Shattered Rainbows: Book 5 in the Fallen Angels Series Read online

  He gave a jaunty smile. "Don't look so worried. You know I share Wellington's magical immunity to bullets." He chucked her under the chin as if she were Amy's age. Then he swung onto his horse. "I'll see you in Paris, sooner if it's safe."

  Then he and Charles and their entourage clattered out into the cobbled street. Catherine gazed after her husband. Sadly, she recognized that if he had loved her even a little bit, she would have loved him in spite of his women. Oh, he was rather fond of her. He enjoyed his comfortable home and took great satisfaction in the fact that other men envied him his wife. But she would lay long odds that he cared more deeply for his horse.

  His horse. She blinked, only now registering what she had seen. Turning to her groom, she asked, "Was Captain Melbourne riding Colonel Kenyon's horse?"

  "Aye," Everett replied. "The captain didn't want to risk Caesar, so the colonel said he could take Thor instead."

  Oh, Lord, how typical of Colin to assume that his luck would carry him safely through a battle even on a mediocre mount. And it was equally typical of Michael to look out for another person.

  Numbly she turned to Anne and they went into the house, going straight to the liquor cabinet in the dining room. Anne poured each of them a measure of brandy. After downing half of her drink, she said vehemently, "Why the devil didn't some sensible person assassinate Bonaparte? One bullet would have saved the world so much grief."

  Catherine gave a humorless smile. "Men tend to think such things are dishonorable."

  "Fools." Anne bent her head and rubbed her temples. "Saying good-bye doesn't get any easier with practice."

  "I didn't get to say good-bye to Kenneth at all." Catherine sighed. "Did I mention that two days ago, I asked him to do some sketches of everyone in the household? I should have asked sooner. He was willing, but there wasn't enough time."

  Anne raised her head. "Are you sure? There are a couple of portfolios on the table over there. I noticed them earlier, but I was too distracted to take a look."

  They went to investigate. The top portfolio contained a note from Kenneth to Catherine. He apologized for the fact that he had not had the chance to give the drawings to her in person, and said that the other portfolio was for Anne.

  Catherine gave the second folder to her friend, then paged through her own. The drawings were wonderful, particularly the ones of the children. A sketch of Amy swinging joyfully from a branch in the back garden caught her daughter's intrepid spirit perfectly. A laughing Colin was being nuzzled by his horse, Caesar. He looked confident and dashing and very handsome.

  The drawing of Michael made her heart ache. In a handful of lines, Kenneth had caught the qualities of strength and humor, honor and intelligence, that stirred her so deeply.

  Though Kenneth had included the self-portrait she had requested, it was the weakest drawing of the lot. The features were recognizable, but the overall effect was harsh and rather intimidating, revealing none of his imagination or dry wit. It must be hard to see oneself clearly.

  Voice quavering, Anne said, "Look at this."

  The drawing she held up showed her family in the garden. Jamie was gleefully astride his father's back as Charles played the part of cavalry horse. Molly sat by her mother, looking immensely superior from the pinnacle of her advanced years, while at the same time secretly feeding a cake to Clancy. Catherine laughed. "Bless Kenneth. To think he remembered to put these together for us when so much else was happening."

  Anne studied a picture of Charles in his uniform, his plumed helmet tucked under his arm. He wore the grave expression of a man who had experienced war without being coarsened by it. "A century from now, future Mowbrys will look at this and know what kind of man their great-great-grandfather was."

  "They'll be proud to be his descendants."

  Anne drew the back of her hand across her eyes. "I won't cry again," she said fiercely. "I won't."

  There was a long silence, broken only by the harsh rhythm of distant drums. Hearing that, Catherine suggested, "Neither of us will sleep a wink. Let's go to the city center and watch the mustering of the troops."

  Anne agreed and they went to change from their ball gowns to simpler garments. As Catherine prepared to join Anne, Amy poked her head from the door of her room. "Has Papa gone?"

  Wishing Colin had taken the time to wake his daughter, Catherine said, "Yes. He didn't want to disturb you."

