Diane Gaston - A Regency Gentleman's Passion

No one came.

She bent down to retrieve her basket and was seized with a sharp anxiety, like shafts piercing her skin. No more shops—she just wanted to go home, to wait in solitude for some final word of who was winning and who was losing, who was alive and who had died. Whether Claude would return to her.

The towers of St Michael’s Cathedral loomed above her. She glanced up at them and whispered a prayer that God would deliver Claude back to her.

She added a prayer for Gabriel. Not for him to return, but for him to live.

She crossed herself and hurried to the lace shop, walking around the back and entering the yard through the gate. After opening the rear door of the shop, she climbed the stairs to her aunt’s rooms.

“This is all you could purchase?” Her aunt took the basket from Emmaline’s hands and peered inside it.

She wrapped her arms around her still-shaking chest. “There was not much to buy.”

A cannon boomed and they both turned towards the sound.

“I am weary of that!” her aunt exclaimed. She examined each item in the basket. “Did you hear any news of the battle?”

Emmaline shook her head. “No one knows the outcome.”

“Pfft!” Tante Voletta waved a hand. “Napoleon will win.”

Emmaline kept silent. She did not want the French to win. Claude would never leave the army if that happened. “Do you need my company? Because I would rather go to my own rooms.”

“Go,” her aunt said. “But come to me when you learn of the victory.”

Emmaline, however, did not go out in search of news.

She spent the evening on her sofa, hugging her knees and repeating her prayers. She lay down and pressed her hand against the ring under her dress. As she felt its circle in her fingers, she watched the flame of a single candle. The cannonade stopped and as darkness fell she could hear the rumble of wagons passing through the streets. Her candle grew shorter and shorter and soon her eyes grew heavy. She fought to stay awake. How could she sleep while the fate of her son was in question?

The sounds in the street were rhythmic and lulling. Her eyes closed.

And flew open again.

A loud rapping at the door startled her awake. She sat up, heart pounding.

“Emmaline,” she heard a man’s voice. “Open the door.”

Gabriel!

She flew to the door and pulled it open.

He was a mere shadow in the dark yard, but as he stepped inside, she could see he carried something over his shoulder.

Her eyes widened.

“I’ve brought your son.”

“Claude!” Her hands clasped over her mouth. Was he dead? “Claude!”

“He’s wounded.” Without another word he carried him upstairs.

She grabbed the candle and followed. Claude’s head lolled back and forth with each step Gabriel made.

Gabriel opened the door to Claude’s room and placed him on the bed. Immediately he began to undress him.

Emmaline lit more candles, her hands trembling. “Where is he hurt?”

“His head.” He ripped away Claude’s bloody shirt. “His neck. And leg.”

She stood by the bed, finally able to touch her son. She helped pull off his trousers, stained with his blood. He’d been shot in the thigh, but a quick examination showed that the musket ball had passed through. On his neck, right above his collarbone, was another wound. She placed a finger near the spot.

Claude flinched and moaned—signs of life, at least.

“Water.” Gabriel’s voice sounded forced. “Need to wash. See the wounds better.”

She sprang to her feet. “I’ll fetch some.”

She returned with a stack of towels, a pitcher of water, a basin and cup. As she placed them on the bedside table, Gabriel swayed and looked as if he might collapse to the floor.

She hurried to him, helping him regain his balance. “Are you injured, Gabriel?”

He shook his head. “Tired.”

“Sit in the chair.” She eased him over to a wooden chair near the bed and ran to pour him a cup of the water.

He drank it greedily, but gestured for her to return to Claude.

Emmaline washed away blood and mud and bits of grass and cloth from her son’s skin and from his hair. Beneath his matted hair was a long gash. A musket ball had scraped him, but had not penetrated. His thigh had a huge hole in it from which blood still oozed. His chest was riddled with round red spots, turning to bruises.

“His chest plate stopped some of the musket balls,” Gabriel said. The cuirassiers wore steel chest plates, like the armour of medieval times.

The most worrisome wound was the one on his neck. The musket ball needed to come out.

She turned to Gabriel. “He needs a surgeon.”

He rubbed his face. “Won’t find one. There are thousands who need a surgeon. Most worse off.” His gaze met hers. “Too many.” A haunted expression came over his face.

Emmaline could not allow herself to think of what horrors he’d seen. She must think only of Claude, how to keep him alive.

She forced herself to remain calm. “I will remove the ball.”

“Emmaline—” he began in a warning tone.

She set her jaw in resolve. “There is no other choice. I have seen it done before. I must try.”

She ran from the room and gathered any items she could think of that would help her remove the ball: her knitting needles, a long embroidery hook, tweezers, scissors. The sky was turning light. At least she would be able to see better.

Back in Claude’s room, she pushed the bed to the window and set her tools on the bed next to her son.

Gabriel rose from the chair. “I’ll hold him still.”

How he would have the strength to do so, she didn’t know, but he stood on the opposite side of the bed and held Claude’s shoulders. She carefully inserted the knitting needle into the wound to find the path of the musket ball. Claude’s eyes opened and he cried out. Gabriel held him fast.

Swallowing against a sudden wave of nausea, Emmaline did not have to probe far. “It is not deep!”

Her tweezers were about five inches long, plenty of length to reach the ball. It took several tries to pull it out, all the while Claude writhing with the pain of it. He quickly lost consciousness and became limp. Finally she manoeuvred the ball to the opening and was able to hold it between her fingers. Gabriel released Claude and leaned against the wall.

“One more thing if you can stand it,” she said to Gabriel. “I want to sew his head wound closed.”

Gabriel’s arms trembled as he held Claude’s head while Emmaline put thread and needle through the skin, but Claude did not regain consciousness.

“Sit down now,” she told Gabriel after she was done.

She bandaged the wounds and covered Claude with clean linens and a blanket. He again moaned, but it was a relief to hear him make any sound. Later, as she had done when he was ill as a child, she would spoon broth down his throat and wipe his brow with cool compresses if he became feverish. There was little else she could do.

She stepped back from his bed.

Gabriel rose. “I must leave.”

She touched his arm. “Take some food first. Something to drink.” She wanted to tell him not to leave her, to stay. With his steadying presence, she felt as if she could do anything to keep Claude alive. Without him, she was alone.

She walked downstairs with him and made him sit at the table where he’d sat so many happier times before.

“Just something to drink,” he said.

She gave him wine and he drank it like water.

“Now I must go.” He stood again and walked towards the door.

“Gabriel.” She ran to him as he opened the door. “Who won the battle?”

He gave her a weary look. “The Allies.”

She was relieved. When— if— Claude recovered, he would not return to the French army. There would be no need if the British had won. He could have a normal, peaceful life.