Chapter 11

CHAPTER 11

V erdun, September 1813

By the end of September, Rob's ankle had progressed to the point where he could walk for short distances without his stick. But even though walking did not cause too much discomfort, the joint would not bend as it should, and as a result he had a distinct limp. Campbell, when consulted, had recommended massaging it daily, but had had to admit in the end that he didn't know if it would ever mend completely.

"Damned lucky they didn't take your leg off," he pointed out when Rob showed his disappointment. "And you're lucky, too, that it's healed without leaving permanent pain. There's many who need to use laudanum for some time after injuries such as yours, and that rarely ends well."

"I won't get approval to rejoin my regiment like this, will I?" Rob asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

Campbell shook his head. "Think on it, laddie. After Wellington gave the frogs a pasting at Vitoria, it's looking as if we might prevail. Once Boney's gone there'll not be the need for such a large army as we have now. So even if your ankle is working properly, there'll be a lot of fully fit officers put onto half pay. Best to think what you might do instead."

But no matter how much Rob thought about it, the fact was that fighting was the only profession he was qualified for. If he had to leave the army, he wanted to earn a living in a way he found interesting.

Rob still had his mind on his future that evening as he joined Moorven and Chadwick in their usual tavern, but he distracted himself with a discussion about the war. Wellington's Allied army had taken the coastal fortress of San Sebastian, and his next move must surely be towards the Pyrenees. Near the end of the evening, Bengrove came into the tavern with a couple of his friends, accompanied by three women. The one with Bengrove was just as well endowed as the girl he'd been with when Madame Daniau doused his ardour with a bucket of water. This one was a very young blonde, too, although her hair looked more naturally light-coloured.

Rob turned back to the discussion of possible tactics and routes across the Pyrenees. They were about to make their way home when an argument started across the room. Bengrove's girl had jumped up off his knee and was haranguing him loudly about her payment.

"Pay up first, Bengrove, like she wants," someone called.

"Tell her I'll pay her after, will you?" Bengrove asked. Had the man still not learned any French?

"Tell her yourself," the man said shortly. Bengrove felt in his pockets, but came up empty-handed. The woman stepped away from him with a pout and cast her eyes around the room. Her gaze paused on Rob's table, and she headed for Moorven. Rob nudged his friend.

"You're in luck, by the looks of it." Moorven was the best dressed of them, and the woman had likely picked him because of that. Her hips did sway nicely as she walked over.

" Chéri ," she started, but Bengrove had come up behind her and swung her round.

"We have an arrangement," he said, lips thinning in annoyance.

" Eh bien, paie-moi donc! ," she said, knocking his hand off her shoulder and holding her own out, obviously understanding what he meant even if she didn't comprehend the words.

"I'll pay you after," he said. "I've money back at my lodgings." She was shaking her head before he'd even finished speaking, and turned back to make eyes at Moorven.

"Delafield, lend me something, will you?"

"No. I need all the money I've got." Which wasn't true—he could afford what the woman would charge, but Bengrove was the last person he'd consider lending money to.

"I'll pay you back tomorrow."

Rob just raised his eyebrows and shook his head, not bothering to speak.

"I give you my word," Bengrove said through gritted teeth, his face beginning to turn red. Rob shook his head again. "Moorven?"

"No, Bengrove. Find a moneylender."

"The word of a gentleman," Bengrove said, facing Moorven now. "Don't you understand the idea?"

By this time everyone in the room was watching him, most sitting back waiting for the fun to start. "What makes you a gentleman, then?" Moorven asked, carefully keeping his voice polite.

"Lord Bengrove. Viscount Bengrove, my father." There were a few grins now, from the men who knew Moorven well.

"Is there a hierarchy in these things?" Rob asked, feigning an air of innocent interest. "I mean, are you more of a gentleman, as the second son of a viscount, than someone who is the heir to an earl?"

"What the hell's that got to do with it?"

"You seem to be claiming that I am not a gentleman," Moorven said mildly. Someone behind Bengrove sniggered.

"You going to challenge him, Moorven?" a voice called. "My lord Moorven, I should say." The man bowed with an exaggerated flourish, amid laughter.

"Oh, I don't think I'll dirty my?—"

"Lord?" Bengrove interrupted, glowering at Moorven.

Moorven nodded. "Correct. Viscount Moorven; my father's the Earl of Claverden. And it's Lord Moorven to you. Now toddle off, won't you, and let us get on with our discussion."

Bengrove gaped for a moment, then turned to Rob furiously.

"You introduced him as Lieutenant Moorven."

"So I did. Unlike some, he doesn't see the need to flaunt his gentlemanly background." Rob couldn't help laughing, which made Bengrove even more furious. He looked around at the grinning faces, snarled something crude, and slammed out of the room.

The tart eyed up Moorven again, but someone else called out behind her. "I'm no gentleman , love, but I've got money!" This raised another laugh and the woman, once again readily understanding the meaning, took herself over to her next customer.

"Amusing," Moorven said seriously, "but I think you've made an enemy there, Rob."

"More than you?"

"Ah, but you're an inferior sort poking fun at your betters, so yours is a worse crime." Moorven looked down his nose at Rob, managing quite a good impression of Bengrove's sneer, but couldn't quite keep a straight face.

