Winning the War Hero's Heart Page 4

  * * *

  Those who had been bandaged were either sent home or to the town’s small hospital in carts and carriages. When everyone had gone and the common deserted except for a scattering of waste paper, broken pies— which were being attacked by pigeons and dogs—torn clothing and churned-up hoof marks, Miles and Helen found themselves alone, their work done.

  They stood and faced each other. He had lost his hat and his curls lay untidily over his forehead. His face was smeared with mud and blood; it was only when he raised his hand to try to wipe it that Helen noticed the long cut on his forearm. It had ceased to bleed, but there was a dirty crust of dried blood on it.

  ‘You have been hurt,’ she said, in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

  ‘It is nothing. I felt the edge of the sword of one of the militia. It is not deep.’

  ‘It needs cleaning. And the doctor has gone. Come home with me and I’ll clean it for you. It’s nearer than Raven’s Park.’

  They walked back to the centre of town. It was crowded with people who had managed to escape the melee; they were standing in groups discussing what had happened. They watched Miles and Helen go past and that set them talking again. Helen could almost hear them: ‘What’s going on there? That’s Viscount Cavenham or I’m a Dutchman. What is he doing dressed like that?’

  ‘Did you see him scoop up those children?’

  ‘And stop that lieutenant when he would have broken the head of everyone there. Seems a strange thing for him to do, seeing who he is.’

  ‘And what is Miss Wayland up to? I wager it will be in the next edition of the paper. She is bound to be in trouble for sponsoring the meeting.’

  ‘Well, if you want my opinion they are the most unlikely couple in Christendom.’

  Miles must have realised it himself, for he was smiling as Helen opened the shop door and ushered him inside. She led the way through the front office to the printing room at the back where a basin and a jug of water were kept for the compositor to wash the ink from his fingers. She left him there while she ran upstairs to find ointment and bandages. When she returned he had already put water in the basin and was splashing the wound.

  ‘It is only a scratch,’ he said.

  Nevertheless, he allowed her to sit him down and sponge it clean. This necessitated touching him and that set up a tumult inside her she could not understand. The warmth from his skin seemed to radiate from her fingers, up her arm and over her whole body until she felt as though she were on fire. Carefully she cleaned the cut, trying to ignore the heat in her limbs and hoping it did not show in her cheeks because it was the height of foolishness to be so affected. ‘There, I think I have it clean. A little ointment and a bandage and you’re done.’ She was surprised how normal her voice sounded.

  ‘Done,’ he repeated and laughed. ‘Perhaps you ought to turn me over and roast the other side, or perhaps stick me on a spit and set it turning slowly. I’ll be cooked in no time.’

  ‘And too tough to eat, I’ll wager,’ she said, answering him in the same way as she tied off the bandage. She could not pull down his shirtsleeve because it had been torn off.

  ‘Will you report my little adventure in your paper?’

  ‘What, tell everyone the Earl’s son was the hero of the hour? I thought you wanted to be incognito?’

  ‘So I did, so I do, but I did not think you would take any heed of that.’

  ‘Oh, I think I will. Otherwise it would spoil my story of the Earl’s infamy if his son turned out to be a hero. I fear he shall have to remain anonymous.’

  ‘Why the Earl’s infamy? He was not even there…’

  ‘Of course not. He would not dirty his hands, but he was the one who ordered the militia out.’

  He agreed with her, but he knew his father would have a ready answer to that. ‘It was the lieutenant who did the damage,’ he said, acting devil’s advocate. ‘My father will undoubtedly say he never condoned violence and the lieutenant acted on his own initiative and the lieutenant will maintain the populace started the fight by resisting an order to disperse. And if you write anything to the contrary it will be another writ, you can be sure.’ He paused, then took her arm and added quietly,

  ‘Can I not persuade you to retract over the widow’s garden?’

  ‘No. That would be cowardly.’

  ‘Whatever you are, you are not a coward, Miss Wayland. Foolish, perhaps, wrongheaded, maybe, but not cowardly. I fear for you.’

