Bar Sinister (19 page)

Phillida came into the hall, mobcap askew, eyes curious. "Oh, Mrs. Foster, that Lady
Sarah's in drawing room--"

Emily cut her off. "Yes
,
I know. Bring the sherry tray."

"Sherry?" Phillida gaped. It was not yet eleven o'clock.

"You heard what I said," Emily snapped. "Bring it at once." She made herself go into the
withdrawing room.

Lady Sarah was pacing the carpet. She stopped dead when Emily entered. "He's still
alive."

Emily sat with a thud on the nearest chair.

"Oh Lord, I oughtn't to have blurted it out. I beg your pardon, Mrs.
Foster--Emily."

Emily took a gulp of air, and the room stopped spinning. Lady Sarah was leaning over
her, eyes anxious. Emily forced a smile. "These are good news indeed. Has Sir Robert--"

"Robin found Richard five days ago and writ me that evening. The letter...just a note,
really..."

Emily took from her the single crossed sheet and focussed on Sir Robert's finicking hand.
Sarah had the kindness to keep still. She sat on the edge of a straight-backed chair.

Emily read the letter through twice. Finally she gave up, shaking her head. "I don't seem
to be taking this in. What... Is he... Is your brother very bad?"

"Yes." Sarah ran the tip of her tongue over her lips as if they were dry. "Yes, very bad,
but Robin thinks there's some hope of his eventual recovery."

Emily closed her eyes, opened them, unclenched her hand on the crumpled letter. "I beg
your pardon, Lady Sarah. You will be thinking I've lost my wits as well as my manners." She
smoothed the sheet with trembling fingers and handed it back. "When I saw your barouche at the
door I foolishly assumed the worst." She gave a shaky but creditable laugh. "I'm obliged to you for
coming."

"I had Robin's letter last evening." Lady Sarah smiled a tremulous smile. "By special
messenger. I put the barouche to at half past nine this morning. I could have sent one of the grooms
with a note last night, but I thought I ought to tell you myself."

Emily looked at her guest, seeing her for the first time. Sarah's eyes were shadowed with
sleeplessness and she looked as if she had thrown her clothes on at random. Her hair escaped the
summer straw bonnet in wisps.

"You're very kind, Lady Sarah. I'm grateful."

"Shall you tell the children?"

"Yes."

The two women exchanged stark glances. Sarah looked down at the shell-pink gloves she
was twisting in her hands. They did not match her buttercup yellow gown.

"Sherry, ma'am." Phillida crashed through the door. The tray tilted dangerously.

"Thank you. Leave us, if you please."

Phillida did not please. She trailed out, gawking over her shoulder.

"Shall I pour?" Sarah's abused gloves slid to the floor.

"If you will be so kind," Emily said carefully. "My hands seem to be shaking."

"Here."

"Thank you." Emily swallowed a mouthful of the sweet wine and sat very still. As it
began to warm her, she took another, slower sip and groped for something to say. "I...the letter...
Sir Robert writes in very general terms. A head injury?"

"Yes, and a bad wound in the shoulder joint."

"Which arm?"

"He doesn't say."

Emily swallowed the remains of her sherry and rose to pour herself another glass.
"More?"

"Please. I shall be disguised. I couldn't eat breakfast."

Emily, her energy sweeping back with a rush, rose and stalked to the bellpull. "That at
least we can remedy. You'll take an early nuncheon with me, I hope. I couldn't eat either. I find
myself suddenly ravenous."

Sarah rummaged in her reticule. "Oh, dear...I oughtn't...it was such a relief to hear..."
She took out a wispy lace handkerchief and wiped her eyes. "Yes! By all means, Emily. What a
sensible woman you are. I could eat my horses. Without mustard."

Both ladies laughed immoderately at this unremarkable joke. Emily did not feel at all
sensible.

When Lady Sarah had gone at last Emily made straight for her bookroom, which was dark
owing to an overgrowth of ivy, and had a thorough cry. Then she marched upstairs, washed her
face, changed into a cool muslin gown, and made herself break the news to Amy.

