Shattered Rainbows (11 page)

The spring weather was exceptionally fair, which added to the air of holiday that hung over Brussels. Catherine, however, liked the weather for more maternal reasons: it allowed the children to play outside. She was sitting under the chestnut tree in the back garden, mending and keeping an eye on her daughter and the young Mowbrys late one afternoon, when Michael Kenyon rode into the driveway. He was home early.

Catherine watched as he dismounted and led his horse into the stable. He moved beautifully, without a single wasted motion. She felt one of the odd lurches of the heart that occurred whenever he appeared.

In the past weeks, he had been her escort a dozen times. At balls, he would always claim a lively country dance— never a waltz—then keep out of her way until it was time to leave. Yet on the occasion when a drunken ensign had cornered her in an alcove and attempted to declare his love, Michael had appeared and removed the youth as firmly as an older brother would have.

A pity that her feelings weren't quite sisterly.

Michael came out of the stable and hesitated, then turned into the garden and walked toward her, his shako in his hand. The sun found glowing auburn highlights in his tangled brown hair. "Good afternoon, Catherine."

"Hello." She reached into her basket and pulled out a torn petticoat of Amy's. "You look tired."

"Commanding a raw new regiment is worse than digging ditches." He nodded toward the energetic game of hide and seek. "I heard the children and thought it would be pleasant to watch someone else do the running for a while."

In the distance, Amy emerged stealthily from behind one rhododendron and slipped behind another. "She does that well," Michael said approvingly. "It wouldn't take much to turn your daughter into a first-rate skirmisher."

"Don't tell her that! She's a dreadful tomboy—you should see her with a cricket ball. And she has had to be restrained from telling Wellington that women fought with the Spanish guerrillas, so why can't Englishwomen do the same?" Catherine began stitching a torn flounce. "How are your men shaping up?"

"I have grave doubts whether they know which end of a musket the ball comes out."

Catherine laughed. "Surely it's not that bad."

"I exaggerate, but only slightly. I've been trying to convince them that the most dangerous thing soldiers can do in battle is break and run, so they're better off holding their ground. If they learn that, they may be of some use. Thank God for my sergeants. If it weren't for them, I would give up now."

"I see you're still wearing your Rifleman uniform instead of infantry scarlet."

"The official reason is that I haven't had time to visit a tailor." His eyes gleamed with humor. "But that's only an excuse. The truth is I don't want to give up my Rifle green."

"A good thing the duke doesn't care an iota what his men wear. I swear, I've never seen two officers who were dressed exactly alike." She smiled reminiscently. "Remember how ragtag everyone looked after a few months on the Peninsula? One could tell a new man because his uniform could still be identified."

Suddenly Jamie Mowbry exploded from the bushes and pointed a branch at Michael. "Bang, bang!"

Because she was watching Michael, Catherine saw the instinctive response that in battle would have resulted in lethal action. It vanished as quickly as it had come and Michael collapsed dramatically on the grass. "I'm done for, lads. Take care of my horse Thor." He kicked a few times and lay still.

Jamie charged over, Clancy at his heels and his branch triumphantly aloft. "I got you, I got you, you filthy frog!"

As soon as the boy was within reach, Michael grabbed him and began tickling his ribs. "Who's got whom? Never trust an enemy to be as dead as he looks, Jamie."

Flushed and shrieking with delight, the boy rolled around in the grass with his former prey. Catherine watched in amusement, surprised at how easily Michael had entered the child's world.

The wrestling match ended when Amy raced up. "Hello, Colonel Kenyon." She tagged Jamie. "You're it now!" She dashed off with Jamie and Clancy at her heels.

Michael stayed sprawled on the grass. "Lord, it feels good to lie down in the sun and not have to do anything for the next hour." He closed his eyes and unbuttoned his jacket.

Catherine said, "The weather has been lovely, hasn't it? But I keep thinking that it is like the calm before the storm."

"And black clouds are gathering just over the horizon."

Michael's remark reduced them both to silence. For all they knew, Napoleon was already marching north to reclaim his empire.

Louis the Lazy, who had been snoozing by Catherine, hauled himself onto his stubby legs and went to flop beside Michael. "I'm jealous," she said teasingly. "Louis is only willing to be my friend when you're not around."