  ‘Why? It is nothing to do with you.’

  ‘I seem to have got myself involved,’ he said wryly. ‘If only as a peacemaker. I have seen too much of war.’

  Why he had disappointed her, she did not know. She could hardly have expected him to go against his father and openly condemn him. It was to his credit he had tried to make restitution to Mrs Watson and that was more than his father had done, and he had stopped the militia from causing even more harm than they had. Neither was enough to win her wholehearted approval. She stood back to allow him to stand.

  He rose to his feet, six inches taller than she was, and she was tall for a woman. His disability was not obvious when he was standing, nor, she remembered, when he was on horseback. It was only when he walked that his limp became evident. She wondered incongruously if it stopped him dancing. She thrust the foolish thought from her and turned away, lest he read something in her expression she did not want him to know.

  He took it as a dismissal, bowed to her and turned to leave. She accompanied him to the door and watched him go, striding with his ungainly gait down the road. Luckily the gossips had dispersed and the street was quiet.

  After he had gone she set to work writing her report of the meeting that never happened, but she found it very difficult. The image of the Viscount and the memory of the warm sensation touching his skin had given her would not go away. She was afraid she was getting to like him a little too much and that was not good for her campaign against his father. The world must know how insufferably arrogant and unfeeling the Earl was. He had ruined her father without a qualm, because it was the worry of all the writs and his determination not to give in that had killed him in the end. If the Earl had his way, he would silence her, too. And she was determined he would not. She stiffened her spine, banished the image of the Viscount from her mind and picked up her pen. But after recording the foolishness of holding such a meeting in the first place, the cruel intervention of the militia on what had been a peaceful gathering, she felt obliged, in her honest way, to acknowledge the part played by Viscount Cavenham in saving the situation from becoming a real bloodbath.

  * * *

  Miles fetched his horse from the inn where he had left it and rode home in a contemplative mood. Miss Wayland was the most stubborn female he had ever come across. She was also resourceful and unafraid. But perhaps her lack of fear was simply ignorance of her true plight. He could not persuade his father to withdraw the writ and he could not persuade Miss Wayland to retract. He feared they were on a collision course. But, oh, how he admired her for it!

  * * *

  He found his mother alone in the morning room sitting at her embroidery. She had once been a great beauty, but that loveliness had faded over the years of being under the thumb of her domineering husband. Her hair, once so fine, was streaked with grey and her blue eyes were careworn. They lit up when she saw him, but catching sight of his torn sleeve and bandaged arm, she became alarmed. ‘Miles, whatever happened to you? You look as though you have been in a fight.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Mama, I should have changed before joining you. I will go and do so now and then I will tell you all about it. It is nothing for you to worry about.’

  But when he returned, dressed more befitting a drawing room, in cream pantaloons, a brown-and-yellow striped waistcoat and a fresh shirt covering his bandaged arm, and recounted all that had happened, she was even more worried. ‘Miles, when your father hears of this, he will be very angry. Don’t you know better than to go against him? Think of me, if you
cannot think of yourself.’

  ‘Mama, I would, but I could not stand by and let the militia knock those poor people about, could I? There were whole families there, enjoying a day out. They were in mortal danger. The militia were laying about them as if they were enjoying it.’

  ‘But why did you go there at all?’

  ‘Curiosity. I wanted to hear the men’s grievances and I wanted to see if Miss Wayland would go. I fear she will write it up to the detriment of the militia and whoever ordered them to prevent the meeting, and then she will be in more trouble.’

  ‘And that is another thing—what is your interest in Miss Wayland? She is not a lady, is she? She earns a living in a way I cannot approve and upsets your father almost daily. How did you meet her?’

  He had always felt able to confide in her, knowing she would not repeat it, so he told her about stopping when he saw the frightened woman and child cowering against a wall. ‘She was so fiery against my father—it was more than just the incident of the hunt—and I wondered what had caused it. I did not know she was the proprietor of the Warburton Record then. I only found that out when I went to her business premises.’

