David strode through the Parc de Bruxelles, oblivious of the carefully tended lawns, lush trees and classic statues he passed by. He supposed Helene wished him to hide away in his hotel room, but he had no intention of listening to her. How dare she come to fetch him home as if he were some recalcitrant schoolboy ditching his classes. He was eighteen, after all. A man.
Or practically a man.
If he were only a few years older, no one could stop him from purchasing a commission in the army. First his father; now Helene. All because he was the heir. Did they not understand that there was no glory in running an estate or listening to boring speeches in the Lords? He wanted to be doing something important! Like his schoolmate, William Lennox. William had been allowed to join the army. He had a cornetcy in the Royal Horse Guards and even had been an attaché for Wellington in Paris. How exciting was that? Most recently he’d been General Maitland’s aide-de-camp and he was David’s age.
Of course, William was a younger son and had the advantage of his father, the Duke of Richmond, being a great friend of Wellington’s.
The Duke and Duchess of Richmond had moved their family to Brussels earlier this year and David had written to his friend when he’d arrived in the city. William invited him to call. William would know the latest news from the Duke of Wellington. At least David would be that close to events he was certain would take place soon.
A battle between Napoleon and Wellington!
He made his way through the streets of Brussels. It seemed everywhere there were soldiers. Some in red coats, some blue or black. How unfair that he was dressed merely as a gentleman. He’d been exploring these streets for over a week and had learned where the Duke of Richmond lived on Rue de la Blanchisserie. He reached the door and sounded the knocker. The Duke’s butler answered the door and escorted him to a drawing room. A few minutes later William Lennox entered the room.
William was not dressed in the finery of the Royal Horse Guards, though, but in clothes more suited for a day in the country. And he wore a patch over one eye.
‘Good God, William!’ David cried. ‘What happened to you?’ Had he been injured in a battle? Had he even fought in a battle? As far as David knew William had purchased his commission after the peace, but would not it be glorious to be injured fighting for his country?
William walked towards him. ‘A riding injury. I consider it a trifle, but General Maitland won’t have me on his staff because of it.’
What a dreadful business. ‘You are not his aide-de-camp?’
‘No, and my father refuses to speak to Wellington about it. Says His Grace despises such interference.’
‘But is there not to be a battle soon? Will you not be needed?’ Would not every man be needed?
William frowned. ‘I hope old Boney will wait until my eye heals. It would the outside of enough to be cheated out of doing my duty.’ He shook his head as if driving out such thoughts and clapped David on the shoulder. ‘But what a surprise to see you in Brussels. Good to see you.’
David grinned. ‘Is this not where every man wishes to be? I would not be anywhere else for the world.’ He did not want to mention that his sister had chased after him, although he’d probably wind up telling the whole story eventually. ‘I, too, am eager to see the great battle between Napoleon and Wellington. I am determined to at least be a witness to it.’
‘So you understand my sentiments. To defeat Napoleon is the opportunity of a lifetime.’ William gestured for David to sit. ‘But I am delighted you are here. I have been trapped here with my sisters and little brothers and am about to go mad. You are just the companion I need.’ He sighed, then smiled. ‘Shall I order us some tea?’
David’s return smile was conspiratorial. ‘Tell you what I would like better. Let us get out of here. The taverns serve the best beer and some potatoes they call frites. Surely we can find some excitement here in Brussels.’
William laughed. ‘I see why I am so glad to see you. Let me grab my hat and gloves and we’ll be off.’
Helene and Rhys waited over two excruciating hours, rarely speaking to each other. As the minutes ticked by, Helene’s mind raced with questions she wished to ask him about his life these past five years. One thing she would never ask him was if he’d understood why she broke their engagement.
But she did not speak, and he asked nothing more about her than he’d discovered already.
Finally a knock on Wilson’s door announced the arrival of the doctor.
‘I am Dr Carlier.’ The doctor spoke French, like most Belgians.
Rhys responded before Helene could open her mouth. ‘This is Lady Helene Banes.’ He gestured to Helene. ‘And the patient is Mr Wilson, her servant.’
The doctor looked curiously from Helene to Rhys.
Rhys added, ‘I am Captain Landon.’ He paused. ‘A friend of the family.’
