‘I forgot,’ Ross admitted. ‘I am sorry.’
‘Forgot you had a son? Forgot you had a wife?’ Prudence was furious and he could understand why. If she was told he was dead she would have every reason to believe it when the last she had heard from him was from this city, virtually on the front line of the battle.
‘I—’ He had broken his word, now honour demanded that he at least spoke the truth. ‘I acted as I would have done before Jon was born. It was one step after another, deeper and deeper into the thing. If I had turned back at Ostend... But I did not. Then I found them all, persuaded most of them to come back with me.’
‘And walked straight into a battle,’ Prudence said flatly.
‘They needed help with the supply train. The troops needed ammunition.’
‘And there was no one else, of course.’ She turned away and began folding something.
Keeping her hands busy, he thought, because otherwise she would want to slap him. He tried again, managing to drag himself up against the pillows a little. ‘At that precise moment? No. I should have turned back at Ostend. I am sorry,’ he repeated.
‘Yes. I am sure.’ Prudence carried on tidying, then, as though she could not contain it, she burst out, ‘You have a son. You were so anxious about him growing up motherless that you married me. He was within a hair’s breadth of losing his father.’
‘I knew he would be safe with you.’ Ross felt his own anger rising. He had responsibilities to his crew as well as to his family. He had responsibilities to serve his nation, if he could. He was an able-bodied man, used to fighting. Of course he had to do what he could, for his men, to support the army. ‘The soldiers out on the battlefield left wives and children, too.’
Prudence came and stood at the end of the bed, looked at him. ‘I did not know what had happened. All I knew was that you had given me your word. I understand that you felt responsible for the men. I understand that you wanted to support the troops. I feel guilty that I am angry and hurt and that I did not understand you enough to have expected this. I suppose you would say it is my fault for, f—for feeling too much.’
She turned on her heel and walked out. The door closed behind her gently and he heard her walking down the stairs and stop for a moment as though she would come back. Then the click of her heels continued down.
Five minutes later young Sam and Gregg came in with a tray with a bowl of broth on it.
‘Her Ladyship said as how we’re in charge of nursing you now, Cap’n.’
‘You can start by telling me what’s wrong with me. And help me sit up, damn it. I feel like a beached porpoise here.’
He had to get out of this bed, out of this room. He had to look after his men and get back to Jon. And, somehow, he had to find a way to heal the hurt in Prudence’s eyes. He could have done things differently; there were always alternatives.
And I should not have made easy promises and then forgotten about them, he added in a bitter aside to himself.
But what had Prudence almost said, just before she left? Her fault for what? How could she feel too much? Perhaps she was chiding herself for being oversensitive, but somehow that did not seem right. That knot in his chest, the one that had loosened when he had realised she was with him, tightened again. She had courage, his wife. Courage to set out into the chaos of war to find him, even if it was simply because she felt it was her duty, or that she had to find him for Jon’s sake.
Gregg stood next to the bed and eyed him dubiously. ‘The professor says you might have broken your ribs and, if you have, then you might puncture a lung.’
Ross began to probe along his ribcage, swore, then swore more violently. It felt as though he had been kicked by a dray horse. But he kept going, teeth gritted, and nothing moved under the hardest pressure he could manage.
‘Nothing is broken. Find more pillows.’
Gregg and Sam stuffed them down behind him until he was sitting, sweating but upright. ‘You heard about Jones?’ Gregg asked.
‘Aye. Have any of the others turned up—the ones who volunteered?’
Gregg nodded. ‘Three without a scratch, the rest not too bad and they’ll be all right unless infection sets in. I managed to get to see them. They’re in the big convent on the other side of the city. Thwaite’s dead, they told me,’ he added, shaking his head. ‘He’s with his sons now, at least. That’s what he wanted.’
Ross pushed that away to deal with later: the living were more important now. He flipped back the covers over his lower body. ‘What’s wrong with my legs?’ They were bandaged and, when he moved them, throbbed with pain.
‘Wood splinters,’ Gregg said. ‘The professor got them out. I reckon you could build a chair with the wood. He says you’ll be fine provided—’
‘Provided no infection,’ Ross said, replacing the covers. ‘Give me that soup. Then some hot water, soap, towels and my clothes.’
‘Can do all that and your pack’s safe. Flew up in the air and knocked out Sim, so it’s muddy and bloody, but it’s all there.’
When Gregg came back with the water ten minutes later he put it down on the dresser and jerked his head at Sam. ‘You watch the stairs, lad. Give us some warning if Her Ladyship’s on her way up. She’ll give us hell if you get up, Cap’n.’
‘You are only obeying orders,’ Ross said as he swung his legs off the bed, steadied himself and stood up. ‘I will be the one in the line of fire, believe me.’
The room swayed, then steadied as he took a cautious breath. ‘Give me your shoulder, Gregg, before I fall flat on my face. I’m not going anywhere without a shave.’ He took a lurching step towards the washstand. ‘Where’s Bonaparte?’