Amy and Matt were frightened, but not terrified, and Matt was unnaturally kind to Amy
for several hours afterwards. He promised to let her ride Eustachio as much as she wanted for a
week. Peggy McGrath, though visibly shaken, had the good sense not to screech. Tommy dumped a
bowl of bread and milk on the floor.

Apprised of the news by a note which the new groom carried to Mayne Hall, Sir Henry
and Aunt Fan rallied to Emily's side. It was nearly midnight before she again had time to
think.

She lay in her darkened bedchamber staring dry-eyed at the flounced canopy of the bed. It
was foolish to feel so light, so hopeful. That Richard Falk had been alive five days ago was no
guarantee that he still lived. If only she could drop everything and go to Belgium to see for herself.
What special merit had Sir Robert Wilson that he should be so privileged? And what did he know
about caring for invalids? She thought of plump, good-natured Sir Robert with something
approaching dislike.

Kind of Lady Sarah to bring the news herself, directly. It almost compensated for the fact
that, thanks to her meddling, Richard Falk had gone into battle with an unquiet mind.
Almost.

I must write him at once. Emily sat up, galvanised. He will need to know his children are
safe and well. At last, something to do. That was the worst of it, to be sitting about waiting with
nothing to do. What had Sir Robert's letter said?
Still
unconscious from a severe head
wound.
Sighing, Emily lay back once more against the pillows.
Wait for morning. Wait.
After a long time staring at the canopy she finally drowsed off on that thought. It was going to
be a long wait.

A fortnight after he found his brother-in-law, Sir Robert Wilson sat in his ornate room in
the Hotel Bretagne in Brussels and wished himself home in Hampshire. He was writing Sarah, and
his facility with the pen had deserted him. Crumpled paper littered the floor.

What was he, a sedentary man, amateur of letters, doing in Brussels that others could not
have done better? The previous day Richard Falk had recognised him for the first time--and
flinched.

Well, he must write. Sarah would be imagining horrors if he didn't. He drew the sheet of
paper to him, dipped his newfangled steel pen in the inkwell and began again:

My dearest Sal,

You will be wishing me in Hades--or home--for not writing sooner, but I
have been waiting on events. I can now supply you with a fuller account of your
brother's condition than I gave you in my first letter. Pray share the information
with Mrs. Foster. I fear her anxiety must be nearly as great as yours.

Richard will probably live. I have now got him a comfortable room with
friends of Brotherton. (Brotherton was Wilson's man of business.) The
family--they are well-regarded merchants--are most attentive. The worst of it is the head
wound.

At first I thought Richard had been blinded, for they bandaged his eyes. I
am assured there is no danger of that, however. Merely be had complained of the
light. He still has wretched headaches. The scar on his forehead will be covered by
his hair, and the surgeons no longer believe his skull cracked. His memory is
partially affected, however, with regard to the battle. Fragments of a musket ball
and silver lace from his epaulette are still lodged near the point of his right
shoulder. Those are the worst injuries, the rest resolving into cuts, bruises, and
slashes, ugly but not serious. He is still exceedingly ill, my dear Sarah, which, now
I have reread my catalogue of grue, I think you will credit. He cannot be moved.
Indeed they mean to try another surgery on the shoulder when he has gained a
little strength.

You were quite right to make me come. The Bruxellois are everything that
is kind--to our wounded and to those of the French so fortunate as to have survived
three days and nights on the field. As you may imagine, however, the city
overflows with the injured, and the medical capabilities of both military and
civilian doctors are stretched to the limits. Your brother was lucky to have been
left only one night and half a day without attention. His servant, McGrath,
accompanied the cart which brought Richard and ten others to Brussels, and
McGrath found an artisan with an empty room to which Richard could be taken.
Otherwise be must have lain overnight in the wretched vehicle. All this on top of
his injuries left your brother very near death.

He has suffered intermittently from fevers associated with his wounds, and
because of the head injury he was, in any case, quite unconscious for six days. He
has been bled rather more often than I should myself recommend, but then I am no
physician. For long stretches of time, he sleeps or lapses into delirium. It was only
yesterday that I could be certain he recognised me. That, indeed, was not entirely
a happy chance.

