It Started at Waterloo Read online

  She grimaced. The same idiot who’d come here in her only ball gown and completely forgotten she was wearing new white gloves until she’d touched her first patient. She’d ripped them off impatiently. They were trampled on the floor of the farmhouse they were using as a military hospital. Her gown was ruined. She hadn’t stopped to change, but had pinned it up to a more manageable length. She must look dreadful, but she had not considered it until this moment. But Will was still the most handsome man she’d ever seen in the whole of her life.

  “He just wants to see his men, he says. We’re to carry on as normal.”

  Amelia gave an inelegant snort. “That’s what he says, but it’s not what he expects.”

  Will touched her arm. “He does. He’s a decent sort under the arrogance. The losses grieved him terribly.”

  Amelia shook her head. Her encounter with the duke at the Richmond ball had given her no good opinion of him, his stiffness a counter to her natural shyness. The terrible toll the battle had cost made her more wary of him. He’d thrown his men into battle, and this had been the outcome. They’d run out of stretchers and camp beds yesterday. Some were lucky to have been allotted a blanket.

  Will had given Amelia the job of assessing the wounded as they came in. The surgeons found they could work more efficiently if she put them in certain sections of the field hospital—one for critically wounded, one for dying and one for men who could wait. Many people would consider the practice callous, but it saved more men overall.

  Outside Mont St. Jean and the makeshift collection of tents that served to house many of the wounded lay a grisly pile of severed limbs, ready for the incinerator. Sometimes the only way they could save a man was by taking quick action, and saving most of the person rather than all of him.

  Will glanced at the bed behind her, and his face twisted with pain. “I’m sorry you have to see this.”

  “I’m not, because I could bring him a little solace before he died. He was but a boy, no more than sixteen. He cried for his mother, so I pretended to be her.” She was too tired to cry, but she swallowed the lump in her throat. “There is so much suffering here.”

  “But you are helping.”

  “Amelia!” On hearing the sharp female voice behind her, Amelia’s weariness worsened. She had hoped her mother would find it too difficult to locate her. She knew where her family was lodging in Brussels, so she could find them when she had done here.

  Perhaps her mama had news of her father. He had gone to fight with everyone else.

  Lady Hartwell appeared the same as always, round face unmarked by strain, lace-edged cap perched on her increasingly unlikely crop of blonde curls. As the years went by, she became fairer.

  “Mama, you should not be here—unless you have come to help.”

  “I have come to fetch you home, miss.” Lady Hartwell glared around her, as if the wounded men were somehow offending her. The cacophony had increased with her entrance, since she was garbed in a fine walking gown. Shouts mixed with the moans of the badly wounded. Amelia had tied a large white apron over her own gown and a linen cap over her elaborate hairstyle, to keep it out of the way, so she fitted in much more easily.

  Lady Hartwell struck the silk of Amelia’s gown. “In this? What happened to your clothes, child?”

  “I’m still wearing most of them, except I had to throw the gloves away and my stockings won’t be fit for use when I’m done.” Her gown either, but she wouldn’t mention that.

  “I imagined you rolling bandages and reading improving texts!” And, no doubt, charming the better connected of the wounded. An earl was still an earl, whether he had all his limbs or not.

  Amelia rarely asked the men for more than their first names. Their uniforms told her their rank. “Few discriminate, unless they want the surgeons to see to them faster. But that does not work.”

  Her mother touched her nose. “Faugh, it stinks in here! Come home immediately, Amelia, I demand it!”

  She ignored her mother’s command. “How is my father?”

  “He is well. He fought hard and has hurt his ankle, twisting in the uneven ground of the battlefield. But he will recover.”

  Sir George was lucky. Others had not been so fortunate, but Amelia’s spirit lightened at the news. “Is he resting?”

  “He is. We have a mind to get out of here.”

  “You might find the exodus problematic,” Will said. “Transport is difficult. The rain has made progress worse.”

  Lady Hartwell sighed heavily. “Then we will stay. But won’t you add your persuasions to mine, Mr. Kennaway? It is not at all proper for Amelia to remain unchaperoned.”

  “Then you have arrived in time to chaperone her.” Will sounded reasonable, and ignored Lady Hartwell’s outraged expression. “I doubt any of the men here are in any state to do her harm. Those who are ambulant are exhausted.”

  Amelia watched her mother, fascinated by the expressions moving over her face. She wanted Amelia back at their lodgings, but she did not want to offend Will. While ineligible to her mind, having not enough fortune to keep Amelia in comfort without working, last night he had revealed he was related to some of the highest in the land, not least Wellington himself. The duke had paid Will flattering attention in the middle of a ballroom. That would not have gone unnoticed.

  As if she had conjured his name by thinking of it, his grace chose to appear. He stood in the doorway, his size darkening the light at that part of the room, and gazed around him. His pale face was graven with deep lines. When he strode toward them, other signs of his exhaustion became apparent—the dark shadows under his eyes. He had once remained on his feet for nine days with only the briefest of rests. Two days with lack of sleep did not exhaust him, as it had Amelia.

  “How are they?” he asked, without preamble.

