Moving back to Middleford put her in a familiar place among friends, both new and old. She enjoyed teaching, deriving pleasure from her students’ excitement over learning a new fact or mastering a new skill. Her allowance finally put her in a position where she need no longer worry about money. So why was she suddenly restless and unhappy?
Perhaps it was the security – a paradoxical idea, but one she could not ignore. She and Jack had never had any spare cash. In fact, they often had no cash at all. Pay was perpetually in arrears. It had been worse in Paris and Vienna. Not only were their pockets to let, but the demands of appearing in polite society led them well into the River Tick. And so a growing amount of her time had gone into worry. Now that she was comfortably circumstanced, there was a void in her days.
Yet it was unlike her to fill the vacancy with melancholy.
Perhaps it was the place. For the first seventeen years of her life she had been immured here, never traveling beyond Middleford, not even to attend school. Lord Thorne was convinced that she would call censure down on his head if he allowed her out of his sight, so her education was imparted at home – very spottily. The governess mimicked every other member of the household and scorned her.
She frowned. Most of her learning had occurred during the months they had lived with Uncle George. She shook her head in sudden sadness. Not once had she ever thanked either of them for broadening her mind and stimulating new ideas. George was as responsible for the woman she had become as Jack was. And it was too late to rectify her negligence.
So what was she to do with her life? She already suspected that living close to Thornridge was a bad idea. It was only a matter of time before she came into conflict with the family. Despite her warning, she doubted that Thorne understood how many people knew her background and criticized his actions. Some of them were members of the aristocracy. When he learned the truth, fur would fly. He could never remain silent in the face of ridicule from his peers. And he would blame her, convincing himself that she was spreading scurrilous stories.
Yet how could she leave? Her financial situation was unchanged. She could not afford to set herself up elsewhere on what she could earn by teaching. There was no use denying that her birth and breeding were responsible for many of the students she now had. If she went back to being the anonymous widow of a soldier, she would lose that advantage. She was investing the bulk of her allowance in Consols, but it would be years before those investments returned enough to support her.
Her mind circled uselessly. There was no other widow who might welcome her as a housemate. Nor could she seek a traditional post as governess or companion, for no one would hire her without knowing her background. She had given her word to forget all connections to Thorne. Her relationship with both Jack and the army left her dangling near several worlds while belonging to none. She could not live like the officers’ wives – their backgrounds were similar to her own, but her unconventional interests barred her from their circle. Nor could she fit in with the camp followers. Harry Smith’s wife had been her closest friend on the Peninsula, being similarly trapped between worlds, but Harry was still very much alive, so she could not intrude there. Besides, when he was around, Juana saw no one else. Eloping with Jack had severed Amanda’s ties to the nobility. Working for a living made even Jack’s peers in the upper reaches of the gentry look at her askance, as did her work with the army surgeons.
She shifted position to lean against a boulder. She needed a plan, a comprehensive one that would map out her future. There had to be something she had not yet considered. She tried to drive all thought away for a moment so she could start with a clean slate. Her eyes drifted closed as the warmth of the sun relaxed her tense shoulders, and she slept.
* * * *
“You will need to hurry if you plan to change before the picnic, your grace,” warned Emily when she discovered Norwood idly perusing a newspaper in the library. Four days had passed since the squire’s dinner, yet nothing had changed. Thorne was again castigating her.
“I will not be accompanying you this afternoon,” announced Norwood.
“You jest, I perceive,” she said lightly, almost desperate over his continued indifference. “It is a beautiful day, and the view from Sutter’s Ridge is delightful.”
“I never jest, Lady Emily.”
“Is your injury still bothering you?”
He looked at her brown eyes and read her anxiety. But the prick of conscience was gone almost before he recognized it. “I suppose I could claim that as an excuse, but it would be false,” he stated coldly. “The truth is that I deplore picnics, and I never do anything I dislike.”
“Nor should you, your grace,” she quickly agreed, slipping silently from the room.