Helene ignored his hint of sarcasm in the word friend and leaned down to Wilson, ‘The doctor is here to see you, Wilson.’
‘Oh, no doctor,’ the old man said. ‘No fuss.’
‘Nonsense. You need a doctor. You are ill.’ She addressed the doctor in French. ‘He started feeling poorly yesterday and when I checked on him this morning he was burning with fever.’
Carlier shooed her away. ‘Sit up, monsieur,’ he said to Wilson, still in French.
To her surprise, Wilson understood the instruction, although he struggled to sit in his weakened state. She’d not known he understood French.
The doctor felt Wilson’s forehead, nodding as if he’d doubted her description. He leaned down and put his ear to Wilson’s chest, frowning as he listened.
‘Bad lungs.’ The doctor picked up the empty glass from the side table and held it under Wilson’s mouth. ‘Cough and spit into the glass.’
Wilson obeyed.
The doctor examined the sputum and placed the glass back on the table. He addressed Helene. ‘Your servant has an infection of the lungs.’ He took paper and pencil from his bag, wrote on it, and handed it to Helene. ‘Take this to an apothecary. Give it three times a day. It may help with the fever.’
‘Should I not make him drink? What do you recommend?’ She was accustomed to more recommendations from doctors. ‘Broth?’
He appeared faintly annoyed at her question. ‘He should drink as much as you can make him drink. Broth or beer. Tea, if that is what you English like.’ He shook his finger at her. ‘He must not leave this room. We do not wish to spread this English fever throughout Brussels.’
Helene straightened. ‘I have no intention of allowing him—’
Dr Carlier interrupted her, his voice rising. ‘He may become more ill before he recovers. If he recovers. But he must not leave this room until he is free from fever for two days.’
‘He will need someone to attend him,’ Rhys broke in. ‘Can a nurse be hired?’
Helene whipped around to face him. ‘I will tend him!’
‘No, Helene,’ Rhys countered. ‘You will not.’
The doctor gave a weary sigh. ‘It is of no importance to me who tends to the man. If you want a nurse, the hotel will find one for you.’ He closed his bag. ‘If he is not better in two days, I should be summoned. Otherwise, I must go. I have many patients to see.’ He extended his hand for payment.
Before Helene could reach in her reticule, Rhys handed the man some coin. ‘Enough?’ Rhys asked.
The doctor nodded and pocketed the money as he left, clearly glad to have no more to do with the English and an English fever.
The door closed as Helene pulled her coins from her reticule. ‘Here, Rhys.’
He held up a hand. ‘Do not insult me. I can afford to pay this for Wilson.’
Her cheeks burned at his assumption. She’d meant no insult, only that Wilson was her servant and her responsibility. It was probably useless to explain that to him, though.
Instead she lifted her chin. ‘I will care for Wilson, not a nurse. I will not leave him in the care of a stranger in a foreign land.’ Especially because too many Belgians seemed to have no taste for the English who’d suddenly flooded their city.
Rhys scowled. ‘What can you know about nursing?’
‘I nursed my mother and father.’
‘With the support of your many servants, no doubt,’ he responded sarcastically.
No, she’d kept the servants away as best as she could. Wilson had helped and Mrs Wood, the housekeeper. First her mother, then her father succumbed to a terrible fever and Helene had worked tirelessly, bathing them with cool cloths, spoon-feeding them broth. She’d spent a month tending to them, first one, then the other. She caught the fever, too, but she lived; they had not.
Rhys continued. ‘Here you would be caring for Wilson alone. How would you summon help if you needed it?’
Once she would have assumed he would help her.
‘I would manage,’ she said.
Helene feared it was her fault Wilson was ill. She never should have allowed him to travel with her. Rhys’s disapproval merely increased her guilt. Oh, she supposed some wild, improbable part of her wished he would help her. Foolish notion. She could manage. She was used to managing hard tasks alone.
She’d felt herself alone ever since Rhys left the village five years ago. Could watching him walk away from her again be any more painful?
Rhys’s voice softened. ‘Hire a nurse, Helene. Hire two or more. You cannot do this all on your own.’
Rhys shook his head. Did Helene not realise she could catch this fever? What good would it do her to be ill when she and David needed to leave Brussels?
