Chapter 19
My Dearest Drake,
Forgive me for not writing. I fell from a tree and my arm was dislocated. It was dreadfully painful. I now understand why mother said ladies should not climb trees. So, I have climbed my last tree.
Ever Yours,
Emmaline
She wished it were raining.
And she hated the rain.
But today the sun’s bright rays were so abundantly, well, bright, and it was making it difficult for her to remain buried in her cocoon of covers, pretending it was still time to be abed.
Anything so she didn’t have to face the inevitable confrontation with her brother.
After the tumultuous exchange between Drake and Sebastian that previous evening, Sebastian had chosen to let the matter rest. Emmaline had been dealt a reprieve. Alas, today was the day she visited London Hospital.
Emmaline sighed.
The last thing she wanted to endure was a closed carriage ride with Sebastian. She considered postponing her trip until tomorrow. That would allow her a brief reprieve from—
“My lady?”
Her maid, Grace, hovered in the doorway.
Emmaline waved her in.
Grace hurried over to Emmaline’s armoire. “His Grace wanted me to remind you of your visit to London Hospital.”
Emmaline scrubbed her hand across her eyes. “Was that all?” If she knew her brother as well as she believed she did, then there was certainly more.
Grace’s hand, which had been ruffling through Emmaline’s row of day gowns, paused. “He also instructed me to tell you—” she cleared her throat, “—that you couldn’t hide in your room forever. His Grace’s, words, of course.”
“Of course.”
Grace returned her focus to her efforts at hand. She apparently would rather choose to ignore Emmaline’s stinging sarcasm.
Oh, he was an insufferable bother.
Tossing the covers aside, she flung her feet over the side of the bed and jumped to the floor. “Help me dress, Grace.”
The ever diligent Grace was already crossing the room with an ivory silk organza creation draped over her arms.
Emmaline allowed her maid to assist her out of her nightgown and into the lovely gown. She stood in front of the floor-length ornate silver mirror, trimmed in roses not really seeing Grace’s final efforts.
What could she possibly say to Sebastian that would make any sense? How could she brush aside his very legitimate concerns of her betrothal, when she herself saw merit in them? In four months she would be one and twenty, and another year would be behind her, leaving her still unwed.
Grace cleared her throat. “My lady?”
Emmaline jumped. “Ah, yes, thank you, Grace.”
And because Sebastian was correct and she couldn’t stay in her room forever, she left the sanctuary of her chambers.
She found him waiting for her at the base of the stairs with a book tucked under one arm, and checking his timepiece.
He spied her coming and slipped the piece back into his jacket. “I took the liberty of selecting your reading selection for the men today,” he said by way of greeting.
He held up the maroon leather volume up for her inspection.
She read the title. “Byron,” she murmured. “I thought you found all poetry to be rubbish.”
She accepted his arm and accompanied him to the carriage. He waved off the groom and handed her up himself.
“I decided to delve a bit deeper to see what it was that so fascinates you…about poetry, that is. I maintain my earlier position. Most of the stuff is useless drivel.” Emmaline was astute enough to detect the subtle nuances of her brother’s casual conversation. She remained silent. “But then there is Byron. Rather smart, if not an odd fellow. Do you know what he once said?” Sebastian didn’t wait for Emmaline to answer. “I do detest everything which is not perfectly mutual.”
Emmaline’s gaze snapped out the window.
Folding her arms, she braced for the onslaught of his lecture. She waited. And waited….
But he didn’t add anything further.
Nary a word.
Somehow that unspoken disappointment was far greater than if he’d come out and reprimanded her.
Sebastian earned points for not making any mention of Lord Drake on their carriage ride to London Hospital. He even dutifully carried the basket and books into the ward without being asked, pausing beside various hospital beds to speak with the soldiers.
He took his leave, and Emmaline finally settled into her comfortable seat beside Lieutenant Jones.
“My lady,” Jones greeted her with a slight inclination of his head. He motioned to the empty spot beside his bed. “What have you brought this day?” He nodded to the bundle in her hands.
Emmaline flashed him a smile. She found peace in being with the men here who were a bit rough around the edges and had the false edge of Society’s veneer dusted free. It was refreshing.
“Byron?” She opened the volume and fanned through several pages before settling on, “The Lady”.
“Are you anyone’s lady, my lady?” Jones interrupted.
The brazen question caused Emmaline to stumble in her recitation.
Jones smiled broadly, displaying a row of crooked teeth. It had been three weeks since he’d first smiled and spoken to her, and yet Emmaline was still startled by the transformation of the soldier she’d known for three years.
“Easy enough question,” he teased.
Emmaline troubled her lower lip. Yes, for most it was an easy enough question. She chose to break with the strictures on what merited appropriate discussion. “I’m betrothed,” she said at last.
His brow wrinkled and he shoved himself up with his only elbow. “So you’ve got yourself a gentleman?”
She managed a small smile. “I’ve got myself a gentleman.” Unused to speaking freely about her betrothal to Lord Drake, she hesitated. “He was a soldier. He also fought on the Peninsula.”
Jones’ eyes widened the same way she imagined they would if she’d proclaimed diamonds were falling from the sky.
“You’re marrying yourself a soldier?”
“I am.” Or she was supposed to. She couldn’t go and explain the complicated aspects of her and Drake’s relationship.