  ‘Whatever did you go there for?’

  ‘I wanted to persuade her to retract what she had said about Father because he was going to sue her for defamation of character. But she would not.’

  ‘Then you must let the law take its course.’

  ‘Mama, the law is weighted heavily against her, my father will see to that.’ He paused. ‘There seems to have been some kind of feud between him and Miss Wayland’s father and she is determined to maintain it. Do you know what it was about?’

  ‘No, except Mr Wayland was forever publishing criticism of the Earl and he could not allow that, could he?’

  Knowing his father, he sighed. ‘No, I suppose not.’

  She turned to look into his face, scanning its clean lines and handsome brow. ‘You have not developed a tendre for Miss Wayland, have you, Miles?’

  ‘No, of course not,’ he answered swiftly without giving himself time to think.

  ‘Good, because it would be disastrous.’ She paused and, believing the subject of Miss Wayland closed, changed the subject. ‘Invitations came this morning for the Somerfield ball in July. We are all to go. It is a come out for Verity, who has recently returned from some school or other that turns out young ladies. As if her mother could not do that perfectly well.’

  Lord and Lady Somerfield had been friends of the Earl and Countess for many years, mostly because they were the only other titled people in the area considered high enough in the instep with whom they could associate.

  ‘I haven’t seen Verity Somerfield since I went into the army,’ he said. ‘She would only have been about thirteen then, if that. Long-legged and given to giggling, as I recall.’

  ‘She has grown into a beautiful young lady with perfect deportment and manners and I have no doubt will attract many suitors, but I think Lord Somerfield is hoping you will make a match of it.’

  ‘He may hope,’ he said, ‘but I am resolved to stay single.’

  ‘Why, Miles? Is it because of your disability?’ she queried. ‘That is nonsense. It is hardly noticeable and I am sure if you were to ask the shoemaker he could raise one of your shoes a little. Heels are all the fashion, you know.’

  ‘Yes, but is it the fashion to have one higher than the other? No, Mama, even if a lady were to disregard that, she would have to see the scars on my thigh.’

  ‘Not until after you were married.’

  ‘Yes, that could pose a problem,’ he said, laughing to lighten the atmosphere. ‘To keep such a sight until the wedding night would surely give any bride the vapours. And to show her beforehand would be highly improper.’

  She understood the bitterness that went behind what appeared to be a flippant remark and reached out to put her hand over his. ‘It is not as bad as all that, Miles, and if she loves you…’

  ‘Ah, there’s the rub. Who would have me as I am?’

  ‘I am sure Verity Somerfield will. According to her mama, she is already well disposed towards you. She remembers you as being kind to her, which is to your credit. And since then, you have come back from Waterloo a hero.’

  ‘I wish nothing had been made of that. I only did my duty as I saw it. I had no idea that fellow from The Times was taking notes. What they want sending a reporter out to war, I do not know. He only got in the way and the men made fun of him, which, to give him his due, he took in good part.’

  ‘Nevertheless, it has raised your standing with those at home and with the Somerfields.’

  ‘Mama, you are biased.’

  She smiled. ‘Perhaps. But you are a handsome man and there are other assets in your favour: your title and amiable nature, for instance. I am persuaded all you need to do is turn on your charm and Verity will be yours. It is time you married…’

  ‘I will not impose myself on any young lady simply to provide the estate with an heir, Mama. It would not be fair to her.’ He realised that one day he ought to marry, if only to produce the requisite heir, but he also realised the woman he chose must be strong and not squeamish, someone who could see further than an ungainly gait and scarred limbs to the man within, someone like Miss Wayland, who had not flinched at the injuries she had seen on the common. Knowing Miss Somerfield’s delicate background, he doubted that she would have reacted in the same way. He cursed the war and the Frenchmen who had fired the cannon that had resulted in shrapnel becoming embedded in his upper thigh. It had been painful at the time and even more so when the surgeon had been working on him, but that was nothing compared to the way it had left him with a shrivelled thigh. His question, ‘Who would have me?’, had been heartfelt.

