Page 49

I t took two full days to transport all the wounded from the field of Waterloo.

The mayor of Brussels had declared the entire city a military hospital.

When the existing hospital buildings overflowed, churches and residences filled with damaged soldiers.

All local surgeons and physicians had been called in to assist. Those not actively engaged with amputations or other urgent care had been sent from house to house to tend to the lesser injuries.

As the week dragged on, the number of men to care for grew less, and the number of graves filled the countryside, a testament to the price paid for victory.

Outside a farmhouse, less than a mile from the now-deserted battlefield, William sat on a chair in the courtyard.

He had been unconscious when the surgeon had cleaned out the mess where the orbit of his eye had been, sewing the lid shut and sealing all with a bandage.

He’d been lucky, he had been told when he’d awoken.

There was very little risk of infection. He would survive.

It seemed a very small compensation for a life now bereft of all that had given it purpose.

There was a good chance William would have no use for his commission, now that the war was at an end.

And his ruined face would limit the chances of finding a woman to love.

Not that any of this mattered anymore. Miss Lockhart was spoken for.

Even if she wasn’t, what could he now offer her?

He had no prospects, no fine looks, and his heart was brittle with all he had witnessed.

As if to rub salt in his very fresh wound, of all the medical staff available in Brussels, Dr. Westbridge had come by to check on him.

Dr. Westbridge, who was whole in body, well established in his career, and who would return to England to claim his bride.

William supposed he should have been grateful to see a friendly face, but he was not ready to see that face in particular.

“You are healing well,” said the doctor as he changed the dressing. “Those stitches should be able to come out in another week. Let’s hope they see fit to transport you home and not to France, where some regiments are chasing after the enemy.”

“There is nothing for me in England,” William said morosely. “They might as well put me to use while I have any.”

Dr. Westbridge frowned. “You don’t mean that.

You have family and friends who await your safe return.

And you have been luckier than most. This,” he said, indicating William’s bandaged eye, “is nothing. You have another one like it that works just as well. You have your full quota of limbs. You have been spared your life. There are many who would wish to be in your place.”

William turned his head away. He didn’t care, even if it was true. The doctor had not seen what he had seen, experienced the horror, pain, and loss. He wanted to be left alone.

But the universe would not grant him this.

“There you are, Cole!” It was the last voice on the entire Earth that William wanted to hear, except, perhaps, that of a Frenchman. “I’ve been searching through this whole wretched city for you.”

Lieutenant Richard Foyle—his head bandaged, his slight stagger suggesting he was already mildly intoxicated—pointed an accusing finger at William as if he had been purposefully hiding from the man.

“What do you want?” William snapped. He was in no mood for Foyle’s nonsense.

“I want you to withdraw your report to Larson.”

“What are you talking about?”

“In your written report on Waterloo… You said I was too drunk to fight. I want you to tell Larson you were mistaken.”

“Why would I do that? I told the truth.”

Foyle waved a hand about. “You think, with all that has happened, he needs to know the so-called truth about such an insignificant detail? Isn’t it bad enough that I was injured?” His mouth pouted into a sulk. “Suffered a concussion, the doctor said. Could have been trampled to death.”

“Would have served you right,” William grumbled. “I should have left you there to get your just deserts.”

“So you pulled me from battle that you may ruin my reputation?” Foyle snarled.

William laughed roughly. “What reputation? Everyone knows you’re a drunk.

But this time, your lack of sobriety could have cost men their lives.

You should have been ready to fight, to defend our troops.

Instead, you lay on the ground like a sack of flour with an injury you had brought upon yourself. ”

“Why, you little…” Foyle charged at Cole, but Westbridge interceded, stretching his arm across the space between the two agitated men.

“Still got fight in you?” Westbridge said, his voice shaking slightly.

“You haven’t seen enough death and destruction to last you two lifetimes?

Back here,” he said, indicating the farmhouse, “behind these walls, men lie in agony, undecided whether to pray for life or death. And you would attack a fellow officer who saved your life?”

“Stay out of it, doctor!” growled Foyle. “There are fates worse than death. My father is all but poised to cut my allowance if I disgrace him one more time.”

“Reduced funds?” William scowled. “ That’s what you’re worried about? Not the behavior that causes it? You have no honor, man. If your father had had any sense, he should have cut you off completely a long time ago.”

“Shut up!” shouted Foyle, putting the heels of his palms to his ears.

“I don’t want to hear it! You sound just like him.

Always telling me I’m worthless and shaming the family and how thankful he was that I was not the eldest, for he would never want me to be his heir.

” His voice pitched higher, his eyes roving wildly.

“He almost cut me off after the picnic, thanks to you! Said it was my last chance.” Foyle’s eyes settled back onto William, changing abruptly from the edge of hysteria to a menacing glare.

“ You! Ever in my way. Always harping on about honor. Always bringing my father’s attention to the details of my life. And now you would ruin me.”

William rose from his simple wooden chair.

