The Portrait Read online

  Hazel Statham

  The Battle of Salamanca, Spain, July 22, 1812

  The French were in disarray and taking refuge in retreat when a brief bombardment of cannon fire issued from their ranks. Amid the onslaught, Marchant's Cavalry made good their escape, but an explosion sent Edward Thurston, the new twentyseven-year-old Earl of Sinclair, reeling from his saddle.

  In just one brief moment the tall, athletic earl, who had led his men so enthusiastically in the attack, lay near death, his life's blood seeping into the muddy ground. Briefly his gray eyes registered pain before closing in blessed oblivion.

  Seeing an injured, riderless horse racing at his side, one of the young English officers, Major Anthony Drake, sharply drew rein, fiercely swinging his horse around.

  "My God, Ned!" he cried, heedlessly urging his horse once more toward the cannon fire and throwing himself to the ground beside the inert figure of his friend.

  "My God! My God!" was all he could cry as panic and bile rose at sight of the devastation wrought on his friend's noble frame by the blast.

  Another rider, a sergeant, appeared at his side and threw himself from his saddle. "We must get him onto my horse, sir," he said urgently. "Help me lift him." And between them, despite the bombardment, they raised the lifeless form from the mud.

  Amid heavy rifle fire, they flung Sinclair over the horse's withers before vaulting into their saddles and furiously galloping back to their own lines.

  The air inside the field medical tent was oppressive. The wounded and dying lay on pallets, with scarcely enough room to walk between them. The battle had been won, but the cost in human suffering was high.

  Dr. Pyke, the surgeon, stood beside the cot of the young nobleman, who lay with eyes closed against the sights around him. "The left arm must come off at the shoulder, sir," he said firmly.

  Immediately Sinclair's eyes opened wide. "By God, it will not!" he replied fiercely from between bloodless lips thinned with pain. "I'll have none of your butchery!" The scarlet of the wounds to his left cheek and torso stood out in stark contrast to his ashen skin and the dark hair that clung to his fevered brow. His left arm hung from its ragged joint, a useless, bloody appendage.

  Pyke spoke in measured tones, as if every vestige of strength had been drained from him during his attendance on the never-ending stream of casualties. "If the arm is not removed, I cannot guarantee the outcome, my lord."

  Sinclair's eyes were bright with fever. "And you can if it's removed?" he sneered. "I think not!"

  "No, sir, but we must at least try. I have been ordered-nay, commanded-to do all that I can."

  `By whom?"

  "By the great man himself."

  "Then you can tell Wellington to go to blazes. I'll have no sawbones hacking at me"

  The tent flap was pushed aside, and Wellington himself entered.

  "My Lord .. " began Pyke, but Wellington raised a hand.

  "You need not tell me," he said. "I heard all. Ignore what Sinclair says. 'Tis the laudanum speaking. He knows not what he's saying. Remove the arm"

  Hertfordshire, England, December 1, 1812

  To Sinclair, the impressive prospect of Fly Hall had never seemed more welcoming. In the waning, early-evening light, his gaze roamed lovingly over the sprawling, half-timbered Tudor mansion set deep within a valley, noting its gentle air of noble neglect. The weeds that sprang from paving and the ivy that shaded the windowpanes proved almost too much for him, since he knew such would not have been allowed if the old earl, his father, was alive.

  It was a bittersweet homecoming. The journey had left him unbelievably weary, but the mere sight of the house, seen from its parkland approach, gave him a peace of mind he had not experienced for some while. He wished nothing more than to be within its familiar, welcoming portals.

  His wounds still plagued him, and at times he swore he could still feel the fingers of his left hand moving. Alas, he'd heard of like cases among his fellow wounded and knew this to be nothing more than the effects of the amputation, which would disappear with time. He'd been assured that the angry scarring to his body, where the cannonball had torn his flesh, would fade. Even now, the slight paling of the scar across his left cheek gave evidence of this.

  The eyes remained the same, bright and alive, only the humor once seen there having waned. Stubble sprang from his cheeks and chin, and his dark hair curled at the nape of his neck, proving his need of a barber's services. He'd lain abed in a convent on the Portuguese border, along with others wounded in the encounter, and such niceties as barbering had, by necessity, been overlooked.

  As the coach rounded the final bend in the driveway and the house came fully into view, he reached into his greatcoat pocket and took out an elegantly framed miniature of a young lady with smiling eyes and dark curls.

  "You see, my love, we finally arrive," he said in hushed tones before carefully replacing the miniature. He had carried it with him throughout the campaign, and it was only the sight of her face, during his delirium, that had prevented his senses from deserting him. In the convent, his reliance on the portrait had been noted, but wisely none had commented, so fiercely did he protect it.