  ‘But you will go to the ball?’ his mother asked, forcing him back to the present.

  ‘To please you, yes, but I shall not make a fool of myself by attempting to dance.’

  ‘You could practise at home beforehand. I am sure you could manage some of the slower measures.’

  ‘Perhaps.’ Standing up, he bent to kiss her cheek and promised to be back in time to dine en famille. Then he left her.

  He mused on the upcoming ball for a moment or two, then put it from his mind as another idea came to him. What the ex-soldiers and the out-of-work labourers wanted was not hand-outs, but work, something to keep them gainfully employed and the wolf from the door. Farming was in the doldrums and the farmers were not employing labour to stand about idly waiting for the weather to change, but what if the men were encouraged to grow fruit and vegetables? If every man had a strip of land, the sort of thing they had before the enclosures spoilt it all, he could grow not only enough for himself but for the market, too. If they did not have to pay for the land or, initially, the seed and plants, they would have a head start. It would be a kind of co-operative venture with each helping out the other with their own particular skills.

  He owned a few acres left to him by his maternal grandfather that he had never cultivated. According to his father it was useless, no more than scrub and fit only for rabbits, but would the men work it? Not if they knew it came from him, he decided. He needed to do it through a third party and James Mottram came to mind. James was a young man of his own age whom he had met when they were both studying at Cambridge University. James had since become a lawyer and was already making his mark in the courts of justice, particularly in defence. He was a partner in a practice in Norwich. He would ask him, but first he would sound out Jack Byers about the project, ask him if he thought the men would agree to the plan and if he had any ideas to add to it. But he would swear him to secrecy.

  He knew Byers was staying with Mrs Watson. He had his second horse saddled and set off for her cottage.

  * * *

  Helen had decided to visit Mrs Watson to see how her garden had been restored and how Mr Byers was getting on. She had promised herself she would find out his history and write a piece about the hardships of the returning soldiers and
it might be a good opportunity to do that. The day was blustery and overcast; it looked as though there would be more rain, which bode ill for whatever crops had survived so far. She was wrapped in a long burnoose with the hood up and did not immediately recognise the man approaching her until he was standing right in front of her, his feet apart as if to detain her.

  ‘Mr Blakestone, you startled me.’

  ‘I want a word with you.’ He sounded belligerent, which made her nervous.

  ‘Say it, then.’

  ‘Traitor!’ He paused. ‘You took my money for the poster, pretended to be on the side of the workers and all the time you were plotting with the Earl and that stiff-rumped son of his to betray us. It is fortunate for you that no one was killed today or you would have paid with your life.’

  ‘The reason no one was killed was because the Viscount prevented it,’ she retorted. ‘Which you would have known if you had not run away like a coward.’

  ‘Coward, you call me! I wasn’t the one standing around in disguise waiting to enjoy the fruits of my betrayal. I was up there on the platform for all to see.’

  ‘Until the militia arrived. It was miraculous how fast you disappeared then.’

  ‘It was my bounden duty to protect Jason Hardacre from arrest and get him safely away. Thanks to you and the Viscount, he never made his speech and the people of Warburton are the poorer for it.’

  ‘I doubt that.’ She tried to pass him, but he dodged to prevent her. ‘Let me pass, Mr Blakestone.’

  ‘When I’ve done with you.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ She was becoming very alarmed and tried to push past him. He reached out and pinioned her arms to her sides. She tried kicking, but he held her at arm’s length and she could not reach his legs.

  ‘Struggle all you like,’ he jeered, ‘but hear this. We will not be so foolish as to advertise our next meeting, except by word of mouth, so if the Earl hears of it, we shall know where the blame lies. Your life won’t be worth living.’

  ‘Stand aside!’ The voice was the Viscount’s as he galloped up, threw himself from his horse and wrenched Blakestone from Helen. He had his crop in his hand and raised it to the man, ready to give him a beating, but Helen grabbed his arm.