The Waltzing Widow Page 16

  When the soup and tea urns were ready. Lady Mary and Abigail left the town house to begin their small effort. The soldiers were parched beyond endurance, having not had any nourishment since they had marched out of Brussels, and were exceedingly grateful for the sips that they received.

  Lady Mary and Abigail were not the only ones engaged on such errands of mercy. Others directed their servants to carry those sprawled on the pavement into their homes. Still others offered blankets and pillows to those not yet housed.

  But for some, even such meager assistance came too late.

  "It is so utterly horrible,” Abigail said, tears coursing down her face as a man died in her mother's arms. She watched as Lady Mary gently laid the man down on the pavement and brushed her fingers over his eyes to close the lids. There was a smear of bright blood on her mother's skirt, and Abigail shuddered. “Mama, how can you bear it so calmly?"

  Lady Mary drew a steadying breath, not quite as unaffected as her daughter thought her. “It is a trick of the mind, Abigail. To give any one of these poor sufferers access to your feelings, is to allow yourself to be unmanned for the performance of your duty. It is less painful to look upon the whole than to contemplate even one of these men. Abigail, you must learn this truth quickly, for I fear that this is but the beginning of the monstrous consequences,” she said quietly, rising to her feet. She looked compassionately at her daughter, but she did not touch her. She was aware of the horror that Abigail would feel to be touched by hands that had just left a dead man's face.

  Without a word, Abigail moved on to the next man and Lady Mary followed her. They labored without ceasing until the soup and tea were gone, whereupon they returned to the town house to replenish their supply.

  They had already seen some of their servants moving up and down the street also doing what little they could, and so they were unsurprised to find that the town house was very nearly deserted. However, the housekeeper caught them by surprise when she rushed up to Lady Mary and threw out her hands in agitated appeal for understanding. “Madame! My nephew—he is wounded, he has nowhere else to go, no one to care for him but me—"

  Lady Mary held up her hand to slow the woman's swift tumble of words. “Slowly, Berthe, I pray you.” The housekeeper was encouraged to tell her story, still disjointed and with great distress, but at last the ladies understood that she had without authority brought her nephew into the house and put him in an empty bedroom and that at that very moment a physician was expected.

  "Of course it is all right, Berthe! I would not have had you do anything else,'’ Lady Mary said warmly. Struck by a thought, she asked, “You did say that a physician is coming, did you not?” Assured that this was so, she smiled suddenly. “Very good indeed, Berthe. We shall have a few more patients for the doctor to look at, I think."

  "Madame?” Berthe said, not understanding. But as Lady Mary outlined what she wanted, she nodded in voluble appreciation. "Oui, madame. It shall be attended to at once."

  As the housekeeper went to seek reinforcements to carry out Lady Mary's wishes, Abigail regarded her mother with a dubious expression. “Are you certain it is truly what you wish, Mama? We have only let the place, after all."

  Lady Mary brushed aside such a consideration."I do not think that the owner himself would do less than to offer the sanctuary of his home to his fellow countrymen, especially when it does not appear that the weather will improve anytime soon. Come, Abigail, let us put off our bonnets and change out of these soiled and damp pelisses. There is much to be done if we are to turn this place into a house for the wounded,” she said, only half in jest.

  The ladies did not have far to look for patients. Close to their own door were several wounded. Lady Mary had the footmen carry four soldiers into the garden house. Berthe's nephew occupied one of the spare rooms, and so they were able to bivouac only three more wounded men in the other spare rooms.

  When the wounded had been settled comfortably and had been seen by a physician, Lady Mary and Abigail settled in the drawing room. They were exhausted by their exertions and had been promised an early tea by Berthe to warm them.

  Scarcely had Lady Mary and Abigail seated themselves when the butler showed in Viscount and Viscountess Catlin. Lady Mary received her parents without reserve, alarmed by the strange and early hour of their visit. But when she saw that they were dressed for travel, she suddenly knew why they had come.

  Abigail was less perceptive, and she felt only gladness to see her grandparents. She ran to them with outstretched hands. “Grandpapa! Grandmama, how happy I am to see you."