He was still several inches shorter than Foyle, but the man backed away half a step at the suddenness with which William stood.

“Anything that befalls you now is your own doing,” he told Foyle.

“Your very demand that I should lie to cover your indiscretion is further proof of your unworthiness. And I have a witness to attest to your continued dishonorable conduct.” William gestured toward Dr. Westbridge, who stood ready to intervene if his patient were at risk of being injured again.

“If I were you,” William continued, “I would start thinking what you will say to your father to explain your actions. A little humility and a change of heart on your part might win him over.”

Lieutenant Foyle blinked rapidly as if trying to understand what he had been told. He looked at the doctor, then back at William. And then, to William’s utter astonishment, Foyle smiled. It was a very disconcerting sort of smile and did not belong among the features of a sane man.

“So it’s that simple, then,” said Foyle, drawing his sword with worrying calm.

“Just two witnesses to remove. There will be no evidence of this conversation. And no one to cross-examine in a court martial. The report becomes worthless. I don’t know why I bothered to ask for your help.

This is so much cleaner. No more Lieutenant William Cole to be a thorn in my flesh. ”

William raised his palms to the madman before him. “Think what you are saying, Foyle. I have nothing to lose. My life is as pointless as yours. But leave Westbridge out of it.”

“No,” Foyle responded, looking at his blade that now swung free from its scabbard. “I don’t think I will.”

“Look,” said William, rather more desperately now, “I’ll withdraw the report. It’s not worth a man’s life. This is between you and me.”

“You should have said that earlier,” came Foyle’s sinister answer, “before the doctor heard everything. What happens now is your doing, Cole.”

Before William could say another word or think to act, Foyle pulled back his sword arm and thrust it forcefully away from him to the right where Dr. Westbridge stood. He did it without looking, without hesitation, without a tinge of conscience.

The sword scarcely made a sound. Westbridge, too, did little more than exhale a plosive “UH!” before the blood began to seep through his shirt.

Foyle slid the blade out smoothly, keeping his eyes on William, then lunged forward to repeat his fatal strike.

William grabbed the blade instinctively.

It sliced through the flesh of his palm and fingers, mingling his blood with the doctor’s.

He twisted his body to the side, pulling the sword farther forward so that Richard Foyle was jerked off-balance and fell forward, his face planting into the mud at William’s feet, his sword hilt bouncing once as it touched the ground.

“Murder!” shouted William. And then again, a sob rising in his chest as Westbridge sank to the same muddy courtyard floor as his killer, “Murder!”

Boots clattered as those well enough to run came from the stables and kitchen, stopping in their tracks as they beheld the scene.

A young woman with greater presence of mind knelt by the doctor, looking for the wound under his shirt.

Upon seeing the extent of the damage, she lifted his head to her lap to offer compassion in his dying moments.

Two of the men grabbed Foyle and wrenched his arms behind his back, forcing the struggling, swearing wastrel to his knees while another fetched rope to bind him.

“You’re bleeding, sir,” said one of the kitchen maids. Come with me. We will wash and bind your hand.”

But William barely heard her. He threw himself down next to the form of Westbridge, whose face had grown pale, his breath raspy. William grabbed his hand. There was nothing else he could do.

“This is my fault,” William said through hot tears.

“It should have been me. You have so much more to live for.” He dropped his forehead against the almost lifeless hand of Westbridge.

“Miss Lockhart will never forgive me,” he said in whispered torment.

William felt the mildest of pressure as the failing doctor tried to squeeze his hand.

“You are…” Westbridge struggled against death. “…a…good man.” He closed his eyes, as if the energy of keeping them open robbed him of speech. “You must…marry…her.” His head sagged as his last breath left him.

“No, no, no, no !” William cried with rising panic. “This is all wrong!” He looked about him, seeking help where none could be found. Instead, his gaze fell upon Foyle, still held between two men, though he no longer struggled against them.

William launched across the small space between them, his fist flying at Richard Foyle’s jaw.

“You bastard!” he almost screamed. “You selfish, murderous bastard!” And then he was raining blows upon the man’s head and body, the sight of Foyle’s bloodied nose and cheek not even registering in his rage.

Several men had to pull William off him, but he kept shouting and flailing until eventually, they found it easier to remove Foyle from his sight and thus calm the distraught William a little.

He stood hunched, panting heavily, the entire scene burnt into his mind with more ferocity than the horrors of Waterloo.

Someone placed a chair behind him and gently guided him to sit.

Another figure brought a basin of water and began to tend to his wound.

They moved about him like ghosts, for he was barely conscious of their presence.

Eventually, William’s hand was bound with clean linen. But not by Westbridge. Never again would he give of his time and skill as he had always done with such devotion. A good man had been lost. And a bride waited for his return.

“Marry her.” The last words of Arthur Westbridge. Always he had thought of the wellbeing of others. But how could William honor such a wish? Miss Lockhart was not a commodity to be passed along from one man to another. Besides, he had nothing left to offer her.

William sat in the courtyard, far from home, and wept.