  "I wouldn't have minded," Amy said with a scowl. "Are you and Aunt Anne going out to watch what's happening?"

  When Catherine nodded, Amy pleaded, "Please, can I go with you? It's horrid to be alone and unable to sleep."

  Catherine could sympathize with that. "Very well. Put on a warm dress and come with us."

  It was only a week until the summer solstice, and the sky was already lightening in the east as the three walked along the Rue de Namur. The drums were louder now. Their thunder was overlaid by strident trumpets calling assembly. Allied soldiers were billeted all over Brussels, and the streets boiled with activity as men responded to the summons, buttoning their jackets and dragging on their packs as they stumbled from the houses.

  A British infantry regiment swung past them, marching toward the Namur Gate to the harsh rumma-dum-dum of the drums. The hammering rhythm entered the blood, as exciting as it was alarming. Catherine studied the tramping soldiers, wondering if the regiment might be Michael's. It was too dark to identify the uniform markings, and she could not see his erect form among the officers who rode alongside their troops. No matter; even if it was his regiment, they had already said their good-byes. To do so again, in front of Anne and Amy, would be excruciating.

  The Place Royale was sheer chaos. Soldiers from half a dozen nations searched for their companies, sometimes with weeping women beside them. A few veteran campaigners slept with heads on their packs, oblivious to the racket of horses, cannons, and wagons clattering across the stones.

  Amy's hand crept into Catherine's. "Boney doesn't have a chance, does he?"

  "Not against Wellington. The duke has never lost a battle in his life," Catherine said, trying to sound confident.

  They made their way from the Place Royale to the nearby park. It was about four o'clock, and the summer sun was edging above the horizon. Oblique rays of light caught the spires of the Cathedral St. Michel. Catherine smiled wryly at the sight. Reminders of Michael were everywhere.

  In the park, the fierce, blunt Welsh General Picton was mustering his division. Anne said, "The Rifle Brigade is with Picton, isn't it? Perhaps we can find Kenneth."

  They scanned the seething mass of green-jacketed Riflemen, looking for officers. Amy's sharp eyes found him. "Look!" she said excitedly. "Captain Wilding is over there."

  He was on horseback, snapping orders to his junior officers, but he turned when Catherine called his name. She went to him and reached up to clasp his hand. "I'm so glad we found you, Kenneth. It didn't seem right not to wish you Godspeed."

  He gave the rare smile that turned his craggy face handsome. "You're very kind, Catherine."

  "You've become family. If you're wounded, be sure they bring you home, so we can take care of you properly."

  His face tightened. Not wanting to embarrass him further, she added, "Thank you for the drawings. They're splendid."

  "I will keep mine forever," Anne said vehemently.

  "I'll rest easier for knowing I have achieved immortality of a sort," he said with a faint smile. "But what makes a picture interesting is the subject, so it is you and your families who deserve the credit."

  "Come back soon," Amy added. "Molly and I haven't gotten the trick of drawing perspective yet. We need more lessons."

  "I'll do my best, but now I must go. Take care." He touched his forehead in a salute and turned back to his company.

  Catherine and the others withdrew to one side and watched as order emerged from what had seemed hopeless confusion. Soon Picton's troops were striding away, the heavy tramp of boots reverberating through the park.

  Th
e division included the Highland regiments that had entertained the Duchess of Richmond's guests. The soldiers marched so smoothly that the plumes on their bonnets scarcely stirred. The bagpipes that had seemed exotic in the ballroom had a fierce rightness as they wailed the kilt-clad Scots to war.

  Following in the division's wake, the three women retraced their steps to the Rue de la Reine, picking their way around mounds of equipment and lines of heavily laden baggage animals. As the city emptied of troops, the citizens of Brussels returned to their beds. By the time they reached home, fatigue had drained away Catherine's nervous energy. Perhaps now, she thought wearily, they would all be able to rest.

  * * *

  But sleep eluded her. She rose heavy-eyed in midmorning. In Spain, she had usually been close enough to the action to have some idea what was happening. Here there was no news, and it made the day one of the longest of her life.