His more conciliatory tone seemed to have little effect on her. She crossed her arms over her chest. ‘I assure you I am entirely capable, even of hiring a nurse, if that is what I wish to do.’
He spoke firmly again and extended his hand. ‘Give me the paper for the apothecary. I will see that it is prepared for you. And I will speak to the hall servant about sending a nurse. Do with that what you will.’
Rhys knew how to command and was not hesitant to impose his will on her. Wilson’s condition distressed him. The old servant was dear to Rhys. When Rhys was growing up, his father and mother were often preoccupied with the needs of the parishioners and Rhys was left to his own devices. Wilson always seemed nearby when he or Helene needed help or a firm scolding. Even when Rhys was not with Helene, he would seek out Wilson and help him at his tasks. Rhys credited Wilson with teaching him how to take care of himself, his clothes and his gear. Rhys had a batman to assist him while the regiment was on the march, but he was spared the expense of a personal servant otherwise.
Helene handed him the paper with the doctor’s instructions on it and turned away, returning to her seat next to Wilson’s cot. Rhys put the paper in his pocket.
‘No quarrelling, children,’ Wilson muttered. ‘I’ll tell your fathers.’
Wilson’s delirium worried him. But how many times had Rhys heard Wilson speak those same words when they were young? Like the time they argued about who threw a stone the farthest. Or who could climb a tree the highest. Or who caught the bigger fish.
Wilson never told their fathers anything they’d done.
He walked back to Wilson. ‘We are not quarrelling, I assure you. Take a nap now. Rest.’
Together he and Helene adjusted the pillows and blankets to make the ill man as comfortable as possible. She was close enough that he could inhale that familiar sweet scent of her, lavender and lemon, and was instantly transformed to his youth, to the sweet kisses they’d once shared.
She looked directly into his eyes for a moment before averting her gaze. ‘Ask about a nurse,’ she said quietly. ‘I will at least meet her before deciding.’
‘Very well.’ He stepped back, fighting the impulse to lean in closer to her. ‘I will go now.’ He touched his pocket where he’d put the instructions to the apothecary. ‘I’ll see this is delivered to you.’
‘Thank you, Rhys.’ Her voice was little more than a whisper.
Rhys watched her for a moment as she fussed with Wilson’s blanket. Collecting himself, he walked out the door and made his way through the hallway and down the stairs to the hall. Best he stay away from her and simply arrange for the hotel servants to deliver the medicine and send a nurse.
The hall servant was nowhere to be found, however. Rather than wait for him, Rhys decided to go to the apothecary himself. He returned to his room for his hat and gloves. On the street, he asked a passer-by where to find the shop. The man directed him to a street nearby.
Rhys opened the door and stepped inside, the fragrance of herbs and spices enveloping him. The walls of the shop were filled with floor-to-ceiling shelves of countless white jars with blue lettering. Words like mercure, centaurée and absinthe. A man wearing a white apron stood behind a long wooden counter. The apothecary, Rhys presumed.
Rhys removed his hat. ‘Bonjour, monsieur.’
The apothecary nodded in return, raising his brows in question.
Rhys pulled the doctor’s paper from his pocket and handed it to the apothecary. ‘S’il vous plait.’
The man read the instructions and turned to his wall of ingredients, pulling several down, grinding some with his mortar and pestle, mixing those with a liquid, and decanting the whole into a round brown bottle sealed with a cork.
‘Two teaspoons, three times a day,’ the apothecary explained in French and handed Rhys the medicine.
‘Merci, monsieur,’ Rhys responded as he placed the proper coins in the man’s hand.
When he returned to the hotel, the same servant who’d procured the doctor for him was attending the hall.
‘How is Mr Wilson, Captain?’ the man asked. ‘Was the doctor of assistance?’
‘Yes. I thank you,’ Rhys replied. ‘Mr Wilson is to stay in his room until he recovers. He is, I fear, in need of nursing. Do you know any capable women we might hire to tend to him?’
The servant frowned. ‘I will send for someone.’
‘Have the woman come to his room. Lady Helene or I will be with him.’ Why had he said he would be there? He’d done enough, had he not?
Rhys started to walk away, but the servant called him back. ‘Captain! I forgot. A letter was delivered for Mr Wilson this morning. Would you like to bring it to him?’