Norwood stared at his paper without seeing it. He was behaving disgracefully, but he couldn’t seem to help himself. It was perfectly true that he disliked picnics, but it was also true that a house guest was duty bound to participate in the activities arranged by his hosts, especially when he was the guest of honor. Yet he had done very little with the company. Why? He had come to Thornridge to settle his betrothal. Yet after a week in residence, he had not done so. He might not enjoy feeling pressured, but digging in his heels and ignoring his duty was just as bad. He was allowing outside events and lesser people to dictate his behavior. And that was not what his birth and position demanded.
The sooner he got this over with, the sooner he could return to Norwood Castle and the estate business that always awaited him. Harvest was under way, and though he never participated in person, he preferred to keep a close eye on things through his bailiff. Then there was the hunting season. He would be spending it at a friend’s box near Melton this year rather than at his own and was due there within the month.
Laughter echoed in the hall as the guests departed. His guilt grew over remaining behind. Setting aside the paper, he ordered a horse and went to change into riding clothes. But he did not, after all, follow the rest of the party. Aimlessly trotting in quite the opposite direction, he again recounted his need for marriage and his reasons for choosing Lady Emily Sterne.
Half an hour later, his contemplations were interrupted by a horror-filled scream. Pushing his horse to a gallop, he headed toward the river. What disaster had befallen now? He had never lived through so ill-wished a summer.
Sobs punctuated continued screaming, drawing him to a clearing. Mrs. Morrison writhed on the ground, her face twisted in agony. It took him a moment to realize that she was neither ill nor injured, but was dreaming. An unaccustomed wave of commiseration washed over him as he dismounted and knelt beside her. He had suffered nightmares regularly after Annabelle’s death and again since the fire.
“Wake up, Mrs. Morrison,” he ordered softly, shaking her shoulder.
“No!” she screamed again. “Jack!”
He shook harder. “You are dreaming. Wake up.”
She shuddered a moment, then warily opened her eyes. Never had he witnessed such terror and pain. “What happened?”
“You were dreaming. It sounded an unpleasant experience.”
Shakily sitting up, she battled to pull herself together. “I am all right now, your grace. You needn’t concern yourself..” She looked around as if to identify her surroundings. “I must return home. This is not a place I should be.”
He pulled her to her feet, then moved aside to sit on a boulder. “Surely you can stay a moment. What troubles you so? Nightmares are seldom pleasant, but they can often be eased by sharing.”
“No, they are not,” she agreed, staring blankly across the stream.
“I have no wish to force you,” he continued calmly. “But I owe you much, both in gratitude for your medical attentions and in apology for my arrogance on the occasion of our first meeting.”
“It did not bother me for long. Stress often affects people in strange ways,” she observed softly.
“I cannot claim that excuse,” insisted Norwood. “I had fallen into the habit of considering myself omnipotent. You had every right to remind me that the assumption was false.”
She smiled. “I should also apologize for coercing you. I fear that arrogance makes me dig in my heels and fight. It was unconscionable to force you into so gruesome a task.”
“You are forgiven.”
“I trust you have recovered from both the fire and your mishap of last week.”
“Completely, save for a slight scar on my left hand..” He drew off his glove to gaze at the puckered skin.
Amanda walked over to glance at it and nodded. “It looks better than I expected and should fade almost completely in time.”
“I use it as a reminder to think before I speak,” he murmured. “But enough of my problems. What is troubling you today?”
“The usual..” She shrugged. “I made the mistake of looking for my husband’s body after Waterloo, not wanting the inevitable looters to desecrate him. It was stupid, of course. Jack had warned me never to do so. But I was not particularly rational that day. The memories remain.”
Norwood stared. “Did you find him?” The question was out before he had time to think.
She nodded. “At least it was quick. Those who died in the hospital over the following weeks had a much harsher time of it.”
“What happened?”