  Sensing the tension, the children were quarrelsome. The servants gathered in knots to talk in hushed whispers, and one of the Belgian maids asked for her wages so she could return to her family in a village north of the city.

  As Catherine and Anne ate a late luncheon, the distant rumble of cannons rolled ominously across the countryside. Battle had been joined. They stared at each other, not daring to speak, before silently returning to their bowls of soup.

  When they could bear the inactivity no longer, they went up onto the city ramparts, taking all three children and Anne's pretty young Scottish nursemaid. Hundreds of others were gathered on the walls, staring to the south. Rumors were flying, but of solid news there was none.

  At ten o'clock that night, a sharp rap on the door brought Catherine and Anne at a run. Anne swung the door open and found her husband's dust-covered batman, Will Ferris, standing on the steps. She went white. "Oh, my God! Is Charles—"

  "No, ma'am!" he said swiftly. "Just the opposite. The master sent me to say that he and Captain Melbourne are fine."

  As Catherine ushered Ferris toward the kitchen, he continued, "There's been a nasty fight against Marshal Ney at Quatre-Bras, but the cavalry didn't arrive until the very end, so we were hardly touched. They say the duke was almost captured by a party of French lancers. Had to leap a ditch full of Gordon Highlanders to save himself." Ferris shook his head. "The Highland regiments were cut to pieces, poor devils."

  Catherine laid out cold meats and ale, thinking sorrowfully of the gay young Scots who had danced the night before. How many still lived? "What was the outcome of the battle?"

  Ferris shrugged cynically. "I don't know if either side won, but at least we didn't lose. They say Napoleon himself went after the Prussian army. Blücher had more men, so if he and his lads did well, the French may be retreating by now."

  "I hope you're right," Anne said fervently. "What about the Rifle Brigade? And Colonel Kenyon's regiment?"

  "The Rifles were in the thick of it, but Captain Wilding came to no harm." Ferris paused for a swig of ale. "Nor did the 105th—they were held in reserve and never got into the fight."

  Probably that was because of the regiment's inexperience. Catherine hoped the 105th would continue to be used as reserves rather than frontline troops. Perhaps Michael and his men would find that disappointing, but she would not.

  After eating, the batman excused himself to visit Elspeth McLeod, Anne's young Scottish nursemaid. The two were courting. He spent half an hour with his sweetheart, then saddled up again for the long ride back to the army.

  Catherine's spirits were heavy when she went to bed. It would be wonderful to believe that the French had been broken, but in her heart, she knew the worst was still to come.

  * * *

  The proof of the previous day's battle came the next morning, when Molly looked out an upper window and called excitedly, "Mama, there are wounded soldiers in the street!"

  Her cry brought most of the household running. From the vantage point of the upper window, they could see into the Rue de Namur. Injured men who had walked through the night were beginning to stumble into the city through the Namur Gate.

  White-lipped, Catherine said, "I'll get my medical kit."

  "They'll want water." Anne looked down at her children, who were pressed against her skirts. "Molly, it was very clever of you to see the soldiers. Jamie, may I borrow your wagon so I can take out buckets of water?" He nodded gravely.

  Elspeth said, "I'll come, too, ma'am. I have six brothers, so I know something of fixing injuries." The other servants also volunteered to do what they could.

  Anne ordered her children to stay in the house with the cook. Older and more determined, Amy did not bother to ask if she could help; she simply accompanied Anne with the little water wagon. Catherine considered telling her to go home, but decided against it. Her daughter was no stranger to painful sights.

  By the time their party reached the Rue de Namur, the street had turned into an impromptu hospital. Besides the walking wounded, wagonloads of injured men were rumbling through the gate. Citizens of Brussels and foreigners poured from their homes to work side by side to alleviate the suffering in any way they could.

  Some helped wounded men to their billets while others provided blankets, straw, and parasols to shield men from the hot sun. Catherine saw a nun and a girl who looked like a streetwalker aiding a Belgian boy who had collapsed against the railings of a house. The pharmacies freely gave away supplies.