  “Some will recover.” Will answered without bowing. In fact the only person to go into an obeisance was Lady Hartwell. She dipped into the deepest curtsey possible in this confined space.

  The duke gave her an irritated wave. “We have no time for that, woman. Are you here to help?”

  “Your grace, I’m here to bring my daughter home.”

  “Is the surgeon done with her?” the duke snapped.

  Will rubbed the back of his neck. It must be aching after so many hours bent over wounded soldiers. “If she wishes to go, then of course I cannot prevent her.”

  “You’re not answering the question, man! Do you need her?”

  Will nodded. “Miss Hartwell has considerable experience with attending to injured men.”

  “And we have never had so many before.” Casting about him, the duke sighed heavily. His attention snagged on the youth Amelia had just covered, and the orderlies coming over to remove the body.

  “It means another bed, your grace. Although we have completed much of the urgent work, there are still men urgently needing our attention,” Will said.

  “Then that’s your answer.” The duke spared Lady Hartwell a glance. “Your husband is well?”

  “Indeed, sir. Only an injured ankle. He led his men on the field.”

  “Good, good. There were many heroics yesterday and not a few today. This does not feel like a victory, but I have shaken hands with Blucher. We will have Napoleon soon. He will not get away this time.”

  Amelia was glad to hear it. “I doubt the army can take any more. Yesterday was punishing.”

  Wellington snorted. “Indeed it was. The worst I have ever known. I will speak to some of the men, but let me know if I am in your way.”

  Amelia liked him better for that. The duke had come to see his men, spared the time to pay attention to men who deserved his thanks. And he seemed to know it.

  He moved off, followed by his aides, who kept at a discreet distance. He nodded to Will as he strode away. When Will went in the other direction, toward the makeshift operating room, Amelia did not hesitate to follow. Her mother knew the way back to their lodgings. She must have hired a carriage to get here, because
she would not walk.

  She should have known better than to assume her mother would give up so easily. Especially when a duke was present, albeit a married one.

  The rustle of silk told her that her mother had kept up with them. “I really should not be doing this,” she said.

  When Will was intent on his work, he set a punishing pace, and Amelia found it difficult to keep up with him at times. From the panting coming from behind her, Lady Hartwell was having similar problems.

  “If you insist on this behavior, then naturally I must chaperone you,” she said, between gasps.

  Amelia turned at the door, exasperated. “I cannot have you following us around, not unless you are willing to help.” She gestured. “At least your gown is the right length, although it will become sadly soiled before too long. Blood is impossible to get out of silk completely.”

  Lady Hartwell picked up her skirts, her cream kid gloves showing not a wrinkle. Her upper lip curled in distaste and her nose twitched. The smell of fresh blood had that effect on some, but the stink of old blood and putrid flesh was worse. On the second evening after the battle, men were rotting where they lay, infection turning to gangrene before the surgeons could reach them.

  Amelia never accustomed herself to that smell. Nobody ever did. And it lingered, seemed to sink into the clothes of whatever she was wearing. She’d never wear this gown again. If she had to wear her old brown to balls in future, she’d do it, and gladly. She’d wear it in memory of all the men that had perished here on the field at Waterloo.

  “Madam, I would wish you were not here,” Will said at last. He turned around, blocking the lady’s entrance into the small area that held his operating table. “You will not desire to go any further. This is where I do the majority of my work. I will be cutting off men’s limbs and trying to save what I can. Your estimable daughter will be assisting me. The job is worse because it has been some time since patients have arrived here. I cannot have anyone fainting or protesting. Absolute concentration is paramount.”

  “But I must ensure my daughter is properly cared for.”

  “Why the propriety, ma’am? You have allowed her to help for years.”

  That was true enough. As a young woman, dragged around the battlefields of Portugal and Spain by her father, Amelia had begun her career. While her mother and sisters were more often than not lodged at the nearest respectable and relatively safe place, she would follow the drum.

  “I had considered her in gainful work,” Lady Hartwell said firmly.

  She was up to something, although Amelia had no idea what it was. “It is gainful work,” she said. True, she had soon moved from winding bandages to cleaning and talking to the patients, who appreciated someone to discuss their shared experiences with. Men were not beasts, she learned—they were people, just as she was. The revelation had changed her life and the way she regarded the opposite sex. Although naturally reticent, she could talk to men as rational people. Which was more than her sisters did, except perhaps her older sister, who had a husband of her own.

  “Madam, you may come or you may stay, but I wish you would not interfere with the work we do here. When we are done, or when the worst of the tasks die down, I will send her back to you safe.”

  “Ay, but ruined!” her mother said, bitterness edging her tones. “Nobody will consider Amelia seriously. I had not done so myself, I confess, before Sir Henry Torrence called on me yester-eve!”

  Amelia went still. Sir Henry was wealthy, but he was also pompous, overweight, unintelligent and far too old. “Why would he call on you, Mama?”

  “Because of you, foolish child!” Lady Hartwell stamped her foot. “He has a deeply traditional way of regarding ladies. If he heard you were here, doing this, he would withdraw his suit immediately.”

  When Amelia swayed, Will put his hand on her elbow, steadying her. He was, she realized, her best friend, and friends performed such small services for each other. At least she had that.

