Late April, 1814
Toulouse, France
Colonel Lord Quinton Frederick Burnes—Quint to his friends and to his family, except for his mother who used the more formal version of his name—rolled back from his half-raised position, resting on the elbow of his good arm. The other arm, still in a splint but out of the sling for the moment, rested across his middle. He had stubbornly held that position longer than he should have, and he could not stifle the groan that slipped out as he moved.
“All right, sir?” His aide, Lieutenant Chester Gibbons, sat on a chair beside the bed, balancing the colonel’s travel desk on his knees. Gibbons and the colonel were of an age—early thirties—and they had been together long enough to know each other’s quirks, likes and dislikes, when to talk and when not to. At nearly six feet, the two were similar in height too, but there the physical resemblance ended. Gibbons, with red hair and a profusion of freckles, was a slim, gangly man who looked deceptively awkward. His colonel was a sturdy athletic sort with dark hazel eyes and light brown hair with lighter streaks in it from years under a relentless sun, first in India, then in Spain.
“I’ll live, Chet. I’ll live.” Unlike those poor bastards we lost in battle two weeks ago, he thought bitterly. The Battle of Toulouse had occurred roughly a week after the abdication of the once insanely ambitious Napoleon Bonaparte—“Boney,” “the Corsican Monster,” the self-proclaimed Emperor of France, or “that upstart corporal with delusions of grandeur,” depending on one’s point of view.
Quint’s point of view at the moment was decidedly sour. He lay staring blankly at cracking plaster on the ceiling of a house in southern France. The house, one of the finest in the town, belonged to the mayor who—as a Royalist rather than a follower of the deposed emperor—had willingly, if not enthusiastically, allowed the British Army to commandeer it for wounded officers. Ordinary soldiers, Quint knew, were treated in the local cathedral. This information had come to him rather belatedly, for Quint had been barely aware of his surroundings for several days.
He had survived nearly six years on the Iberian Peninsula—not to mention three in India prior to that—following in the wake of the intrepid Wellesley, now Duke of Wellington, and he had done so having suffered little more than what Quint dismissed as “scratches.” Now, here he was at the end of that long, long campaign confined to a damned bed for who knew how long! He considered the broken arm, despite its being his right arm, in line with those previous “scratches.” After all, he still had the left one, did he not?
“You are one lucky devil,” the doctor, who had visited again only this morning, had told him. “That bullet in your belly ripped up a bloody mess, but at least vital organs escaped. Your pain is coming from the fact that I had to dig what was left of that bullet out of the home it had found near your spine. You could have ended up totally paralyzed—but you won’t.”
“Well, there is that, I suppose,” Quint muttered. “But, how long, Doc? I need to be in England even as we speak.”
“I would guess that you will be the ultimate judge of the time element,” the medical man said. “When the pain allows you to walk about and stand for more than a few minutes at a time. I know you don’t want to hear this, but I’m afraid you are looking at a matter of some weeks at least.”
This announcement had elicited another groan—this time of protest and frustration more than pain. That is, not physical pain, but deep, devastating pain nonetheless.
Colonel Lord Quinton Burnes was the younger son of the Fifth Earl of Sedwick—at one time the “spare” as it were. Only days prior to his managing to get himself sorely wounded in that needless battle, he had received a letter—long delayed in transit—in which his mother reported the sad news of the death of his brother, Winston, the Sixth Earl of Sedwick. Quint’s brother and his countess had both died in a carriage accident during an ice storm in the latter weeks of the worst winter England had suffered in decades, a winter so severe that in February, the Thames itself had frozen over and all London turned out for a Frost Fair on the river. Frivolity aside, the weather claimed many victims, among them the Earl of Sedwick and his charming countess.
Quint clenched his jaw and wiped his good hand across his brow.
All his life, Quint had loved his brother dearly. The two were not only very close in age—separated by only a year—but they were also close friends. They had shared a tutor and had gone off to Eton together and then to university, where they had shared quarters and a good many escapades in which it had usually been Quint who managed to save them from the worst consequences of youthful exuberance. No one—least of all Quint—was surprised that the Sixth Earl of Sedwick had named his brother Quinton to be executor of his will, and guardian of all the earldom until such time as the Seventh Earl—now all of twelve years old—should reach his majority. Moreover, there were six siblings—also part of the Sedwick earldom for which Quint was now responsible.
As all this flashed through his mind, Quint did not allow himself to groan again, but he wanted to. “Read it all back to me, Chet,” he ordered, laying his head against the pillow and closing his eyes.
“My Dear Mother—” the aide began,
Thank you for keeping me apprised of matters at Sedwick Hall. Your decision to move from the dower house into the Hall in order to supervise matters regarding the children seems perfectly proper to me. I find it gratifying that I may rely upon you not only to keep me informed of day-to-day matters, but also that you will see to it that my wishes are carried out in every detail.
I am at last coming to terms with our loss. Win and I always thought that it was I, not he, who was more in harm’s way. Over some matters, of course, mere mortals have no control.
I am grateful that General Browning saw fit to inform you personally of my being wounded, but you must not be overly concerned. My injuries are not life-threatening, [here the aide paused and raised an eyebrow before continuing] though I am as yet unable to walk more than a few steps. As you must know, the inactivity is driving me crazy, but I am assured that in another two or three weeks, I shall be able to travel to the coast and take a ship home to England. Overland travel at present is simply too dangerous through occupied France. (I must wait to see Paris again!)
Your admonitions regarding my responsibilities to the new earl and, indeed, to the entirety of Sedwick, are quite unnecessary. Winston and I discussed matters thoroughly during my last leave. I am fully aware of my duties. I shall be back in England and able to assume full control of the properties—and the children (all seven of them)—by mid-June at latest.
I doubt not that Miss Mayfield is quite fond of the nieces and nephews she and I share, but a mere godmother is hardly in a position to make substantive decisions regarding disposition of the children. First off, they must all be properly educated for the roles they will eventually assume in English society. As the heir, Phillip, especially, should have gone off to Eton at least a year ago and the twins are now of an age to accompany him. The girls, too, need more formal training, I think, than they have heretofore had.
Meanwhile, Miss Mayfield’s suggestion of taking the children to London seems most unwise to me, but for the nonce, I leave these matters in your capable hands, Mother, until I return—very shortly, I hope.
“Good. Sign it for me, Chet, and see it sent out in the next dispatch.”
“Yes, sir.”