"Nonsense," Michael said without opening his eyes. "The contrary beast is trying to ruin my reputation. Since dogs and their owners are said to resemble each other, it will be assumed that I am as lazy and useless as he is. Tell him to go away."

His order was undercut by the way he ruffled the dog's ears. Louis moaned with pleasure and rolled onto his back, holding his broad paws in the air.

She laughed. "If that is how you command your troops, Colonel, the 105th is in trouble."

Out of sight at the end of the garden, Molly squealed and Jamie shouted, "Got you!"

Michael's eyes opened. "Jamie looked rather pale. Has he been ill?"

"He suffers from asthma sometimes," Catherine replied. "Anne says the attacks are terrifying. He had a bad one yesterday. Apparently spring is the worst time for him."

"I had occasional asthma attacks as a child, but in time I pretty much outgrew them. No doubt Jamie will, too."

She studied his rugged frame. "I'll tell Anne that. It will make her feel better to know that an asthmatic boy can grow up into a strapping fellow like you. What causes the attacks?"

"I don't know if anyone is sure," he said slowly, "but I think it's usually a combination of things—dampness, food or plants that don't agree with one." He laid his arm across his eyes, blocking the sun and concealing his expression. "I believe there's an emotional component as well."

"Do you mean getting too excited? Jamie is high-strung."

"That, or being frightened or distressed. Painful emotions can sometimes trigger an attack in a matter of moments."

"I see." She would have liked to know more, but his tone forbade questions.

He continued, "How is Anne feeling these days?"

"Much better. She's napping at the moment, but she says she's almost at the stage of pregnancy where she will go from exhaustion to boundless energy. In another week, she'll be eager to be dancing again." Catherine knotted and cut her thread. With Anne as a companion, she would no longer need Michael's escort. She would miss spending time with him. She would miss it a great deal. "Then you won't have to squire me around."

"Escorting you has been a pleasure, not a burden. When Charles isn't available, I can take you both. I'll be the envy of every man in Brussels."

He covered a yawn and lapsed into silence. In spite of the noise of the children and the wagons rumbling along the road that ran through the Namur Gate, he dozed off, his breath becoming slow and steady. There was a precious intimacy to the situation.

Catherine, continued sewing. She was very good at concealing her feelings, and not even the most suspicious observer would suspect the quiet joy in her heart. Michael's presence fed a part of her soul that had been starving for years.

Perhaps she should feel guilty about her improper feelings, but she didn't. No one would be hurt, and soon then-paths would diverge, probably forever. But when that happened, she would have the memory of a few golden hours to carry in her heart.

She finished Amy's petticoat and folded it into her basket, then began darning Colin's socks. When she had done two, she allowed herself to study Michael's tanned right hand, which lay relaxed in the grass only two feet from her.

The fingers were long and capable. A thin, long-healed saber scar curved across his palm and up the wrist.

She experienced a nearly overpowering urge to lay her hand over his? To touch him, if only in the most superficial way. To feel the vivid life pulsing through his powerful body. What would it be like to lie alongside him, to feel his warm length against her?

Face heated, she readied for another sock. She hoped that when she met Saint Peter, her life would be judged by her deeds, not her thoughts.

After she finished her mending, she packed her scissors and thread away and leaned back against the trunk of the chestnut, watching Michael from under half-closed lids.

Peace was shattered by piercing screams from the children and an anguished howl from Clancy. Catherine sat bolt upright, recognizing that it was not the sound of normal play. Simultaneously, Michael's eyes snapped open.

Amy shouted, "Mama, come quickly!"

Michael leaped up and grabbed her hand to help her. As soon as she was on her feet, they raced across
the garden, her heart pounding with fear at what they might find.

 The children were by the stone fountain, where a dancing porpoise gushed water into a small pool. Catherine's heart spasmed as she saw the blood splashed across both girls. Blood was pouring .from a gash in Molly's scalp. Amy had taken off her sash and was valiantly trying to staunch the
flow.

Jamie stood a few feet away, his face ashen under his red hair as he watched his sister's wild sobbing. Clancy jumped around anxiously,getting in the way-and adding to the confusion with his sharp yips.