  With her world collapsing around her, she blinked back tears. “I do not wish to address Sir Henry’s suit.”

  “Foolish girl! Your father has all but accepted! You will have an establishment of your own. All the gentleman requires in return is heirs.”

  Heirs meant intimate relations. With Sir Henry on top of her, she’d probably suffocate. The thought was obscene; it was not right. Sir Henry had been an acquaintance of her father’s for years. He was a member of the General Staff, a civilian member, so he had never gone close to enemy lines. Panic seized her. She wanted to run until she could nor run any more.

  “I do not—”

  “He wants you, girl. He says you are amenable and that you will not challenge his edicts. Tomorrow we’ll strike while the iron is hot and bring him up to scratch.”

  A raucous laugh came from one of the beds, and Amelia glanced at the occupant. A man she’d held down yesterday while Will had sliced off his crushed arm below the elbow. As resilient as a cockroach, he was now sitting up and taking an interest. So were the conscious men around him. What should be a distinctly private conversation took on the tone of a public debate.

  “She’s as tough as old boots,” the soldier declared. “And she don’t take no nonsense.”

  Next to him, a man who’d barely kept his foot on his leg, said, “She knows what she’s doing. It’d be a shame to lose her to all that other stuff. Husbands and wives, pah!” He folded his arms and glared.

  Amelia found herself defending her mother, when she would have rather sent her off without another word. “What woman can live independently, unless she has a fortune of her own?” Mimicking the second man, she folded her arms. Then she tapped her foot on the rough wooden floor. Since she’d found a pair of sturdy leather boots to replace her evening slippers, she made a satisfying tap. “I have nothing of the kind.”

  “Any man worth his salt would be glad to ’ave you,” the first soldier said. “No ornament, you. Girl, you’re a marvel.”

  She shook her head vigorously. “How could any red-blooded woman do anything else? You gentlemen are saving our country and you expect me to stand by and watch?”

  The second man glanced meaningfully at Lady Hartwell. “Some do.”

  Her mother was right. Without marriage, Amelia would be lost. She could not behave independently. She had no fortune, no stunning beauty, nothing to attract a husband.

  Amelia’s dreams of leading a meaningful life, doing something with it, collapsed into a heap of ashes.

  Will spoke up. “May we discuss this another time? Nothing amiss will come of her actions. Your daughter is a heroine, ma’am. I will undertake to see her cared for and sent home in good shape.”

  “Then we must hope Sir Henry does not hear of this,” Lady Hartwell said, stamping her foot. “I see you are in no mood to argue, miss. Be sure you come home refreshed and ready to listen to your suitor. Your only suitor,” she added tellingly.

  The duke offered her mother his arm. “May I take you back to your lodging?” Glancing back at Will, he said, “I will be back.”

  Amelia had no doubt he would.

  Chapter Three

  “You should make the decision, Amelia,” Will said. Saying her name openly felt good. He had always regretted having to return to the stultifying “Miss Hartwell” in public. The name did not suit the intelligent, lively woman she became when out of her mother’s orbit.

  How could he let her marry the pompous Sir Henry? But he could do nothing else. He had no rights where she was concerned. The fact that he considered her a close friend and valued colleague had no bearing in the way the world worked.

  He could propose to her. They would form a mutual beneficial partnership. Yes, he could imagine living with this woman, sharing his life with her.

  His bed.

  His mind came to a stuttering halt.

  Will couldn’t remember the last time he’d lain with a woman. No, wait, he’d had a casual encounter with a Spanish woman. How long ago was that? Damn, but he could
n’t even remember where. He’d driven himself into the ground, made his work the center of everything he did.

  He could find a lodging in Chelsea near to the hospital. Amelia could help him. Perhaps one day they would put out a book and scientific papers, in their joint names.

  Will had no problem sharing the glory. All he wanted was to discover a solution for certain intriguing problems. Like why maggots helped to clean out a wound, and why honey poured into an injury helped the healing process.

  So much they had learned. He could not bear the knowledge wasted.

  His secret, that he had a title, seemed irrelevant put into that context. Other peers had pursued careers before, why could he not do the same?

  As for the other, the path he’d so firmly cleared his mind of—when he’d seen her at the Richmond ball, his resolve to allow their friendship to remain platonic flew out of the window.

  Amelia had a slender figure, but curved enticingly in the right places.

  For once, Will let his gaze roam over her. The hideous but practical white apron swamped her petite form, but he recalled how she’d looked at the ball. Lovely, beautifully neat and in a color that suited her well.

  Ah yes, the gown she still wore. He frowned. “Why the devil didn’t you change your gown when you arrived here?”

  He’d found time to don the coat he wore when working, although recently he’d taken to shedding it and rolling up his sleeves. He grew too hot after the first few patients. Come to think of it, the men he’d worked with since he’d taken to working in that manner tended to do better. It could be a coincidence. He made a mental note, then wrenched his mind back to the present. They had far too much to do now to even consider pausing.

  “I had no time, and nothing suitable to change into.” He should have ensured she had something other than the apron. Too late now, though he swore he’d make it up to her.

  Three days after the battle, and still they came.