  Viscountess Catlin wrapped her arms tightly about the girl. “Ah, my sweet dear little Abigail,” she said, tears starting to her eyes.

  Lady Mary greeted her father with more restraint. “It is good to see you, as always, my lord. You have chosen an odd hour to call, and an odder attire,” she said, sweeping her hand at her father's mode of dress.

  The viscount laughed shortly. “You've wit enough to see, Mary. Yes, your mother and I are leaving Brussels. The rumors are alarming. I will not take the chance of remaining until it is too late to escape Bonaparte's triumphant arrival."

  Viscountess Catlin turned to her daughter. “We are leaving for Antwerp at once."

  "Leaving?” exclaimed Abigail. She looked from one to the other of her grandparents. Her fingers tightened on her grandmother's hand. “Oh, Grandmama!"

  The viscountess patted her granddaughter's arm. “Yes, my dear. I am made too fearful by these dreadful rumors. It is all too much for me. I want to be safe in my own dear England."

  Viscount Catlin stared somberly at his daughter, “Mary, I want you and Abigail well away from this place also. I want you to come back with us to London."

  Though Lady Mary was pale, her composure remained intact. She hardly needed a moment to reflect before she answered. “I am truly sorry, sir. I cannot do as you wish. Until I know for certain what happens to William, I intend to remain her in Brussels."

  "Mary! Even you cannot be such a fool!'’ Viscountess Catlin exclaimed, her voice cracking with astonishment. She began to admonish her daughter with a rapidity that bordered on hysteria.

  The viscount threw up his hand to silence his wife's torrent of scolding. “A moment, my dear.” His hard eyes studied his daughter's face. “You mean that you will not do as I wish, isn't that it, Mary?"

  Lady Mary sighed. She steeled herself for the usual tide of wrath that her defiance had always provoked. “Our past differences have nothing to do with my decision, sir. I hope that you can understand my reason, which is simply as I have already stated to you,” she said quietly.

  Again the viscountess exclaimed. But Viscount Catlin silenced her, much to his wife's unwelcome surprise. “You have always been a stubborn and difficult young woman, Mary. At times you remind me most forcibly of myself,” he said with a rare flash of humor. He nodded in reluctant acceptance. “Very well, Mary. I honor your decision. I trust that you will not come to bitterly regret it."

  The viscountess's cheeks became suffused with bright patches of angry color. She demanded shrilly, “What are you saying, husband? Have you gone completely mad as well?"

  Viscount Catlin spoke with a hint of coldness. “Not at all, my dear. I am merely respecting our daughter's right to exercise her own judgment and to choose her own fate."

  Lady Mary's smile wavered. She was completely taken aback by her father's unexpected understanding. “Thank you, Papa."

  The viscount smiled also, but it was a mere showing of the teeth and no warmth reached his eyes. “Pray do not thank me quite so soon, my lady. I demand that same right be granted to your own daughter and that you do not presume to speak for her. Abigail, too, must make her own choice in this."

  Viscountess Catlin seized upon his demand with almost frenzied insistence. She turned to her granddaughter. “Yes, yes! Abigail, you must come with us. Your mother has completely lost her mind, you must see that. I shall not allow you, at least, to fall into t
he hands of those mad rapining French dogs.'’ Her hands tightened on her granddaughter's arm. “Come with me now and I shall help you to pack your prettiest things."

  The viscount stared at his granddaughter, his expression unreadable. “Which is it to be, Abigail? Shall you choose flight to safety with us, or uncertainty, perhaps even death, if you should stay?"

  Horrified, Abigail stood rooted to the carpet. Her wide frightened eyes traveled from her grandmother's adamant expression to her grandfather's grim countenance. Her gaze finally came to rest on her mother's calm face. “Mama..."

  Lady Mary smiled faintly. She glanced at her father, who met her eyes with something akin to triumph in his cold gaze. “Your grandfather knows me too well, Abigail. I cannot in all conscience make this choice for you. Often enough you have told me that you are a woman grown. Abide by that, Abigail,” she said quietly.

