The Portrait (2 page)

Pyke spoke in measured tones, as if every vestige of strength
had been drained from him during his attendance on the
never-ending stream of casualties. "If the arm is not removed,
I cannot guarantee the outcome, my lord."

Sinclair's eyes were bright with fever. "And you can if it's
removed?" he sneered. "I think not!"

"No, sir, but we must at least try. I have been ordered-nay,
commanded-to do all that I can."

`By whom?"

"By the great man himself."

"Then you can tell Wellington to go to blazes. I'll have no
sawbones hacking at me"

The tent flap was pushed aside, and Wellington himself entered.

"My Lord .. " began Pyke, but Wellington raised a hand.

"You need not tell me," he said. "I heard all. Ignore what
Sinclair says. 'Tis the laudanum speaking. He knows not what
he's saying. Remove the arm"

Hertfordshire, England, December 1, 1812

To Sinclair, the impressive prospect of Fly Hall had never
seemed more welcoming. In the waning, early-evening light,
his gaze roamed lovingly over the sprawling, half-timbered
Tudor mansion set deep within a valley, noting its gentle air of
noble neglect. The weeds that sprang from paving and the ivy
that shaded the windowpanes proved almost too much for
him, since he knew such would not have been allowed if the
old earl, his father, was alive.

It was a bittersweet homecoming. The journey had left him
unbelievably weary, but the mere sight of the house, seen from
its parkland approach, gave him a peace of mind he had not experienced for some while. He wished nothing more than to be
within its familiar, welcoming portals.

His wounds still plagued him, and at times he swore he
could still feel the fingers of his left hand moving. Alas, he'd
heard of like cases among his fellow wounded and knew this
to be nothing more than the effects of the amputation, which
would disappear with time. He'd been assured that the angry scarring to his body, where the cannonball had torn his flesh,
would fade. Even now, the slight paling of the scar across his
left cheek gave evidence of this.

The eyes remained the same, bright and alive, only the
humor once seen there having waned. Stubble sprang from
his cheeks and chin, and his dark hair curled at the nape of his
neck, proving his need of a barber's services. He'd lain abed
in a convent on the Portuguese border, along with others
wounded in the encounter, and such niceties as barbering had,
by necessity, been overlooked.

As the coach rounded the final bend in the driveway and the
house came fully into view, he reached into his greatcoat
pocket and took out an elegantly framed miniature of a young
lady with smiling eyes and dark curls.

"You see, my love, we finally arrive," he said in hushed
tones before carefully replacing the miniature. He had carried
it with him throughout the campaign, and it was only the sight
of her face, during his delirium, that had prevented his senses
from deserting him. In the convent, his reliance on the portrait
had been noted, but wisely none had commented, so fiercely
did he protect it.

The coach halted before the imposing front door, and even
before the groom was able to let down the steps, the doors to the
house were flung wide, and, all formality forgotten, two of the
menservants ran forward.

Caring hands helped Sinclair to alight, supporting him into
the familiar, half-paneled hallway, where a welcoming fire
blazed in the large stone hearth. Immediately a chair was
brought forward, into which he gratefully sank. His senses,
long bereft of the familiar sights and sounds of the house, drank
in its comforting warmth, and a sense of peace settled over him.
Even the dark wainscoting, which he had once thought outmoded, appeared to welcome him, and his eyes closed briefly
with the relief of being home.

Croft, an elderly retainer who appeared almost as ancient
as the house itself, hurried forward, his weathered countenance full of concern. "Your chamber has been made ready. We will
assist you there when you are rested, my lord," he informed his
master, bowing with obvious difficulty.

"'My lord'?" Sinclair queried, raising a quizzical eyebrow.
"You were never usually so formal."

"Aye, but you were not master then," Croft replied with a
dry chuckle. "I can't call you Mister Edward now that the old
earl has gone. It would not be seemly."

Sinclair offered a weary smile. "And when have you cared
for `seemly'? I will not believe myself home if I'm to be
treated with such unfamiliar reverence"

Rose, a small plump woman who acted as both housekeeper
and cook and appeared as ancient as her husband, Croft, issued from below stairs wiping her hands on her apron. "Mister Edward!" she cried, her pleasant countenance wreathed in
smiles. "There's pheasant soup, pork with apple, and chickenand-ham pie-everything you like. We shall have you to rights
in no time."

Heartened by her enthusiastic welcome, the earl's smile
widened into a grin, and he straightened slightly in the chair.
"There, that's a welcome worth coming home for. Though I
may not be able to do justice to your cooking at this precise moment, Rose, it is something I have sorely missed. Believe me
when I say that even the finest cooks in the military can't hold
a candle to your excellent table."

Rose flushed with pleasure and, standing with arms akimbo,
rounded on the other servants, her voice gruff with emotion.
"What are you all standing there for, you great ninnies? Take
the master to his room. He must be tired after his journey. Once
he is made comfortable, we can see what is needed" Then,
turning to the earl, she said, "Dr. Wilmot said that we were to
inform him of your arrival, sir, and he would come at once to
attend to you"

Sinclair sighed heavily, his smile disappearing, replaced by
a look of tired resignation. "Then I pray you will allow me a
little time to recover from my journey before you send word
to him. I have been poked and prodded enough over these past weeks; one more day without his ministrations will make no
difference. I shall retire."

The ivy, teased by the morning breeze, scratched at Sinclair's bedroom window, reminding him that he was indeed
returned to his beloved Fly. Dr. Wilmot arrived shortly after
nine, going immediately to his patient's bedchamber, eager to
begin the examination of his childhood friend.