When I assured him repeatedly that his children were safe he seemed
easier, but I could tell that the sight of my inoffensive phiz gave him a jolt. My
dear, I do not at all enjoy being looked upon as a Bird of Ill Omen. Nor do I like
being absent from my home, my sons, and my Sally. You must consider me fixed
here for at least a month, however. I have seen Richmond and Lady Frances
Webster. The Duke (of Wellington, I mean) is said to be near Paris. What exciting
times we live in, to be sure. I find I prefer dullness. My best love to the Boys and
my dearest love to my Sarah.

Your devoted and peripatetic husband,
R. Wilson.

Wilson sanded the missive, sealed it, and set it aside for the hotel servants to post. He had
not told his wife the whole truth. The second surgery was being executed as he writ. Wilson hoped
he was not squeamish, but he had no intention of stopping within five streets of the sickroom until
the operation should be safely done with. His man, Kennet, felt even more strongly, and indeed
threatened to quit when Wilson tentatively suggested he spell the weary McGrath at night.
Fortunately Madame Duvalier was less fainthearted, and she commanded her servants' unqualified
obedience. At least Richard would be well-attended.

Wilson dined in solitary gloom in the now half deserted dining room of the hotel. When
he had first come it had echoed with excited conversation in four or five languages, but most of the
civilian employees of the various armies had gone on now toward Paris, and many of the curious
had drunk their fill of sensation as well. Ordinarily a gregarious man, Wilson was glad to be alone.
He needed to think. If his brother-in-law survived the second surgery, which was by no means a
foregone conclusion, there was going to be a problem of another order altogether.

In his first week in Brussels, Wilson had discovered that Richard Falk was being
transformed into a mythic hero. He had distinguished himself. That much the formal reports made
clear. Already certain names and certain deeds had caught the imagination of the body of
English--mostly curiosity-seekers, wounded soldiers, and officers' families--still in the Belgian capital. The
process of telling and retelling heightened the drama of what had happened on the eighteenth of
June. Sometimes, indeed, fancy replaced fact. Wilson suspected that was the case with the charge
of the Union Brigade. It might also be the case with his brother-in-law, although, as with the
cavalry, some fact seemed to lie behind the fiction.

Richard had been serving on General Barnes's staff as a liaison with the Dutch-Belgians,
apparently because his French was fluent, the Dutch-Belgian troops were restive, and the general
was desperate for experienced officers. That explained the otherwise mysterious brevet promotion
to lieutenant colonel.

At Quatre Bras Richard had stayed beside the Belgian regiment's colonel, a young count,
and between them they had brought the untried recruits off without dishonour. That, Wilson was
given to understand, was something of an achievement. It was at Quatre Bras that Richard had
taken the shoulder wound.

At Water-loo the count and a good number of his officers were killed in the cannonade
that preceded Ney's first assault on the centre. The survivors of the regiment looked as if they must
panick, as a young regiment of their compatriots had already done. Wilson was not sure what had
transpired, but it appeared that his brother-in-law had rallied the frightened men, taken direct
command of the regiment, and stayed with them, holding them firmly to their duty, until they--and
he--lay in a blood-stained heap.

The story grew daily in detail and interest. Everyone, it seemed, had a stake in it--the old
Peninsulars because Richard was one of them, the rest of the English because he was English, and
the Belgians because, on a day in which their countrymen had been uncertain, Falk had shown that
Belgians fought very well when they were led with spirit.

Considering that many of the Bruxellois had strong Bonapartist leanings--so, for that
matter, had the troops--Wilson thought it odd that they should take such obvious satisfaction in
what seemed to him simple self-slaughter.
La gloire,
in his strong if unspoken opinion,
was an overrated commodity. It looked as if his brother-in-law had come by rather a lot of it. Falk's
name was on everyone's lips. Wilson thought the Duke of Newsham was going to like that even less
than his grace liked Wilson's own officious interference with the course of nature. Wilson had
received a very stiff letter from Abbeymont.

With Richard's name a byword, Wilson reflected, it was only a matter of time before
some well-meaning soul pointed out that he was half brother to the Duke of Newsham and some
other contributor tossed in a sentimental allusion to his motherless children, at which point God
knew what mischief would be set afoot.