A letter? ‘Of course,’ he replied. ‘Happy to.’ But who would write to Wilson? Someone from Yarford House, no doubt, but why not send to Helene, or even David?
The hall servant gave the letter to Rhys. Wilson’s name was written on it, but no indication of where it was from.
Rhys looked up at the servant. ‘This came with the mail?’
‘No,’ the man said. ‘A boy delivered it.’
The only person he could think of who might send Wilson a message was David, but the writing seemed distinctly feminine.
He nodded thanks and made his way to Wilson’s room, forgetting that he’d intended to have one of the hotel servants deliver the medicine to Helene. When she opened the door to him, her eyes blinked in surprise.
‘I have the medicine.’ He handed her the bottle and gave her the apothecary’s instructions for its use.
‘I will give him some right away.’ Her skirts rustled as she returned to Wilson’s cot and coaxed him awake. Carefully she poured the liquid into a spoon and held it to his lips. ‘Medicine, Wilson. It will make you feel better.’
He obligingly opened his mouth and she fed him the medicine.
‘Another spoonful,’ she said.
As she was placing the cork back on the bottle, Rhys pulled the letter from his pocket. ‘Wilson received a letter.’
Her brows rose. ‘A letter?’
He handed it to her. ‘Does the hand look familiar?’
She stared at the letter and shook her head.
‘Does he know someone in Brussels?’
‘No,’ she said, adding uncertainly, ‘at least no one I know of.’
They exchanged glances, the kind of silent communication that had been so common between them at one time, both questioning what to do. Rhys inclined his head towards Wilson and Helene nodded in agreement.
She roused Wilson again. ‘You have a letter, Wilson.’
‘From someone here in Brussels, I think,’ Rhys added.
The old man sat up, gaining an alertness they’d not witnessed before. ‘Louise?’
Rhys exchanged another glance with Helene.
She showed Wilson the letter. ‘Open for me,’ he murmured. ‘Read.’
She broke the wafer and read aloud in French.
My dearest Samuel,
Imagine my pleasure to learn you are in Brussels. Yes. You may call upon me. Do so as soon as you are able. I will be waiting in great anticipation.
Yours,
Louise
Wilson rose from the bed, his unsteady legs barely able to support him. ‘Must go to her. Louise.’
‘No!’ Helene cried.
Both Rhys and Helene rushed to his side and helped him back on to the cot. He struggled against them, but wore himself out in an instant. He lay back against the pillows again.
‘You must not get out of bed,’ Helene scolded. ‘You are very ill.’
‘Must see Louise,’ Wilson said weakly. ‘Must see her.’
‘Not today.’ Helene’s voice was gentle. ‘Today you rest.’
He fell asleep or perhaps fell into a stupor.
Rhys gestured for Helene to step away from the bed. ‘Do you know this Louise?’
She shook her head. ‘I have never heard him speak of knowing anyone in Brussels. Or anyone anywhere else besides at Yarford.’ She glanced back at the old man’s fitful rest. ‘She seems important to him.’
‘Indeed.’ Rhys knew he would be unable to ignore this latest drama. He might as well be caught in a web, the threads holding him becoming thicker as he tried to free himself.
He could simply walk away. Helene. Wilson. David. None of them were any of his concern. His only concern was his regiment and their readiness for battle. The time waiting weighed heavily on him. On all his men. To fill time, Rhys’s soldiers got embroiled in all sorts of mischief, but even sorting them out was not enough to keep him occupied. Rhys had time to tend to Wilson.
He simply should not let old memories distract him, memories of how it once was with Helene.
He returned to the hotel’s hall and the servant attending it. ‘I have a question, sir,’ he asked the man. ‘I want to assist Mr Wilson in every way I can—’
The servant cut him off. ‘I have sent for a nurse, Captain. I assure you.’
‘I am obliged. But it is not about the nurse. The letter that arrived for Mr Wilson. Do you know who sent it?’
The servant frowned. ‘I was not told who sent it.’
Rhys persisted. ‘Do you know the boy who delivered it?’
‘I am sorry, Captain. I do not.’ He bowed and stepped away.
Damnation! Rhys should simply shrug his shoulders and let it go, but the mystery nagged at him. Who was this Louise? Why was she so important that Wilson would attempt to rise from his sickbed for her?