  Catherine's Peninsular experience stood her in good stead as she cleaned and dressed less serious wounds. After the horrible suspense of the previous day, it was a relief to be able to do something. Since Amy was a reliable dispenser of water, Anne fetched a notebook and took last message and mementos from dying men who wanted word sent to their families.

  Catherine was picking fragments of fabric and gold lace from a gory, mangled arm when a familiar Scottish voice said, "Trust you to be in the middle of this, lassie."

  She looked up to see the prematurely white hair and blood-stained shirt of her surgeon friend, Ian Kinlock. "And trust you to come all the way from London for the chance to see more carnage," she said unsteadily. "Thank heaven you're here, Ian! This sergeant needs more than I can do."

  Kinlock knelt beside her and examined the wound. "You're in luck, Sergeant. There are two balls in your arm, but no bones are broken, so amputation isn't necessary. Catherine, hold him while I take the balls out." He pulled instruments from his bag.

  Catherine braced the injured right arm. The sergeant gave one anguished gasp and sweat covered his face, but he scarcely moved during the long minutes it took to locate and extract the balls. When the probing was over, Catherine sponged the sergeant's face with cool water while Ian bandaged the wound.

  "It's grateful I am to you both," the sergeant said with a rich Irish brogue. He pushed himself to a sitting position with his good arm. "If you'll help me up, sir, I'll be on my way."

  "You'll do, Sergeant," Ian said as he complied with the request. "Are you going to the hospital tent over by the gate?"

  The Irishman shook his head. "I've a billet where they'll take care of me. Don't understand a word they say, but they treat me like a prince." Before the sergeant had taken ten steps, an elderly priest came to help him to his destination.

  Noticing that it had darkened, Catherine glanced up to see heavy clouds covering the sky. The wind was rising and lightning flickered on the horizon. "Lord, a thunderstorm is coming. That's all we need."

  "And coming fast. A good thing the hospital tents are up." Ian repacked his instruments. "That will give these poor fellows some shelter."

  Catherine looked around and found that the street was almost empty. The first wave of wounded had been tended or moved under cover. Anne had left half an hour earlier, gray with fatigue.

  The lightning crackled much closer, illuminating the street with garish brilliance. As Catherine stared numbly at the fat raindrops splashing onto her stained skirt, the surgeon asked, "How long have you been working out here?"

  "I don't know." She wi
ped water from her brow. "Hours."

  "Go home," he ordered. "You can come to the hospital tent when you've had some rest."

  "Will you be working there?"

  "Aye." He smiled wryly. "Sleeping there, too, I expect."

  "Stay with Anne and me." Catherine pointed out her house. "We have ample space, and you'll rest better than in the tent."

  "I'll take you up on that, most gratefully."

  Lightning blazed across the sky, followed immediately by a deafening roll of thunder. As the rain intensified to a torrent, Catherine grabbed her medical kit and went to collect Amy.

  Her daughter loved storms, and now she was staring raptly at the sky. "Wellington weather, Mama," she said, raising her voice above the thunder. "There's going to be a battle."

  "Very likely." Catherine took Amy's hand. "But now let's go inside before we drown!"

  * * *

  Catherine took Amy to the nursery. Then she changed to dry clothing and came down to the hot tea and sandwiches Anne had ordered. They were just finishing when a knock sounded at the front door. A minute later, the parlor maid brought Lord Haldoran into the morning room. Water cascaded from his greatcoat, and his fashionable detachment had been replaced by urgency.

  "Mrs. Melbourne, Mrs. Mowbry." He made a quick bow. "Have you heard the latest news?"

  "I'm not sure," Anne replied. "Please tell us."

  "Yesterday the Prussians were badly mauled at Ligny. They had to retreat almost twenty miles, so Wellington is falling back also to maintain his lines of communication. I understand he's setting up his headquarters at a village called Waterloo."

  "Dear God," Anne whispered, her face white. "That's only ten or twelve miles from here."

  "Napoleon is on Brussels' doorstep," Haldoran said bluntly. "It's anybody's guess whether Wellington will be able to stop him with his ragtag assortment of troops. Every foreigner who can leave the city is going or gone."