An Infamous Marriage (28 page)

As they rode south, they passed a continual stream of wounded—men on their feet with light wounds who were in good enough cheer to exult in their victory, and wagons and carts loaded with more severe cases who groaned aloud or, if lucky, had fainted to merciful unconsciousness.

Each time they passed a group of men in any state to communicate, Elizabeth or the major asked if they knew anything of Sir John Armstrong, but for the first hour none of their informants had been at the same part of the battlefield.

At last she met a soldier from Jack’s own Twenty-Eighth. “Fallen, ma’am?” the private said. “Why, only for a moment, and only because his horse was shot from under him. But I saw him stand up myself, cursing fit for anything—beg pardon, ma’am, but he
was—
and take up his sword.”

Elizabeth’s heart raced. “You’re certain?”

“As sure as I’m yet living myself. I took this from a Frog bayonet, not long after,” He waved his arm, which bore a bloody bandage but looked unbroken. “And I saw Sir John again while I was with the other wounded, after it was all done, with a surgeon prodding at his arm.”

Oh, dear God, was Jack to lose an arm? From what she could tell, surgeons were far too happy to wield their saws—but at least he was alive, and had been seen alive after the fighting was done.
“Thank
you, Private,” she said, fishing a guinea from her reticule and handing it to him.

They pushed on toward the battlefield. As they rode through the little village of Waterloo, she heard a voice shout her name. A dear, familiar voice.

“Jack!” she cried, ready to leap from the saddle.

But he met her before she could do anything so precipitate, scrambling toward her at a limping run. Her gaze flew to his arms. To her relief both were still whole, though the fingers of his left hand protruded from a makeshift splint. He smiled up at her, and she grinned back.

“I’d help you down,” he said, “but the surgeon said I’m not to use the hand until the swelling has entirely disappeared, and tied it up in this—” he waved the splinted arm, “—to make sure I’m not tempted to disobey.”

“It’s broken?”

“Only a sprain, he thinks, but a bad one. Poor Menelaus was killed, and I stumbled on—I stumbled as I was jumping clear, and came down on the wrist. It’s the silliest injury to have from a battle, but I daresay it’ll give me its share of aches, and when I’m an old man I can boast to my grandchildren of why my wrist aches when it’s damp.”

Elizabeth laughed, giddy and wild to see him safe.
“Then will he strip his sleeve and show his scars, And say ‘These wounds I had on Crispian’s day,’”
she quoted.

He recognized the reference instantly. She had long suspected he was never as indifferent a student as he pretended.
“‘Old men forget; yet all shall be forgot, But he’ll remember, with advantages, What feats he did that day,’”
he continued the quotation, in a far more sober voice. “I’ll never forget it,” he said, “but there was far more carnage than glory to be had. I’m a soldier, and if England needs me I’ll fight as long as I’m able, but I’ve seen too much to hunger for it now.”

She nodded. “I hope you’re done for good.”

“We’ll see. We march for France tomorrow.”

She couldn’t stay on the horse any longer, she needed to touch him. Jack couldn’t help her with his wrist in a splint, nor would she expect it of Major Matheson with a musket ball in his shoulder, but surely she’d become horsewoman enough to manage without help in a case of this necessity. She worked her right leg free of her sidesaddle’s pommel and horn and slid down to the ground. “Major Matheson, can you see to my mare for a moment?”

“Of course,” he said with a grin, sidling over to take the chestnut’s reins with his good hand. He nodded toward a group of soldiers. “I’ll be over there.”

She thanked him and fell into Jack’s arms—his one good arm, at any rate—and he kissed her, there in the street, to the accompaniment of cheers from the surrounding soldiers.

He drew back and looked her in the eyes. “Dare I hope?” he began.

She raised her hand to his face, taking in his weary, bloodshot eyes, the raspy stubble on his jaw. “I got your letter, and I forgive you,” she said. “And I must ask you to forgive me, too.”

“Whatever for?”

“For being proud of my own righteousness, and cold in my pride. I thought so well of myself for never sinning, as if there was any merit to virtue in the absence of temptation.”

His brows narrowed. “Certainly I’ll forgive you if you wish it, but I don’t think there’s any need. I’m sure you could resist any number of temptations.”

“I’m not,” she said. “I’ll never know. But I do know I want to go on with you, and live looking forward, and not back.”

He kissed her again. “Good. I believe I promised you Paris, after all.”

She drew his good hand down to her stomach. “And as to those grandchildren you mean to boast to, I think—I’m almost sure we’ve finally made a beginning on that.”

If he’d looked happy before, now he looked radiant. “Oh, my love. I—it’s too much. Are you well? I hope you—you must take care.”

“I’m well,” she assured him, “only a little more tired than normal.”

“You must take care,” he repeated. His hand still rested just where she had left it, though his eyes grew distant for a moment. “Victor,” he said. “That would be a fitting name, given the circumstances. Perhaps Victor Arthur.”

Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh. She’d never heard a more absurd name in all her life, but Jack would never change. “I was thinking of Richard for your uncle, or Edward for your brother,” she said mildly.

“Richard Victor, then.”

“Or we might have a daughter.”

“Victoria. It’s perfect.”

She rolled her eyes. “Anne for your mother, or Caroline for your sister.”

“Elizabeth,” he countered, “for
you.
We’ll call her Lizzie, or Bess.”

She nestled against his shoulder. His bright dress uniform from the ball was now dirty and dull, and he stank of sweat, horse and gunpowder, but she didn’t care. The happiness she’d given up for lost had come back to her, stronger and deeper for its testing. “We’ve time to discuss it,” she murmured.

“All the time in the world. Together.”

Epilogue

Westerby Grange, 1828

The children had already rushed ahead to the carriage, eager as always for a new adventure, but Elizabeth and Jack lingered for a moment on the doorstep.

“Ready for Canada, my dear?” he asked.

“I can hardly wait.” Jack was to be governor-general, and Elizabeth rejoiced that she would finally have the chance to see where he had lived and fought as a young man.

Since Waterloo, they had spent a little over half their time abroad. They had been two years in Paris with the Army of Occupation—their eldest, Caroline Victoria, was Paris-born, and her brother Richard was Paris-bred and Roman-born, while they were finally on their Grand Tour. Only their youngest, Giles, had been born at Westerby Grange. Elizabeth had half-expected him to be her domestic child, but if anything he was the most restless of the lot—his current dream was to become a sea captain, to the consternation of his father. Armstrong men were soldiers, not sailors.

Jack gazed for a moment toward the pastures where the year’s crop of foals frolicked while their dams grazed. “I’m glad to go,” he said meditatively. “I’ve always wanted to live there again, but just think—Caro will be a young lady by the time we come back.”

“Don’t remind me—she’s almost as tall as I am already. And I’m always glad to go—but I’m always glad to come home as well. That’s as it should be, I think.”

“And I,” he said, offering her his arm, “am always glad to go anywhere as long as you are with me.”

She nestled closer to his side as they stepped out toward their next journey together.

* * * * *

Historical Note

I aimed to depict the events and social milieu of my characters’ world as accurately as possible, yet fiction entails taking certain liberties with historical fact. In order to insert a fictional general into the War of 1812 and the Waterloo Campaign, I had to rob a few real-life commanders of a share of their glory. At the real Battle of Queenston Heights, Roger Hale Sheaffe took over command after Isaac Brock’s death. James Kempt commanded the 8th British Brigade at Quatre Bras and Waterloo and later went on to serve as Governor General of Canada. Thomas Picton did indeed die at Waterloo, but about five minutes after he does so in this story. And the incident from the landing at Ostend is adapted from Captain Cavalie Mercer’s journal of the Waterloo Campaign.

For filling out Jack’s life in Canada before and during the War of 1812, I am indebted to
The Astonishing General: The Life and Legacy of Sir Isaac Brock,
by Wesley B. Turner, and
Crown and Calumet: British-Indian Relations 1783–1815,
by Colin G. Calloway.

There are enough books out there on Waterloo to fill a good-sized library, but I relied especially upon
Wellington at Waterloo,
by Jac Weller,
The Waterloo Companion,
by Mark Adkin,
Waterloo 1815,
by Geoffrey Wootten,
Dancing Into Battle: A Social History of the Battle of Waterloo,
by Nick Foulkes, and
The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball: 15 June 1815,
by David Miller.

For readers who’d like to learn more, I recommend
Dancing Into Battle
for the social atmosphere and
The Battle: A New History of Waterloo,
by Alessandro Barbero, for a page-turning account of the battle itself.

Transport yourself back in time and discover dashing rakes and tempting military men.

If you liked
An Infamous Marriage,
don’t miss these titles from author Susanna Fraser.

Highborn Anna Arrington thinks she’s seen the last of army life in Spain. But she didn’t anticipate Sergeant Will Atkins. Is love strong enough to bridge the gap between a viscount’s daughter and an innkeeper’s son?

The Sergeant’s Lady

As an orphan Lucy Jones was reluctantly taken in by her wealthy relatives. When her lifelong friend proposes to her, Lucy finds herself thinking of someone else...and daring to dream of the impossible.

A Marriage of Inconvenience

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About the Author

An Alabama native, Susanna Fraser attended the University of Pennsylvania and spent a year working and exploring in England before settling down in Seattle, where she lives with her husband and daughter.

By day, she works in research administration, by night and weekend she writes, and with whatever time is left over she enjoys trying new recipes and following Mariners baseball and Auburn football. Please visit her blog at
www.authorsusannafraser.blogspot.com
, follow her on Twitter at
@susannafraser
or on Pinterest at
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susannafraser
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