"Poor, delicate little flower, that Bengrove," Chadwick added, raising another laugh, and stood up. "I'm for my bed. Rob?" They gathered up their papers and finished their ale, then, sticks in hands, set off for Madame Daniau's.

Not long after the encounter with Bengrove, Rob found himself near the Rue du Marché on one of his daily walks. As it was some time since he had received a packet of Gazettes —or a letter—from Miss Stretton, he decided to call at the bank in case a message to Madame Daniau's had gone astray.

"I was about to send for you, Capitaine," Allard said, when Rob was shown into his office. "There are more books, and more newspapers."

The Gazettes looked as if they had been leafed through already. But no matter—their contents held no secrets .

"Now Austria is fighting on your side," Allard went on. "This is welcome news for you, n'est-ce pas ?"

It was, but alliances had been formed and broken again before now. "Only if our armies win the next battles," Rob said honestly. "You do not seem too worried about this?"

"France is not Napoleon, and Napoleon is not France. I would prefer that we win, obviously, but I think peace will be better for France even if it means we have the old order back in charge."

Rob was surprised; he could not imagine the people at home being so sanguine about a possible French victory.

"But you will come back with your opinion when you have read these?" Allard put his hand on the pile. "As a capitaine, you will be able to… to read things that are not said?"

"Read between the lines," Rob said, nodding. This was new—he had continued to make summaries of what the Gazettes reported, but Allard had not shown any interest in discussing things before.

"And we can compare what the French papers say with your English papers?"

Rob had to agree. Then he thought that a friendly contact in France could be useful in the future, no matter what the outcome of the war was. "I will come back soon. Is that acceptable?" It would be helpful to discuss the matter with Moorven and Chadwick.

Allard nodded and pushed the box towards Rob. Rob took his leave, heading for a nearby tavern to find out what Miss Stretton had sent this time.

Dear Captain Delafield,

I enclose a copy of the Philosophical Transactions of the Royal Society published this year. Papa subscribes to this, as the occasional paper may prove of relevance to his commercial activities. If you or your friends find this of any interest, I can obtain other volumes.

Papa and I wondered if you might find the book about steam engines interesting. As ever, I could not make sense of it. This is only to be expected, as the man in the shop from whom I ordered it explained very carefully, almost in words of one syllable, that attempting to read it would only lead to a brain fever. It was only following my explanation that I was enquiring for such a book on behalf of a male friend of the family that he deigned to help me decide on the best one.

Rob smiled at that and picked the books out of the box. Turning to the contents page of the Philosophical Transactions , he found that it included a couple of articles on new detonating compounds, and something about an air pump . Chadwick should be interested in those, if nothing else. The other book was The Steam Engine , but that simple title was a mere cover for a great deal of mathematics that Rob would need help to understand. Still, it would keep him well occupied for some time.

However, the next paragraphs in the letter removed any trace of amusement, and he put the books aside.

Next month we will be removing to Bath for a time, in the hope that taking the waters will do Mama some good. Mama's physician is cautiously optimistic when I ask him how she goes on, but has been more honest with Papa. Mama spends much of her time in bed or reclining on a sofa in the parlour, and has little energy or interest in anything. Even when the doctor provides a stronger tonic, its beneficial effects do not persist for more than a few weeks. I am trying to remain hopeful, but it is difficult, as Mama is getting steadily weaker. My only comfort is that she does not appear to be in pain, as she was at the beginning of this illness over two years ago. Taking the waters is all our physician can recommend, although he does not hold out much hope. Papa will not be able to spend all his time in Bath, due to his business affairs, but Mama's sister will come with her family, so Papa's absences will not be too difficult.

My apologies, Captain, for burdening you with my troubles, but it is refreshing to be able to be honest about this without some well- meaning person immediately attempting to contradict me and say that all will be well in the end.

Pray do not think you will be aiding me by saying I need not continue to send news; I am grateful for useful tasks, as they help to distract me from our family's present sadness.

Yours,

Jo Stretton

Rob almost smiled at this last—he had just been thinking that he would write to say exactly that. He finished his ale and returned the books and the letter to the box to take them back to his lodgings. He cried off the tavern that night, not feeling in the mood, and instead read through Miss Stretton's letter again. He wished there were something he could do to help, but he knew full well there was not.

His mother had fallen ill when he had been ten years old, when he'd had a house full of older brothers and sisters to talk to, and to comfort him. And Father had been well into his seventies when he died; Rob had been in Spain, busy with campaigning. All of those things had helped him through his grief. He hoped she was close to her aunt and cousins, so they could provide comfort.

Miss Stretton had said she needed distractions, and he could understand that very well. He could at least write to take her up on her offer to obtain the previous year's Transactions . He'd see if Chadwick or Moorven wanted anything else sent, too.

But when he finished writing his letter he did not seal it. Instead, he sat and looked at it—it was short and sympathetic, but not very personal. Her letter to him had been the opposite, talking frankly about her feelings and fears. It also appeared that her father knew she was still writing to him. Did that mean this correspondence was no longer quite so improper?

There was something else about her letter that nudged his memory, and he read through it a third time. Then he tore up what he'd written and reached for a new sheet of paper. He needed to see Campbell before he finished the letter—he could do that tomorrow. That would also give him time to sleep on it before sending something that would be much more personal than anything he'd written to her before.