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~April 8, 1808~

E llen Aston, Viscountess Moreton, walked into St. Camillus Hospital for Wounded Veterans and took in a deep breath. The intense smell of human bodies, blood, and despair was tempered only slightly by an underlying waft of lemon and alcohol that were used as cleaning agents. Was it odd that Ellen could feel her shoulders relax? Was it disturbing that this was where she felt happiest, amongst the wounded?

This was her work and her passion. This was where she felt whole. She was needed and busy. There were no gossips whispering behind their fans while giving her strange looks from the corner of their eyes. There were no gentlemen to approach her and then suddenly turn and walk in the other direction.

There were men who had risked their lives for their country. There was pain, yes, but it was usually understandable. Frequently, it was even something she could help relieve with a dose of laudanum or even just a hand to hold or an ear to listen to tales of valor and woe. Here there were trained doctors and nurses doing unspeakable things, all in an effort to ease the suffering of the men brought here from the continent. It was usually the last stop before the men either returned to their homes, into the arms of their loved ones or, sadly and too often, to their local church’s burial ground to be laid to rest with their ancestors.

Sometimes it was Ellen’s own determination that might make the difference in which direction a man went, and it was that which brought her back here two, sometimes three times a week, to spend the day tending to the men. And so today, after taking in a deep breath, she took off her pelisse, her hat, and gloves and went to wash her hands as she did every time she came to the hospital.

“Oh, Lady Moreton, I am so happy to see you here today,” Nurse Mary Cotswold said as she rushed past.

Ellen shook the water from her hands as she quickly followed the woman who was always on the run. “Good morning to you, Mrs. Cotswold. Please tell me where I may be of assistance today.”

“We had another new batch arrive yesterday evening. I haven’t yet had a chance to match names and beds. Could I please ask you to do so?” the small woman asked with a glance over her shoulder.

“Yes, of course! I’ll get the book and get right to it,” Ellen said, changing directions and heading off to the office where the official book of patients was kept. Each man got a page in the book where his progress would be tracked, but someone had to get as much information about each man as possible to begin with. Of course, many would come with orders or papers of their own, but everything had to be noted in the book. It was a job Ellen particularly liked because it gave her a chance to get to know each man who came through.

She grabbed the ledger and a small pot of ink, pulling her own quill out of her reticule. A quick look around the ward led her to the bed of the first newcomer.

Pulling up the little stool that stood next to the bed, she smiled comfortingly at the man lying there. His eyes were closed, but Ellen didn’t think he was asleep. “Good morning,” she said softly. “I’m Lady Moreton. Could you tell me who you are?”

She had spoken with half a dozen men and had just started with a pale, dark-haired man with blue eyes laced with pain when the man on his far side spoke up. “I say! You’re Lord Major Percival’s man, aren’t you?”

The man who’d just introduced himself as Sergeant Frederick Jones turned wide eyes to the fellow next to him. “I am,” he said with a slight hesitancy to his voice.

“He shouldn’t be here!” the man said to Ellen, his face beginning to turn red. “I am Lord Captain Newbury, and I say he should not be here! This hospital is for officers, not the riffraff.”

Ellen shook her head and quickly placed a restraining hand on Sergeant Jones’ shoulder when he attempted to sit up. “I do beg your pardon, my lord, but this hospital is for wounded veterans, whether they are enlisted soldiers or commissioned officers such as yourself. We do not discriminate.”

“Well, you bloody-well should!” he snapped.

“Oy! Watch yer language in front of the lady!” Sergeant Jones protested.

“She’s not a lady, she’s a nurse or a-a-”

“I am Lady Moreton, my lord, a volunteer here, and I would appreciate your respect. Now, if you have a problem, I’m certain I can find some orderlies who can remove you to a bed farther away from Sergeant Jones,” Ellen said in a kind but firm voice.

“Move me? It’s him they should move!” the man said, clearly highly offended.

“No, it is you who are protesting. If you do not wish to be next to Sergeant Jones, it will be no problem at all to move you.” She stood to call the orderlies.

