Mary Nichols - Winning the War Hero's Heart

Miles was swift to act. He guided Helen into the shelter of an elder bush, then ran into the middle of the mêlée. Picking up two small children who were in danger of being trampled and tucking one under each arm, he pushed his way towards the lieutenant of the troop. ‘Call your men off,’ he commanded. ‘Someone will be killed. This was a peaceful gathering until you arrived.’

‘It is a seditious meeting,’ the lieutenant said. ‘In tended to encourage rebellion against the law of the land. I am empowered to put it down by whatever means I think fit.’

‘By whose order?’

‘His lordship, the Earl of Warburton, sitting as a magistrate.’

‘And I am ordering you to call off your men before someone is killed.’

‘And who are you to be giving orders?’

He had obviously not been recognised in his lowly clothes. It made him smile. ‘My name is Captain Miles Cavenham of his Majesty’s Dragoon Guards. As your superior officer, I order you to call off your men and ride slowly from the field.’ His manner of delivering the order left no doubt he was used to command, even if he did choose to dress like every other man there.

The lieutenant obeyed reluctantly, but it was some time before order was restored and the people had the common to themselves again. Roger Blakestone and Jason Hardacre had disappeared as soon as the soldiers appeared. Miles returned the children to their weeping mother and set about assessing the casualties. He was joined by Helen.

There were a few broken bones, some blood and many bruises, but mercifully no one had been killed. Helen put that down to the Viscount’s timely intervention. He had undoubtedly also saved her, for there had been a horseman bearing down on them when he pushed her into the shelter of the bush.

‘This is what happens when people hold unlawful meetings,’ he said.

‘This is what happens when men like the Earl order mounted soldiers against innocent women and children,’ she retorted.

He knew she was right and did not respond. Instead he said, ‘We need medical assistance. Will the doctor come?’

‘I’ll fetch him.’

‘No, send a boy. He’ll be quicker. I need you to help me with the casualties. We must separate those who can go home and look to their own wounds from those who need medical attention. And we need pads and bandages. You do not faint at the sight of blood, I hope.’

‘No, I am not squeamish.’

Looking about her for someone to send, she noticed a skinny fellow in rags watching them intently. It was difficult to tell how old he was—he had a childlike look about him, though he must have been in his thirties. He was grinning and dancing from one foot to the other, his eyes bright with excitement.

‘Poor idiot,’ Miles said, as he suddenly darted away. ‘I hope someone is looking after him.’

Helen found a lad to send for the doctor and set about pulling up her skirt and undoing the ties of her petticoats and allowing them to drop to the ground. She picked them up and tore them into strips. They were busy binding some of the wounds when the doctor arrived and took over.

Those who had been bandaged were either sent home or to the town’s small hospital in carts and carriages. When everyone had gone and the common deserted except for a scattering of waste paper, broken pies— which were being attacked by pigeons and dogs—torn clothing and churned-up hoof marks, Miles and Helen found themselves alone, their work done.

They stood and faced each other. He had lost his hat and his curls lay untidily over his forehead. His face was smeared with mud and blood; it was only when he raised his hand to try to wipe it that Helen noticed the long cut on his forearm. It had ceased to bleed, but there was a dirty crust of dried blood on it.

‘You have been hurt,’ she said, in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

‘It is nothing. I felt the edge of the sword of one of the militia. It is not deep.’

‘It needs cleaning. And the doctor has gone. Come home with me and I’ll clean it for you. It’s nearer than Raven’s Park.’

They walked back to the centre of town. It was crowded with people who had managed to escape the melee; they were standing in groups discussing what had happened. They watched Miles and Helen go past and that set them talking again. Helen could almost hear them: ‘What’s going on there? That’s Viscount Cavenham or I’m a Dutchman. What is he doing dressed like that?’

‘Did you see him scoop up those children?’

‘And stop that lieutenant when he would have broken the head of everyone there. Seems a strange thing for him to do, seeing who he is.’

‘And what is Miss Wayland up to? I wager it will be in the next edition of the paper. She is bound to be in trouble for sponsoring the meeting.’

‘Well, if you want my opinion they are the most unlikely couple in Christendom.’

Miles must have realised it himself, for he was smiling as Helen opened the shop door and ushered him inside. She led the way through the front office to the printing room at the back where a basin and a jug of water were kept for the compositor to wash the ink from his fingers. She left him there while she ran upstairs to find ointment and bandages. When she returned he had already put water in the basin and was splashing the wound.

‘It is only a scratch,’ he said.

Nevertheless, he allowed her to sit him down and sponge it clean. This necessitated touching him and that set up a tumult inside her she could not understand. The warmth from his skin seemed to radiate from her fingers, up her arm and over her whole body until she felt as though she were on fire. Carefully she cleaned the cut, trying to ignore the heat in her limbs and hoping it did not show in her cheeks because it was the height of foolishness to be so affected. ‘There, I think I have it clean. A little ointment and a bandage and you’re done.’ She was surprised how normal her voice sounded.

‘Done,’ he repeated and laughed. ‘Perhaps you ought to turn me over and roast the other side, or perhaps stick me on a spit and set it turning slowly. I’ll be cooked in no time.’

‘And too tough to eat, I’ll wager,’ she said, answering him in the same way as she tied off the bandage. She could not pull down his shirtsleeve because it had been torn off.

‘Will you report my little adventure in your paper?’

‘What, tell everyone the Earl’s son was the hero of the hour? I thought you wanted to be incognito?’

‘So I did, so I do, but I did not think you would take any heed of that.’

‘Oh, I think I will. Otherwise it would spoil my story of the Earl’s infamy if his son turned out to be a hero. I fear he shall have to remain anonymous.’

‘Why the Earl’s infamy? He was not even there …’

‘Of course not. He would not dirty his hands, but he was the one who ordered the militia out.’

He agreed with her, but he knew his father would have a ready answer to that. ‘It was the lieutenant who did the damage,’ he said, acting devil’s advocate. ‘My father will undoubtedly say he never condoned violence and the lieutenant acted on his own initiative and the lieutenant will maintain the populace started the fight by resisting an order to disperse. And if you write anything to the contrary it will be another writ, you can be sure.’ He paused, then took her arm and added quietly,

‘Can I not persuade you to retract over the widow’s garden?’

‘No. That would be cowardly.’

‘Whatever you are, you are not a coward, Miss Wayland. Foolish, perhaps, wrongheaded, maybe, but not cowardly. I fear for you.’

‘Why? It is nothing to do with you.’

‘I seem to have got myself involved,’ he said wryly. ‘If only as a peacemaker. I have seen too much of war.’