‘Paris, they say, Cap’n.’ Gregg handed him his razor. ‘Wellington’s chasing him down.’
‘Good.’ He hissed as raising his arm sent stabbing pain through his chest. ‘The man’s a confounded—bugger—menace.’
Prue sat by the kitchen range with her mind only vaguely on the potatoes that were boiling in a vast vat and which she should be watching. Ross was conscious and not seriously injured, thank heavens, but she was still angry with him. Understanding why he had done what he had did not seem to help, nor did the fact that she knew her own feelings about him were making it all worse.
She had told him how she felt and he had apologised. Now she should be able to forgive him, but she could not find it in herself, despite realising that Ross was a fighter and a leader and his promise to her had probably been filed away in his brain as an agreement not to take to privateering again if the war went on.
She was being unfair, she argued with the black cloud of misery inside her. She loved him, that should be enough, but it was not. He had left her, not unprotected exactly, but powerless. She was his wife, Jon’s mother, but she had no weapons to fight with. Jon’s grandparents had been able to carry the boy off and she had been unable to stop them.
I have failed as a wife because Ross does not take me seriously as a partner in this marriage. I have failed as a mother because I could not stop them taking Jon and now I do not even have the courage to tell the man that I love him because I fear rejection. Or his pity.
The potatoes boiled over with a loud hiss and clouds of steam and she jumped up to swing the pot off the fire, then sat down again to suck on a slightly scalded wrist, tears welling.
And I will not cry. I do not understand what the matter is with me. I’ve found Ross—he is alive and his wounds will heal. Will and Verity will be doing all they can to get Jon back. Almost all Ross’s crew will be going home to their families. Napoleon is defeated and the world will be at peace very soon.
And yet she felt completely and utterly flat. Miserable.
And that would not do. She was giving up, wallowing in unhappiness. Prue sat up straight, put her shoulders back, wiped her eyes on her apron, and went to put her hand and wrist into cold water. She would make her peace with Ross, get him well. Meanwhile she would organise transport, get them all home and then she would tell him about Jon, because if she told him now he would set out immediately and make his wounds worse.
Jon was with Maud and Mrs Goodnight and even his wretched grandparents would recognise that their life would be infinitely more difficult if they dismissed the very people that could keep Jon calm and happy.
Yes, that was a plan. A week here for Ross to recuperate. That would be ideal. She would write to Verity that evening and there should be a reply before they set out. All the men would be fit to travel as well and—
Halting steps on the stairs had her looking up, expecting Gregg or Sam with dirty dishes and an empty water ewer. Then she saw who it was. ‘What are you doing? Ross, go back to bed, this instant.’
‘I am sure that tone will work wonders with Jon in a few years, Prudence, but I can assure you it will not persuade me to be a good boy.’ He arrived at the bottom of the stairs, white around the lips and, she could see, at the knuckles where he gripped the handrail.
‘I have no hope of that,’ she retorted. ‘Oh, for goodness sake, Ross, come and sit down, at least.’
She went to his side, put her arm around his waist and after a moment Ross put his hand on her shoulder as he leaned in just a little. It was the first time he had touched her for days, she realised, choking back the treacherous lump in her throat. This was hardly an embrace, but it was something. Something precious.
‘I was planning our return home,’ she said when he had sat down in the chair on the other side of the fireplace. ‘I had thought in a week’s time.’
‘Are the men fit to travel?’
‘Yes, all of them here are. I do not know about the men in the military hospital, but we could send Gregg to find out.’ She hesitated, then decided there was no point in trying to soften anything. ‘The one who was killed with you, Paul Jones, they buried at the edge of the wood near where he fell. They said there was no hope of finding a decent burial in any of the churchyards and the looters were stripping bodies.’
‘He’s as well there as anywhere,’ Ross said harshly. ‘He has no family, thankfully.’
She got up to check on the potatoes again, decided they were cooked through and began to lift them out on a pierced spoon.
‘Why are you cooking? Are there no servants here?’
‘They are nursing the injured and shopping to feed this houseful of men. Brussels is crammed with people, most of them injured or exhausted.’
‘Then the sooner we get out, the better. Why, if the men are well enough, are you talking about a week? Is there a problem with transport?’
‘Horses are as rare as unicorns, but I had thought of using the canal, as we did when we came. It will be smoother for the injured and probably faster. As for why a week, I was estimating the time it will take you to heal.’
‘Then we leave tomorrow.’ He raised his voice to a shout. ‘Gregg!’
‘Sir?’ The sailor came down the stairs two at a time.
‘What state are the men in who joined up?’
‘Pretty fair, Cap’n. They were a healthy lot to start with, they heal well.’ He shifted his feet. ‘I reckon most of ’em regret joining up now.’
‘I did my best to get them out of it,’ Ross said. ‘They’ll have to wait until things settle down here. Then if they want to leave and the army won’t release them, they’ll have to write to me. I know a few of them can write. I’ll see what I can do for them then.’