Amanda dropped onto another boulder several feet away and turned to stare across the river. Her words were quiet, almost emotionless. “The battle was the worst we had ever encountered. Three days of hell, though the first two proved to be merely a prelude. I rarely stayed with the baggage train at such a time, usually positioning myself with the spare horses so I could be available to bind up wounds that were not severe enough to require a surgeon. Waterloo was terrible – far worse than Badajoz, which was awful enough itself. There was a time about mid-afternoon when we honestly thought all was lost. Many of the Belgian troops had long since fled the field, the French kept coming, and there were no reserves to throw into the fray. Thank God Blücher finally arrived.”
Norwood remained silent, though his attention was riveted on her words. Who would allow a woman so close to a battle? Her husband must have been crazy.
Amanda’s voice caught. “The worst aspect of combat was the paucity of news. We got only the briefest reports as grooms exchanged horses or the wounded moved past. Time always crept slowly during battle, the wavering between hope and fear overshadowed by screaming boredom because there was so little a woman could do. Waterloo was the worst of all. The battlefront stretched for miles so it was impossible to see anything. Just after the Germans arrived, Major Collins limped in for a new mount and mentioned that he had not seen Jack in some time. I knew then that he was gone. As soon as the French retreated, I brushed off Burt’s objections and went to look for his body. By that time I would have heard if he had been injured, so I knew he was out there somewhere. I can’t explain it even now, but I had to find him.”
“I understand,” he murmured when she stopped to regain her composure. “You had to see for yourself exactly what had happened.”
She glanced at him in surprise before again turning her eyes away. “Yes. As I said, it was quick.”
“And so you threw your energies into nursing the wounded?” he asked softly.
She nodded. “It was the only way I could retain any semblance of sanity. There was nowhere else I could go. And the doctors were so overwhelmed with our massive casualties, they welcomed any assistance. I spent four months in Brussels, working in the hospitals. When the last contingent came home, I did, too.”
“The nightmare includes that? Or is it just the battlefield?”
“The battlefield. I heard what Wellington wrote in his dispatch –
Nothing except a battle lost can be half so melancholy as a battle won.
And he was right. So many friends died that day. The carnage was unbelievable. Tony. Robin. Eddie, whose wife had just written to report that she was increasing. Philip, who had joined the army only a month before with no idea of what war was really like. And they weren’t clean deaths. Ned was the worst. I have no idea where his body was. There was only his head....”
Norwood swallowed bile, feeling suddenly inadequate to this situation.
“Poor Jack,” she continued woodenly, so caught up again in the nightmare that she forgot the duke’s presence. “He lost an arm and half of his face. I could identify him only by the scars on the remaining cheek. Most of him was hidden beneath his horse. I’m not sure how much of the blood was Jack’s and how much was Charger’s.”
Norwood gagged, controlling himself with great difficulty.
Amanda suddenly came to herself, horrified that she was relating appalling tales to a near stranger. “I am sorry, your grace,” she stated firmly, rising to leave. “I must have lingered in the dream world. You have no need to hear such gruesome stories.”
“I can understand why such sights would trigger nightmares, but surely they will fade in time,” he suggested. “As you said, it was quick. He could have felt nothing.”
“True, but I will never know whether I caused his death..” Her voice was the merest whisper.
“How could you possibly be responsible for a soldier’s death in battle?” he demanded incredulously.
She shrugged. “One has to remain alert at all times. We had parted in anger three days before..”
She stopped talking, but Norwood had no trouble completing the thought. She feared that he might have been distracted by memories of an argument. If he could ease her mind, perhaps it would repay some of what he owed her.
“I did not know your husband,” he began slowly. “How long had he been a soldier?”
“We were on the Peninsula from the first expedition to Portugal in 1808, but he had been in the army for six years before our marriage. He was home recovering from the South American campaign when we met.”
He nodded. “He had survived many engagements, then. A professional soldier was not likely to allow errant thoughts into his head when in the heat of battle.”
She frowned, but finally nodded. “That is true. Jack enjoyed a challenge. He was never so alive as after a fight. The army was his life.”