Catherine dropped beside Molly and took over the job of trying to stop the bleeding. "Amy, what happened?"

"Jamie shoved Molly and she fell against the fountain."

"I didn't mean to!" Jamie gasped. His quick, shallow breaths began whistling eerily. Michael, who had "been calming the nervous dog, looked up sharply at the sound.

Catherine ordered, "Amy, go get Anne:"  As Amy ran to obey, Molly asked with ghoulish curiosity, "Am I going to die?"

"Of course not," Catherine said briskly. "Head wounds bleed dreadfully, but this one isn't deep. You'll be fine in a few days. Any scar will be hidden by your hair."

"
I didn't mean it
!" Jamie cried with anguish. Suddenly he bolted away, his limbs flailing frantically.

Catherine's instinct was to follow, but she couldn't, not with Molly still bleeding in her arms. She gave Michael an agonized glance. To her relief, he was already going after the weeping child, but he was slowed by the necessity of untangling himself from Clancy and having to circle the fountain.

Jamie tripped and went sprawling on the turf. The walled garden echoed with the sound of his hideous wheezing.

Shocked out of thoughts of her own injury, Molly tried to stand up. "Jamie is having one of his attacks!"

Catherine held the little girl still. "Don't worry, Colonel Kenyon will take care of your brother." She prayed that her words were the truth, for she herself did not know what to do.

Before Michael could reach Jamie, the child regained enough breath to scramble to his feet. He began running again, his eyes wild with terror as he plunged through a thicket where an adult couldn't follow. He emerged on the other side and collapsed, struggling desperately for air. Even fifty yards away, Catherine could see that his face was a horrible bluish shade.

Jamie was feebly trying to clamber to his feet when Michael rounded the thicket and scooped the boy up in his arms. "It's all right, Jamie," he said soothingly. "Molly isn't badly hurt"

Though Michael's expression was grim, his voice was calm as he brought the child back to the fountain. "It was an accident. We know you didn't mean to injure your sister."

Supporting Jamie in a sitting position, Michael pulled out his handkerchief and soaked it in the fountain. Then he patted the child's contorted face with cool water, all the while keeping up a stream of reassuring words. "You can breathe, Jamie, you've just forgotten how for a minute," he said softly. "Look in my eyes and remember how to breathe. S-1-o-w-l-y in. Relax. Then s-1-o-w-l-y out. Spell the words with me. B-r-e-a-t-h-e, space, i-n… Come on, you can do it."

Catherine watched, mesmerized, as Jamie's lips began silently forming the letters along with Michael. Gradually his breathing evened out and color began to return to his face.

By the time Anne ran from the house with Amy, Catherine had a crude bandage on Molly's head and Jamie was almost back to normal. Anne's face was so pale that faint, ghostly freckles showed on her cheekbones as she said, "Goodness, you two certainly get into a quantity of trouble."

She knelt between her children and pulled them to her. Jamie burrowed against her side and wrapped his arms around her waist. Molly also snuggled as close as she could get.

In the sudden silence, hoofbeats sounded clearly. A moment later, Charles Mowbry called from outside the stable, "Trouble?"

"A little," Anne replied, relief on her face. "Molly cut her head and Jamie had an attack, but everything is fine now."

As Catherine got to her feet, she saw Charles and Colin coming toward them, their scarlet coats brilliant against the grass. They had had a regimental drill today, she recalled.

Charles arrived first, his expression under, control, except for his stark eyes. When he reached his family, he bent and lifted Jamie, hugging him tightly. "You all right, old man?"

"I couldn't breathe, but Colonel Kenyon reminded me how," his son offered. "Then it was easy."

"That was good of him," Charles said huskily. "Will you remember how to do it yourself next time?"

Jamie nodded vigorously.

Anne and Molly got to their feet. Charles smoothed his daughter's hair, careful not to disturb the blood-soaked bandage. "I know you don't like this dress, but wouldn't it be better to get rid of it by ripping rather than bleeding?"

A smile lit her teary face. "Oh, Papa, you're so silly."

Concealing a smile, Catherine wondered what the men in Charles's company would think if they heard that.