‘Can’t say better than that, Cap’n.’
‘We leave tomorrow,’ Ross said. ‘Get down to the canal docks, find out what’s available. You know how much room we will need. Haggle a bit, but I’ll pay what it takes.’
‘Aye, aye, Cap’n.’ Gregg shot a furtive look at Prue’s face and bolted.
‘Are you mad? Do you want an infection? Gangrene?’ she demanded, showering the kitchen with potato water as she waved the ladle in frustration.
‘The wounds are clean, healing. We are going home, Prudence. I do not want you here. It isn’t right or fitting for you. No, don’t look like that.’ He held out his hand to her and when she took it, tugged until she had no choice but to sit on his knee or the arm of the chair.
She perched on the narrow strip of wood and left her hand in his. ‘I was worried about you. I am still worried.’
‘I know,’ he admitted. ‘I have never had anyone to worry about me, I am not used to it.’ He gave her hand another little tug until she was leaning against his shoulder.
He was solid and warm and, without thinking, she put her arms around him, hugging as close as she could in that awkward position, nuzzling her face against his neck, exposed without coat or neckcloth. The familiar scent of her husband’s skin, the brush of his hair against her face... ‘I missed you,’ she admitted.
‘Really? I did not think I had been so attentive a husband that you would notice my absence.’
‘Well, I did. In bed and out of it,’ she added defiantly and felt the muscles in his jaw shift as he smiled.
‘Truly?’
‘Truly.’
‘I am still going to take us all back to England tomorrow.’
Prue wondered if he was being deliberately provocative. ‘Very well. I did promise to obey.’
‘And now you are wondering whatever possessed you.’ Yes, he was definitely smiling now.
Prue felt some of the weariness begin to slide away. She must have been so tense, she realised, so braced to deal with the fear, the sheer hard work of getting this far.
Ross was injured and under no circumstances was she going to allow him to try to walk to the canal basin, even if she had to hit him over the head and have the men take him down in a wheelbarrow. If she could get him to the ship safely, if infection did not set in, then all she had to worry about then was Jon. All! Prue told herself to keep putting all her trust in Maud and in Will and Verity. Fretting would not help.
The worst of the exodus of panicking British visitors had left, Gregg reported when he returned from the docks. The army was restoring order to the transport system and a barge was available the next day—at a price. It would be cramped, he warned Ross, but it would get them to Ostend.
The next morning they waved goodbye to the Good Samaritan professor with heartfelt thanks and promises to write when they reached home, and set off down the hill, a ragamuffin collection of tattered, battered men, one smart London footman and two weary women.
Gregg had acquired a hand cart—Prue did not like to enquire just how he had managed that—and she bullied and nagged Ross into sitting on it along with two of the men, one with a broken ankle and one with similar leg wounds to himself.
The good-natured joshing as the men took turns wheeling the cart made Prue smile. Morale, it seemed, was good and Ross, surrounded by his cheerful crew had, imperceptibly, relaxed.
Tansy, who had by her own account spent an enjoyable time in Brussels flirting with a large number of wounded soldiers in between bringing them water and helping the nuns, was chattering to Jacob, who loomed over her like an anxious sheepdog with a very frisky lamb. Prue wondered whether there might be a romance brewing there.
When they reached the moorings they found themselves sharing a large barge with a number of soldiers sufficiently well to be moved, but still bad enough to be sent back to England with a prolonged recovery ahead of them. The members of the crew who were fit enough, along with Jacob, helped tend to them while sending scornful looks in the direction of the group of harassed army clerks—ʻpen pushers’—who were jammed in at one end of the barge and keeping to themselves away from what they clearly thought was a mob of rough sailors.
Prue and Tansy settled down with Ross and the two men with leg injuries and filled water bowls, rolled bandages and pretended not to hear the ripe military language.
Ross, to Prue’s surprise, settled as comfortably as the hard boards and cramped position allowed and went to sleep, as did most of the men once they had done what they could for the wounded.
‘Saving our energy, ma’am,’ Gregg said when he came and wriggled into a space next to her. ‘Nothing we can do, so best to sleep. At sea you learn how to do it almost anywhere, any time.’ He glanced around her at Ross. ‘The Captain will heal, ma’am, don’t you fret. He’s fit and he’s tough, for all that he complains that he’s a landlubber now.’
Prue decided to believe him. If Gregg was worried, he simply wouldn’t have said anything to her, she realised. The hard knot of worry that had lodged in her chest since Ross had left for Ostend unravelled a little and with it some of the anger she felt. There was a touch at her waist and she looked down to find he had curled round in his sleep and put his arm around her waist. She shifted a little until his head was pillowed against her breasts, pulled her cloak over them both and let herself drift off, happier than she had been in well over two weeks.
She had forgiven Ross; he had turned to her with trust, with affection, if only in his sleep. She had one of her menfolk safe. Now, with Ross home, there could be no difficulty in retrieving Jon from his grandparents. Then they could work together at being a family, a real family, and not one by arrangement.