cruel world of war.
“Yes. Why not?” Oliver asked, ruffling the boy’s thick brown hair and struggling to keep his voice happy. “If your mother says yes, then we will ride. We can go up to the lake.”
“I can go further! I’m big now,” the child asserted. “I can ride in the forest with you!”
Oliver swallowed hard. The boy’s trust reminded him of a better world, but it also scared him sometimes. How could he let such a vulnerable child trust him, when he had caused the death of thirty men?
“Mayhap we will go further,” Oliver assured him, staring into that imploring gaze.
“Hurrah!” William declared. “Mama? Papa said that I could have a cream bun at tea,” he told Beatrice, who laughed softly.
“He did, did he?” she chuckled. “And where is your papa?” she added with a frown.
“He’s talking to Mr Harrow,” William replied. “In the hallway.”
“Oh.” Beatrice smiled at Oliver. “Well, we shall go and find him.” She took William’s hand and turned to Oliver as they went to the door. “Thank you for saying that you will take him for a ride tomorrow if you have the time,” she added softly.
Oliver swallowed hard and inclined his head. “I will be pleased to,” he replied, his voice low.
He waited for his mother and sister to exit the room, little William chattering happily to Mama about how he had ridden all around the estate gardens by himself.
As soon as their steps had retreated, Oliver closed the door quietly behind them and sank into a chair. The storm roared outside and Oliver shook, but without the need to control it anymore, which was a relief. With the door safely shut and locked, he could lower his guard. If the storm overtook him, if it turned him into a sobbing, raging wild man, it wouldn’t matter as much. But then he remembered—wincing in pain—that he was expected to attend the house party tomorrow evening. He shut his eyes and, for the second time that afternoon, gathered his resolve. He would need it. He hadn’t faced society since his return from Portugal and the war.