Page 46 of The Lady's Companion
“She labored for three days and could not deliver that baby. They died,” Lady Bushnell said simply. “All the men tried to help Sergeant Wiggins dig their grave. He said he would do it by himself, and he did.” She took hold of Susan’s hand. “In the rain. Every now and then he stopped and wailed. I wonder if it was a Welsh thing.”
Certainly a lover teetering on the raw edge of grief, Susan thought. What a life you have led, sir. No wonder you crave the peace and solitude of your wheat. “It is so sad,” she said, thenburst into tears.
Lady Bushnell let her cry, then with a slight smile, held up a corner of the sheet. “We can wash these tomorrow,” she said as Susan blew her nose fiercely, then scrubbed at her cheeks.
“Tomorrow? You’ve decided you don’t want to die tonight?” Susan asked.
“No, I don’t,” Lady Bushnell stated firmly. “We have too many letters to read.”
Susan continued reading, following the retreat to Ciudad Rodrigo, then to safety over the Portuguese border and behind the works at Lisbon. They curled close to each other, the widow’s feet on her legs for warmth, as she read the letters.
Hours passed, the clock ticked on serenely, and Lady Bushnell seemed at peace, absorbed in the letters, breathing evenly. Susan felt as if someone had removed her eyeballs, dipped them in sand and replaced them. She read on, jumping from year and continent as Lady Bushnell rode with her beloved army again.
The clock chimed two. Susan looked up, thinking she heard footsteps, but it was just rain scouring the windows behind the drawn draperies. “’Poor Colonel Whitehead, Lizzie,’” she read, raising her voice a little to be heard over the rain. “’He went to vast trouble to procure such a beefsteak most of us could only dream about. It was hissing merrily in the pan when a six-pound shell dropped down from nowhere and sent the steak to a better world.’”
Susan laughed. “It seems to me that soldiers worry mainly about battle and food, and I am not certain in what order. What say you, my lady? My lady?”
She was almost afraid to look down at the woman curled beside her, but then she heard the reassurance of even breathing, and just the hint of a snore. Thank God, Susan thought, as she pulled the coverlet higher around frail shoulders and sank herself lower in the bed, exhausted with reading. She gathered the letterstogether, careful not to rustle the paper.
The letter from Louisiana was at the top of the pile now. She looked at it, then glanced at Lady Bushnell and continued. “’January 22, 1815, aboard theStatira,’” she read silently, the fading page close to her face. “’Dear Mama, I have supervised stowing the bodies of Generals Pakenham and Gibbs in rum casks, sealed against the return to London and grieving families. On, Mama! We could get no closer than five hundred yards to the Americans behind those damned cotton bales. Where did they learn to shoot like that? I cannot tell you what happened to the men, but they began to fire in column. Column! Even poor Lizzie would have known not to do that! I could not rally them after General Gibbs was killed, and they ran. You have never seen such murderous fire. I do not ever wish to hear of New Orleans again. And now you write in your letter of November 15 that I am to command Papa’s dear Fighting Fifth, now that he is gone? Mama, I cannot. Please, may we talk about this when I see you next at home? Yrs. in haste and sorrow, Charles.’”
The anguish in the words leaped off the page at her. Susan hastily pushed the letter to the bottom of the pile again and looked at the sleeping widow, her eyes troubled now less with exhaustion than great unease. What did you tell him, Lady Bushnell, you who have the heart and spirit of a soldier? Did you remind him of his duty? Did you flog him with words from room to room until he caved in? Did you dare to assume that just because he was your dead husband’s son, he was fit to command his regiment? Lady Bushnell, how could you?
Chapter Fourteen
The bailiff woke her again, but this time his hand was gentle on her back as she snuggled close to Lady Bushnell. She thought his lips just touched her cheek, but she could have been mistaken, because she was dreaming about soldiers.
“Susan, wake up,” he whispered, his hand warm on her back. “Here’s the doctor, and the Skerlongs will be along soon.”
She reached up and touched his face to let him know that she heard, then carefully disentangled herself from Lady Bushnell. “She was cold and wanted me to get in bed and read her letters,” she explained to the doctor, who was peering close at the sleeping widow. “She said she felt more calm when I was lying close by.”
She thought she heard the bailiff say, “I am sure I would not,” as he turned away, but her mind was still fuzzy with sleep. She got up slowly, careful to tug down her nightgown and acutely aware of her frowsy appearance. What seemed perfectly necessary during last night’s emergency struck her as almost ludicrous now, especially with Lady Bushnell slumbering so peacefully, the picture of old age propriety.
Wishing earnestly for a robe or shawl, Susan stood beside the bed and watched the physician. “She really frightened us last night,” she offered, aware of how lame it sounded.
To her relief the doctor nodded. “I do not doubt that for a minute,” he replied. He looked at the bailiff. “I had my suspicions when you summoned me after her fall.” He sighed and rubbed his eyes. “Long night, Wiggins, long night. If you will excuse me, I will see if I can do Lady Bushnell any good.”
Susan started to leave, but he touched her arm. “I would rather you remained.”
“Let me get a robe,” she said. “Mr. Wiggins, could you build up the fire? I’ll be back in a moment.” She hurried down the hall, took, a moment to refresh herself, then stood by her window in robe and slippers, watching the dawn make its early false attempt.
Against her own will, she thought of the Battle of New Orleans, with its smoke and fog and terrifying accuracy of frontiersmen’s muskets and frightened men marching in columns and firing long before they should have. And there was Charles Bushnell, no leader of men, his own deficiencies uncovered by the death of his commander, with no idea what to do. “It is too bad,” she said as she drew Charles’ name on the icy pane and circled it, before leaving the room.
David waited for her outside Lady Bushnell’s door. “I’m tired,” he said as he leaned against the wall. “Used to be I was fresh for forty-eight hours, but now…” He shrugged. “Peace makes me soft.”
She looked at him, her mind and heart still on poor Charles, and tears welled in her eyes. “Oh, David, the things I have learned this night,” she began. “Charles ... Young Lord Bushnell... was no leader of men.”
“I’ve already told you that. And knowing that, I wonder why he took command that spring before Waterloo.”
“I think I can tell you, but it will have to wait.” She opened the door, then looked back at him. “Where did you find the doctor?”
“Delivering a crofter’s baby far away from here. That child didn’t particularly want to make an appearance, so I had to wait.” He turned bleak eyes on her and she was reminded of his sad part in Lady Bushnell’s letter. How hard was it to cool your heels in the crofter’s and listen to a woman in travail? No matter, she knew she never needed to ask. The answer was in his eyes. Impulsively, she held his hand for a moment, whispered, “I know,” then went inside and closed the door behind her.
Lady Bushnell was awake and resting demurely in the center of the bed, her letters still scattered around her. “I am feeling fine,” she assured the doctor with a glance of determined defiance directed at Susan when the man began to rummage in his bag. “Never better. It must have been a touch of indigestion last night, Dr. Pym.”
The doctor gave a noncommittal “H’mmm” practiced in its neutrality, and removed a slender tube from his bag. The widow’s eyes widened. “I am fine,” she insisted. “I have seldom been better.”
“Lady Bushnell, you are a prevaricator of the first water, and I do not scruple to tell you,” Dr. Pym said smoothly. “Miss Hampton, do me the honor of pulling aside Lady Bushnell’s frills just slightly and positioning this tube where her heart is. I will, of course, not look, Lady Bushnell.”