  Though her heart was hammering in her ears, she did not allow her feelings to be revealed in her expression. She was not certain how she wished for Abigail to decide. On the one hand, she would bitterly miss her daughter and regret the inevitable strengthening of the viscountess's influence. But if her faith in the Duke of Wellington and the British troops was misplaced, the marauding French would indeed descend on Brussels. She would infinitely prefer that Abigail be spared any such fate.

  The vision conjured up by her imagination was so appalling and so frightening that she involuntarily threw up her hand against it. The words to urge her daughter to go trembled upon her lips.

  But Abigail, after struggling with her own helplessness and doubt, had already made up her mind. “I shall stay with Mama,” she said, somewhat pale but speaking bravely.

  "My darling, you do not know what you are saying!” Viscountess Catlin exclaimed. She captured both of her granddaughter's hands. “Abigail, you must attend to me in this and be guided by one much older and wiser in life!"

  Abigail gently disengaged herself. She wore an expression that for all its sweetness bespoke firm determination. “But I do know, Grandmama. I am choosing to be foolish and brave and perhaps a bit mad. So many of us are, I think. I, too, wish to know about William. And there are others.” With the last admission, she suddenly flushed.

  The gathering of tears in her grandmother's eyes shook her resolve and she appealed for understanding. “Oh, don't you see, Grandmama? I must stay, or otherwise I should regret it all my life."

  But the viscountess was beyond understanding. “You may well regret it, in the very instant of losing your life,” she said bitterly.

  Viscount Catlin, on the point of sarcastically congratulating Lady Mary on her victory, was struck to silence when he saw his daughter's closed eyes and pained expression. “My dear Mary!” he exclaimed, alarmed by her uncharacteristic betrayal of weakness.

  Lady Mary at once recovered herself. She shook her head against him and she looked somberly at her daughter. “Be very certain of what you do, Abigail. I do not think that the chance to leave Brussels in safety will come again."

  "I know, Mama. But I have thought it over and I realize that I must stay,” Abigail said softly.

  Mother and daughter exchanged quiet smiles, in that moment their spirits having a full comprehension of one another. When the viscount saw their complete agreement, his shoulders sagged. He was defeated. He had gambled upon his daughter's innate sense of fairness and he had lost both her and his granddaughter. His sense of honor would not allow him to go back upon the lines he had himself drawn. He took hold of his wife's elbow. “Come, my dear. There is nothing more that we can do here,” he said gruffly.

  The viscountess stared up at him in bewilderment. Then she glanced at her daughter and her granddaughter. “But we cannot simply leave them like this!"

  "Of course you cannot. You must stay for tea,” Lady Mary said, deliberately misunderstanding her mother's meaning.

  Abigail at once placed a detaining hand on her grandfather's tensely held arm. “Yes, you must stay. I insist upon it. After all, it may be the last time that I ... that we..."

  Her voice broke as she choked on sudden tears. With a strangled sound the viscountess fell into her granddaughter's arms and they both started to cry. “Oh, Grandmama! I shall miss you so dreadfully!” Viscountess Catlin but wailed and sobbed harder.

  Lady Mary turned away to brush at the tears that were falling down her own cheeks. A handkerchief appeared before her watering sight and she took it, putting it to good use. She turned to look up at her father and tried to smile.

  "Somehow I never thought to see you in tears, Mary,” he said.

  The lack of his customary sarcasm was obvious. Lady Mary winced. “I am not so unfeeling as that, Papa,” she said quietly. She went to pull the bell, and upon the entrance of a footman, requested that tea be brought to the drawing room. She glanced at the viscount. “I have a favor to ask of you, sir."

  Viscount Catlin allowed himself a sardonic smile. He could not banish the sudden leap of his heart as he thought that perhaps she was having second thoughts. “You've the cold nerve of the true aristocrat, daughter. You do not lose your coolness of thought, whatever the moment. What is it you wish of me?"

  "I wish you to offer seats to any of our English servants who may wish to leave us to return to England,” Lady Mary said.

  After the slightest hesitation as an expression almost of pain crossed his face, the viscount acceded to her request with an abrupt nod. He turned away to stare out of the window, his hands clasped tightly behind him.