“I object to such treatment!” Lord Newsbury said. “I am a nobleman. Move the commoner!”

Once again, Sergeant Jones made a move to sit up, but Ellen quickly put her hand back onto his shoulder. She gave him a reassuring smile before turning back to the offensive gentleman. “Lord Newsbury…” she said, combing through her memory for the name.

“What?” the man said warily.

“I’m just trying to think whether I’ve met anyone from your family, perhaps at a society function?” she asked. She had heard the name before, and it wasn’t on good terms if she remembered correctly. She simply couldn’t recall the particulars.

He opened his mouth and then closed it again. “No. No, I don’t believe you would have. We, er, well, that is, my mother doesn’t attend society parties. Not since my sister was launched and—”

“Ah! That’s where I heard the name before! Your sister had, er, an unfortunate encounter with… who was it? The butler? Am I remembering that correctly?”

The man’s Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat as he turned his eyes away.

“Right. I’m usually not much for gossip, but I do remember that one because it was so very unusual. One hears of young ladies running off with the odd footman but rarely a butler. He was much older than—”

“That’s enough! I understand what you are trying to do, and it’s not going to work! Despite the horrid scandal my sister was involved in, I will not lie next to a servant. I refuse!” the man said angrily.

“Very well,” she said with a shrug. She turned and waved to the two orderlies who were standing by the far wall, taking a much-needed break. The two burly men immediately came over.

“Yes, my lady?” one of them asked as they approached.

“George, I’m afraid Lord Newsbury is not happy with his current location. Could you please find him another?” she asked sweetly.

“Happy to, my lady.” George gave her a short bow and then went to Lord Newsbury’s side. His lordship was sputtering his objections, but George ignored him and scooped him up like a baby. The man screamed his indignation while Matthias, the other orderly, dealt with the falling bed linens.

George turned and strode away with the offensive and offended gentleman, taking him to the far corner of the ward near the drafty window. Ellen thought it fitting but knew he would soon be complaining about that too. Well, she would deal with that later. For now, she turned back to Sergeant Jones.

She sat back down on her little stool and settled her book into her lap. “Now then, Sergeant Jones—”

“You didn’t need to move ’im. I woulda moved,” Sergeant Jones said, giving her a grateful if slightly guilty smile.

“Absolutely not! You are here where it is warm and cozy, and that’s just where you should be. I do hope Lord Newsbury likes a cool breeze.” She gave Sergeant Jones a wink.

“That window leak?” he asked with a slight chuckle.

“You wouldn’t believe! It’s why we only put our problem patients next to it if we can help it.”

He shook his head. “That’s not very charitable,” he warned.

“No, it’s not,” Ellen admitted. “It does work, however. A few nights next to that window and, oddly enough, they find they’ve completely forgotten about whatever got them moved in the first place.”

Mr. Jones laughed. Sadly, it turned into a wince.

“Oh dear, are you in pain?” Ellen asked quickly.

“No… well, yes, but it’s me own fault. I shifted me leg when I laughed. Shouldn’t ha’ done that.”

She turned and noticed blood seeping through the white sheet covering his right leg. She jumped up and moved the sheet away. His leg was bandaged from his thigh all the way down to his ankle, and it was deep red in a couple places. It also looked filthy, as if it hadn’t been changed in much too long.

“Doctor said I was lucky I didn’t lose it. Badly cut up, it is,” Sergeant Jones said. He was up on his elbows, looking down at his leg.

“Which doctor said that?” Ellen asked.

“The one who saw me just before I was put on the boat at Calais.”

Ellen nodded. “And was that the last time this bandage was changed?”

“Er, yes. I think so. Might ’ave been before that, actually. I think they just took a look at it and then shipped me off,” Sergeant Jones said.

Ellen shook her head. “Well, let’s do something about that, shall we?” She gave him a reassuring smile and went off to get the first aid kit and a nurse to help clean his leg.

