Mary Nichols - Winning the War Hero's Heart

‘I wish nothing had been made of that. I only did my duty as I saw it. I had no idea that fellow from The Times was taking notes. What they want sending a reporter out to war, I do not know. He only got in the way and the men made fun of him, which, to give him his due, he took in good part.’

‘Nevertheless, it has raised your standing with those at home and with the Somerfields.’

‘Mama, you are biased.’

She smiled. ‘Perhaps. But you are a handsome man and there are other assets in your favour: your title and amiable nature, for instance. I am persuaded all you need to do is turn on your charm and Verity will be yours. It is time you married …’

‘I will not impose myself on any young lady simply to provide the estate with an heir, Mama. It would not be fair to her.’ He realised that one day he ought to marry, if only to produce the requisite heir, but he also realised the woman he chose must be strong and not squeamish, someone who could see further than an ungainly gait and scarred limbs to the man within, someone like Miss Wayland, who had not flinched at the injuries she had seen on the common. Knowing Miss Somerfield’s delicate background, he doubted that she would have reacted in the same way. He cursed the war and the Frenchmen who had fired the cannon that had resulted in shrapnel becoming embedded in his upper thigh. It had been painful at the time and even more so when the surgeon had been working on him, but that was nothing compared to the way it had left him with a shrivelled thigh. His question, ‘Who would have me?’, had been heartfelt.

‘But you will go to the ball?’ his mother asked, forcing him back to the present.

‘To please you, yes, but I shall not make a fool of myself by attempting to dance.’

‘You could practise at home beforehand. I am sure you could manage some of the slower measures.’

‘Perhaps.’ Standing up, he bent to kiss her cheek and promised to be back in time to dine en famille . Then he left her.

He mused on the upcoming ball for a moment or two, then put it from his mind as another idea came to him. What the ex-soldiers and the out-of-work labourers wanted was not hand-outs, but work, something to keep them gainfully employed and the wolf from the door. Farming was in the doldrums and the farmers were not employing labour to stand about idly waiting for the weather to change, but what if the men were encouraged to grow fruit and vegetables? If every man had a strip of land, the sort of thing they had before the enclosures spoilt it all, he could grow not only enough for himself but for the market, too. If they did not have to pay for the land or, initially, the seed and plants, they would have a head start. It would be a kind of co-operative venture with each helping out the other with their own particular skills.

He owned a few acres left to him by his maternal grandfather that he had never cultivated. According to his father it was useless, no more than scrub and fit only for rabbits, but would the men work it? Not if they knew it came from him, he decided. He needed to do it through a third party and James Mottram came to mind. James was a young man of his own age whom he had met when they were both studying at Cambridge University. James had since become a lawyer and was already making his mark in the courts of justice, particularly in defence. He was a partner in a practice in Norwich. He would ask him, but first he would sound out Jack Byers about the project, ask him if he thought the men would agree to the plan and if he had any ideas to add to it. But he would swear him to secrecy.

He knew Byers was staying with Mrs Watson. He had his second horse saddled and set off for her cottage.

Helen had decided to visit Mrs Watson to see how her garden had been restored and how Mr Byers was getting on. She had promised herself she would find out his history and write a piece about the hardships of the returning soldiers and it might be a good opportunity to do that. The day was blustery and overcast; it looked as though there would be more rain, which bode ill for whatever crops had survived so far. She was wrapped in a long burnoose with the hood up and did not immediately recognise the man approaching her until he was standing right in front of her, his feet apart as if to detain her.

‘Mr Blakestone, you startled me.’

‘I want a word with you.’ He sounded belligerent, which made her nervous.

‘Say it, then.’

‘Traitor!’ He paused. ‘You took my money for the poster, pretended to be on the side of the workers and all the time you were plotting with the Earl and that stiff-rumped son of his to betray us. It is fortunate for you that no one was killed today or you would have paid with your life.’

‘The reason no one was killed was because the Viscount prevented it,’ she retorted. ‘Which you would have known if you had not run away like a coward.’

‘Coward, you call me! I wasn’t the one standing around in disguise waiting to enjoy the fruits of my betrayal. I was up there on the platform for all to see.’

‘Until the militia arrived. It was miraculous how fast you disappeared then.’

‘It was my bounden duty to protect Jason Hardacre from arrest and get him safely away. Thanks to you and the Viscount, he never made his speech and the people of Warburton are the poorer for it.’

‘I doubt that.’ She tried to pass him, but he dodged to prevent her. ‘Let me pass, Mr Blakestone.’

‘When I’ve done with you.’

‘What do you mean?’ She was becoming very alarmed and tried to push past him. He reached out and pinioned her arms to her sides. She tried kicking, but he held her at arm’s length and she could not reach his legs.

‘Struggle all you like,’ he jeered, ‘but hear this. We will not be so foolish as to advertise our next meeting, except by word of mouth, so if the Earl hears of it, we shall know where the blame lies. Your life won’t be worth living.’

‘Stand aside!’ The voice was the Viscount’s as he galloped up, threw himself from his horse and wrenched Blakestone from Helen. He had his crop in his hand and raised it to the man, ready to give him a beating, but Helen grabbed his arm.

‘No, don’t,’ she cried. ‘Let him go. I don’t want violence done on my account.’

Miles lowered his arm, the white heat of his anger slowly subsiding. ‘Get you gone,’ he told Blakestone. ‘And if I ever come across you offering violence to a lady again, it will be the worse for you.’

The man hesitated as if considering whether to stand and fight, but thought better of it and turned on his heel to march down the road, but not before he had uttered one more threat. ‘You must watch your back, Captain. I ain’t forgot you had me flogged and reduced to the ranks. A man don’ forget that in a hurry. Watch your back at all times.’

‘What did he mean by that?’ Helen asked, as the man strode away.

‘I caught him assaulting a Portuguese girl and hauled him off. He was put on a charge and was dealt fifty lashes and had his sergeant’s stripes taken off him.’

She shuddered. ‘I think flogging is barbaric. Surely there is another way to punish wrongdoing in the army?’

‘I don’t hold with flogging either, but it is the only punishment the men understand, and in wartime, under battle conditions, we do not have the facilities for imprisonment. Besides, the men are needed to fight.’

He paused. ‘But that doesn’t explain why he was manhandling you. What was that about?’

‘He thought I had betrayed the meeting to you and that you had told your father, who ordered the militia. He was very angry.’

‘I am sorry to hear that. You have helped him when you should not have done and he repays you with threats. Had I known I would have told him the truth.’