  Overhearing, Viscountess Catlin exclaimed, “Mary!"

  But upon meeting her daughter's cool steady gaze, she said nothing more to urge Lady Mary and Abigail to change their decision, understanding at last that it was useless. She sighed and said only, “We have but the one carriage. How shall we manage it, Victor?"

  The viscount did not mm around. He spoke over his shoulder. “I assume since Mary wishes it, she will also turn out another carriage to handle the business."

  "Of course. I shall order out the horses at once,” Lady Mary said, going again to the bell rope to call in the footman. She sent a quiet message by the footman to those of the household who had accompanied her and Abigail to the Continent that the opportunity to return to England was available. There was nothing more to say then, and the four waited in awkward silence for the tea tray.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  Chapter 20

  When tea was brought in, Viscountess Catlin at once offered to pour. Lady Mary allowed her to do so, understanding that her mother was desperate for something to occupy herself and even that simple act would be of help to her. She turned her attention to the ritual of a proper tea, calmly offering biscuits to her companions and accepting a cup of tea from her mother's trembling hands.

  The half-hour spent over tea was uncommonly subdued, as each was preoccupied with private thoughts. Occasionally one or another would recall his or her social obligations and leap in with some comment or other that would cause a momentary flurry of vivacious speech, which would then wither away as quickly as it had arisen.

  After the tea was done there was no more reason to delay. The viscount and viscountess rose to take their leave. It was a painful farewell. Viscountess Catlin clung to her daughter and granddaughter while slow tears slid down her lined face. Even the good-bye said between Lady Mary and Viscount Catlin was a lingering one, punctuated by his clearing of his throat.

  As she looked up into her father's face, she was stabbed to the heart by the suddenly haggard look in eyes that she had always thought of as unfathomable. “You must not be anxious on my account. Papa,” she said softly.

  Viscount Catlin forced his habitual mocking smile to his lips. “Allow me my moment of fatherly concern, Mary. It is not often that I indulge in such weakness."

  Lady Mary and Abigail accompanied the viscount and viscountess from the drawing room. In the entry hall stood those who had traveled with the Spences to the Continent.

  Miss Steepleton was dressed
in her traveling pelisse and two battered portmanteaus rested beside her feet. She looked at her mistress, her pasty face marked by dull red patches of shame. “I do not know what to say, my lady. It is true. I am deserting you. But the chance to leave this place—not to have that horrible cannonade again pounding away at me or fear the French at the door at any moment ... oh, my lady! Pray say that you forgive me!"

  Lady Mary took Miss Steepleton's cold hands in hers. She was not particularly surprised by the woman's decision, since Miss Steepleton had suffered progressively worsening of her nerves from the hour that the cannonade had begun, and at every panic had become visibly fainter at heart and more hysterical. “Nonsense, there is nothing to forgive. You must go back to England and recover from your ordeal here."

  "You are too, too kind, my lady!” Miss Steepleton gasped. She disentangled herself from Lady Mary's light hold and fumbled in her reticule for a handkerchief, which she used to blow her reddened nose.

  Lady Mary's maid came forward to pay her respects to the viscount and viscountess and wish the travelers well. Abigail's maid hovered, looking frightened and confused. She was obviously torn between her duty to her mistress and an evident desire to be able to join Miss Steepleton. The maid, Beatrice, told her gruffly, “Get your things, there's a good girl. No one will be thinking poorly of you, least of all Miss Abigail."

  "Indeed not, Molly,” Abigail said immediately. She hooked her hand through the maid's trembling arm. “Come, I shall myself help you to gather your belongings."

  Viscount Catlin had observed the proceedings with increasing annoyance. His irascible demand not to be kept standing about hurried the two girls upstairs. He brought out his watch and muttered to himself.

  Within a very few minutes all of the travelers were reassembled on the front steps and the good-byes started all over again. The viscount exchanged a hard embrace with his granddaughter. “I am depending upon you to take care of yourself and of your mother, who is an extremely foolish woman,” he said gruffly. Abigail nodded mutely, fearing to trust her voice.