Jones gave an approving nod. It seemed she’d risen even more in the man’s estimation.
He whistled between his teeth. “You found yourself a fancy bloke who fought in the war, too? Not many lords were giving their lives, my lady.”
Not many of them had been running away from a childhood betrothal, either. “No, no they weren’t.”
Sensing Jones was far more curious than any time in the three years she’d known him, she decided to share this personal piece of herself. “He is the Marquess of Drake, he fought—”
The man’s shocked gasp cut into her words. “Lord Drake is your gentleman?”
Emmaline blinked, unprepared that this man should know him. She leaned forward in her chair. “Did you know of him?”
“Know of him? I served under him,” he said, his eyes round with amazement. “My battalion was hit hard. We lost our commanding officer. The captain was given control of our battalion.” His eyes took on a far-off quality that suggested he was seeing things Emmaline didn’t want to see. “He’s a hero.”
Yes, Drake was a hero. She’d read that in every last smattering of articles she’d collected on his accomplishments. How funny this stranger should truly know, firsthand, what Drake had seen and done.
She continued to aggravate her lower lip. “W-what was he like?”
Jones didn’t respond right away. Instead he studied Emmaline with a near overwhelming intensity.
This time it was her turn to try and tamp down the awkwardness brought on by the conversation.
How odd to finally realize the discomfiture she must have caused Jones with her probing questions these past years.
“He’s a good man,” Jones said quietly.
“Yes.” That wasn’t really the bit of undisclosed information she’d been seeking from Lieutenant Jones.
He must have suspected as much. “After the Battle of Salamanca, the French left Madrid and Wellington marched us into the city.” Lieutenant Jones glanced down at his hands. “He left three divisions to guard the capital and then marched the rest of us to Burgos. The captain led us in that march. We came to a scorched field. There was this mangy pup. Emaciated thing. All bones. Whimpering. A step from death. Literally.” He tried to grin but it failed, resembling more of a twisted grimace.
Emmaline thought to the well-nourished, loving hunting dogs and pugs her family had over the years. Then she tried to envision the poor, neglected creature described by Jones. Her heart hurt for the poor little fellow.
“As we marched, that mangy dog followed the captain’s horse until the captain drew his horse to a halt, and scooped up the flea-ridden creature. He nursed that old dog back to health. He would give the dog half of his own rations.” A wry smile turned the man’s lips up at the corners. “That dog even ate from the captain’s plate. Drank his water.” He shook his head, as if still dumbfounded. “I’ve never known a lord who would share food from his own plate with a filthy dog. He named him Valiant. That dog followed him everywhere. There wasn’t much to laugh about then, but we used to laugh about it.”
Emmaline’s heart hitched.
God help her, she loved Drake. She loved him with a desperation that made her want to fling down the book and run out of the hospital and find him.
She tried to imagine Drake riding beside some of the men here in the hospital, bantering back and forth. He was such a proud man. So very serious. Emmaline couldn’t reconcile the Drake she’d come to know with the one being described by Jones. “I imagine Lord Drake was not pleased with the ribbing he received?”
Jones slashed his one hand through the air. “Aww, he took it all in good humor. Men respected him for that. You know, being able to laugh at himself and all.”
Emmaline sat back in her chair. “I don’t understand why he didn’t return with Valiant….” Her words trailed off when Jones looked away.
“Lieutenant?” she asked hesitantly.
Jones remained silent.
Don’t do it, she willed herself. Don’t ask.
She had to know what happened to Valiant. It was a piece that explained what had transformed Drake into the very serious man who was now unable to laugh with ease or sincerity. “What happened to Valiant?”
Jones looked away with a sad shake of his head. “Not a story fit for a lady’s ears.” He also clearly respected Lady Emmaline too much not to share with her what he knew, because he sighed and continued. “After we were forced into retreat, Wellington spent the winter reorganizing the forces. Whenever there was a battle, Captain Drake would find a tree far from the battle, and tie that dog up. Battle of Vitoria was a big one.” It had been the one that ultimately crumpled Napoleon’s forces in Spain. “We were in some serious hand-to-hand combat with the Frenchies. That dog, my lady, must have known his master was going to need him, because he gnawed through those ropes and wandered amidst the battlefield with that chewed rope still bound around his neck, searching everywhere for the Cap’n.”
Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she battled back a wave of pain. She loathed the question stuck on the tip of her tongue. “Did he find him?”
Intuitively she knew that he had.
Jones nodded again. “Found him fighting two Frenchie bastards. Pardon, my lady,” he hurried. Red infused his cheeks.
“Fine, fine.” She felt the same way about the men who’d tried to kill Drake. She urged him on, needing to hear, needing to know.
Jones went on. “That dog,”
Valiant, she silently corrected. His name was Valiant.
“Launched himself at one of the bas—uh, Frenchies, who had his knife at the captain’s throat. Grabbed onto his leg and bit, tearing at the man’s breeches. It allowed Captain Drake to…, to…take care of the other man. But the other fellow, well, he grabbed that rope and wrenched that dog’s neck. Broke it just like that.” He snapped his fingers.
Emmaline’s eyes slid closed as she imagined Drake standing there, fighting for his life, and seeing his faithful companion killed in front of him.
Just like that.