Lying on his large canopied bed, Sinclair bore his friend's
professional examination with a stoicism born of necessity. He
had learned by experience that he must endure what could not
be avoided, and he waited until Wilmot completed his assessment before speaking.

As the doctor straightened from his examination, Sinclair
said with deceptive lightness, "Come now, John, what's your
opinion of me? Don't stand on ceremony. I have known you
too long for there to be any reserve between us"

Wilmot smiled. "Your wounds are healing well enough, Edward, and although it will take some while, I do believe you
will return to full strength"

Sinclair's voice dropped. "And what of the night terrors?
Will they cease?"

"Almost certainly. They are the result of the amputation and
the trauma to your body, but with time they will diminish."

"Time I don't have," the earl replied curtly, his gaze becoming distracted and his hand moving restlessly on the blue
brocade quilt that Wilmot had placed back over him at the end
of his examination. "Ironic, is it not? To the outside world
'twould appear that I have time aplenty, but you see, I have
not. I am to be married, John. Or, more rightly, I was to be
married. Yet how can I expect a wife to commit herself to the
wreck I have become?"

"You are no wreck," the medic assured him. "It will take
more than the loss of your arm to bring you low. Your strength
will assuredly return."

Sinclair grimaced ruefully. "Ah, but my strength will not
return my arm to me or make my form more pleasing to Lady Jennifer, my betrothed. I'll carry these scars with me through
life."

Wilmot saw the earl's agitation. "Your scars were gained
honorably, Edward, and when you feel more yourself, you'll
become reconciled to them"

Sinclair shook his head impatiently. "Tell that to a new bride.
She will soon tire of such a husband. She will be repulsed by
me, and who should blame her? Certainly not I."

"Women are such unpredictable creatures. It is oft noted
that they can become devoted to the most unlikely of spouses,
and if she loves you .."

"There you have the truth of it; I don't believe that she does.
The betrothal was hastened because, like every other young
buck of my generation, despite my father's protestations
against his heir's laying himself open to such dangers, I was
eager to hasten to war. Lady Jennifer and I knew each other
for such a short time, with little opportunity to be private. In
short, I must admit to its being a contrived marriage, a mariage
de convenance brought about by our respective sires. I took
my commission and hastened to Spain, as eager as any Englishman to face Old Boney. I have been too long away; we
will be but strangers"

"Was there no communication between you?"

"We wrote very little, and I felt no desire to impart the horrors of war. I would shield her from such abominations. I preferred to keep my own counsel and instead encouraged her to
tell me of the season's gaieties and divert my thoughts"

Wilmot appeared incredulous. "You made no effort to engage her affections?"

"How could I, from such a distance?"

"I would not have thought that to pose a problem to you,
Edward. I always thought you a man of considerable address"

"If that be the case, how, then, am Ito present her with who
I have become? She's not even aware of the extent of my injuries, and I would wish to be the man she thought me when
we became betrothed"

Wilmot raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You've not informed her of the nature of your wounds?"

"I felt not the need to distress her with the details."

The medic shook his head. "You take this desire to shield
her too far, Edward. Surely it would have been wiser to have
prepared her for your homecoming ...?"

Sinclair, his face set, raised a hand to silence the doctor.
"My mind is made up. I shall release her from her promise. I
wouldn't wish that she take me out of pity."

"There is no reason, once your wounds are thoroughly
healed, you can't lead a full and healthy life," Wilmot replied,
closing his bag with a snap and taking up his cloak. "The amputation has left you feeling low. You will feel completely different in a few months' time."

"But I don't have a few months, John. My betrothed has sent
word that she is to visit me within the week, and then we shall
see what strangers we have become. I have no illusions. She
was but seventeen when the arrangements were made, and I
have been away for over two years. She is still so young. The
engagement was made at the instigation of her family; my
prospects appealed to them. Now that I have ascended to the
title, I will not be married for my rank and fortune, which is
where my only desirability lies. Despite my disabilities, I would
prefer to remain unwed than accept such a compromise."

"You are thoroughly convinced that the marriage should
not go ahead? I can say nothing to persuade you otherwise?"

"Nothing can dissuade me"

"Then far be it from me to attempt to change your mind.
You will no doubt take your own course"

"You may not have persuaded me, my friend, but in openly
expounding it, I have convinced myself that the marriage
should not take place and in so doing have shaken a burden
from my shoulders."

"Then my visit has at least been of some use to you?"

"Undoubtedly!"

"You are now resolved to the issue?"

"Perfectly!"

"Then, my old friend, the only way is forward!"

On the morning of the promised visit from Lady Jennifer,
Edward, having spent a restless night thinking of his betrothed,
watched as rivulets of rain ran slowly down his bedchamber
window. They singularly suited his mood. At dawn's first light
he had raised himself up on his pillows, his thoughts filled
with the pending reunion. Only now would he allow himself
to dwell on thoughts of what might have been had he been returning to her as a whole man-a return he had anticipated so
often during his time at war.

When Croft entered the room, the man was clearly surprised
to find his master fully awake, his features drawn. "Have you
not slept well, sir?" he asked, full of concern. "Shall I arrange
for breakfast to be served here? Perhaps you should delay your
foray to the lower floor until you are stronger."

"I will not receive Lady Jennifer in my bedchamber," Sinclair
stated, pushing aside the coverlet and placing his feet on the
floor. "I have two perfectly sound legs, and, with your aid in
dressing, I'll entertain my visitor in the morning room. It has
a pleasant and open aspect, and I wish not to appear dull for
her visit."