~*~

As his traveling coach approached Mayfair, Christopher, Viscount Pennyston, pulled up his shirt points as high as they would go and angled his head so only the right side of his face was showing. He was sure he would get used to doing this every time he had to go out into public. On the other hand, it had been nearly a year, and he still wasn’t used to the face that greeted him in his shaving mirror every morning. He still flinched every time he saw what he had become.

His mother had too. Every. Single. Time she’d seen him. Sometimes, he would catch the shudder; sometimes, it was simply her widened, fearful eyes which quickly changed to an expression of sorrow. Sometimes, she just couldn’t help herself and would press a fist to her mouth and mumble, “My beautiful boy. Oh, my poor, sweet beautiful boy.”

After a year, it had been too much. He couldn’t stand it any longer.

His father had simply stopped joining them for dinner whenever he knew Christopher would be there. He couldn’t even look at his first-born son anymore. He stayed locked up in his study or kept to his horse, riding around his estate—anything to avoid him. If they happened to end up in the same room, Lord Hershell spoke only of Samuel, Christopher’s younger brother. Christopher didn’t begrudge his brother; he’d always been their father’s favorite.

Never in his life would Christopher have thought to be happy to receive a letter telling him Freddie Jones had been injured and was on his way to London. He opened the letter once again, skimming through the now-familiar words.

“ It is with deepest regret that I write to inform you that Freddie has been injured ,” Lord Percival had written. He’d been a good friend, taking Freddie on as his own batman when Christopher had been injured. Clearly, though, Freddie had somehow been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Christopher didn’t know the details yet or how badly his old friend had been injured, but he’d find out.

Yes, he’d find Freddie and do everything he could for the man. Never had Christopher felt closer to a servant than he had with Freddie. He’d been a combination of father and best friend to a young officer, despite the fact there couldn’t have been more than ten years age difference between the men. He’d taken care of Christopher through so much for the past five years.

Freddie had wanted to come home with him when Christopher had been injured, but the army hadn’t allowed it. Instead, they’d insisted the man find another officer to work for. Christopher knew Percy would take good care of him, but somehow, poor Freddie had gotten injured.

Christopher’s thoughts were pulled away as his coach slowed and then came to a stop. He peeked out the window. Ah, Pennyston House, London home of Lord and Lady Hershell. It had never really been a home to Christopher. He’d only stayed here a few times when he’d been in school and for a brief time just before he’d joined the army, but it would be his for now.

The door opened just as he was scrunching down in his never-ending effort to hide his face.

The butler bowed low as Christopher came through the door. He winced when he saw all the servants were lined up in the hall to greet him. Why hadn’t he thought of this before he’d come? What an idiot he was!

“Welcome to Pennyston House, my lord,” the butler intoned. The man hadn’t yet looked up.

Christopher was doing what he could to only show the good side of his face, but it wasn’t always possible.

The housekeeper to his left let out a little whimper as she bobbed her curtsy, but quickly slapped a hand over her mouth.

At the same time, the butler, standing directly in front of him, lifted his eyes to Christopher’s face, and he, too, gasped in horror. He quickly got hold of himself, however, and cleared his throat. “I am Thompkins, my lord, and this is Mrs. Wright. We will be happy to serve you during your stay. May I introduce the rest of the staff to you?”

“I don’t know if that’s a good—” Christopher started. He reconsidered his words even as he spoke. Why hadn’t his mother sent word of his disfigurement when she’d informed the staff he was coming? Christopher supposed it was because she couldn’t even look at the still-pink scar that covered half his face, pulling and folding his cheek into an unnatural shape. In all likelihood, she couldn’t bring herself to write about it. Well, he supposed he might as well get this over with. He turned toward the footmen and maids waiting to greet him.

Eyes widened as they took in his visage, but it was the scream and subsequent fainting of a maid that had him ducking and turning his left cheek to his shoulder once again. His chest constricted in anger—not for the poor maid but for himself, for life, for circumstances, for bad luck. Whatever you wanted to call it that had led to his disfigurement.