  The coach halted before the imposing front door, and even before the groom was able to let down the steps, the doors to the house were flung wide, and, all formality forgotten, two of the menservants ran forward.

  Caring hands helped Sinclair to alight, supporting him into the familiar, half-paneled hallway, where a welcoming fire blazed in the large stone hearth. Immediately a chair was brought forward, into which he gratefully sank. His senses, long bereft of the familiar sights and sounds of the house, drank in its comforting warmth, and a sense of peace settled over him. Even the dark wainscoting, which he had once thought outmoded, appeared to welcome him, and his eyes closed briefly with the relief of being home.

  Croft, an elderly retainer who appeared almost as ancient as the house itself, hurried forward, his weathered countenance full of concern. "Your chamber has been made ready. We will assist you there when you are rested, my lord," he informed his master, bowing with obvious difficulty.

  "'My lord'?" Sinclair queried, raising a quizzical eyebrow. "You were never usually so formal."

  "Aye, but you were not master then," Croft replied with a dry chuckle. "I can't call you Mister Edward now that the old earl has gone. It would not be seemly."

  Sinclair offered a weary smile. "And when have you cared for `seemly'? I will not believe myself home if I'm to be treated with such unfamiliar reverence"

  Rose, a small plump woman who acted as both housekeeper and cook and appeared as ancient as her husband, Croft, issued from below stairs wiping her hands on her apron. "Mister Edward!" she cried, her pleasant countenance wreathed in smiles. "There's pheasant soup, pork with apple, and chickenand-ham pie-everything you like. We shall have you to rights in no time."

  Heartened by her enthusiastic welcome, the earl's smile widened into a grin, and he straightened slightly in the chair. "There, that's a welcome worth coming home for. Though I may not be able to do justice to your cooking at this precise moment, Rose, it is something I have sorely missed. Believe me when I say that even the finest cooks in the military can't hold a candle to your excellent table."

  Rose flushed with pleasure and, standing with arms akimbo, rounded on the other servants, her voice gruff with emotion. "What are you all standing there for, you great ninnies? Take the master to his room. He must be tired after his journey. Once he is made comfortable, we can see what is needed" Then, turning to the earl, she said, "Dr. Wilmot said that we were to inform him of your arrival, sir, and he would come at once to attend to you"

  Sinclair sighed heavily, his smile disappearing, replaced by a look of tired resignation. "Then I pray yo
u will allow me a little time to recover from my journey before you send word to him. I have been poked and prodded enough over these past weeks; one more day without his ministrations will make no difference. I shall retire."

  The ivy, teased by the morning breeze, scratched at Sinclair's bedroom window, reminding him that he was indeed returned to his beloved Fly. Dr. Wilmot arrived shortly after nine, going immediately to his patient's bedchamber, eager to begin the examination of his childhood friend.

  Lying on his large canopied bed, Sinclair bore his friend's professional examination with a stoicism born of necessity. He had learned by experience that he must endure what could not be avoided, and he waited until Wilmot completed his assessment before speaking.

  As the doctor straightened from his examination, Sinclair said with deceptive lightness, "Come now, John, what's your opinion of me? Don't stand on ceremony. I have known you too long for there to be any reserve between us"

  Wilmot smiled. "Your wounds are healing well enough, Edward, and although it will take some while, I do believe you will return to full strength"

  Sinclair's voice dropped. "And what of the night terrors? Will they cease?"

  "Almost certainly. They are the result of the amputation and the trauma to your body, but with time they will diminish."

  "Time I don't have," the earl replied curtly, his gaze becoming distracted and his hand moving restlessly on the blue brocade quilt that Wilmot had placed back over him at the end of his examination. "Ironic, is it not? To the outside world 'twould appear that I have time aplenty, but you see, I have not. I am to be married, John. Or, more rightly, I was to be married. Yet how can I expect a wife to commit herself to the wreck I have become?"

  "You are no wreck," the medic assured him. "It will take more than the loss of your arm to bring you low. Your strength will assuredly return."

  Sinclair grimaced ruefully. "Ah, but my strength will not return my arm to me or make my form more pleasing to Lady Jennifer, my betrothed. I'll carry these scars with me through life."

  Wilmot saw the earl's agitation. "Your scars were gained honorably, Edward, and when you feel more yourself, you'll become reconciled to them"

  Sinclair shook his head impatiently. "Tell that to a new bride. She will soon tire of such a husband. She will be repulsed by me, and who should blame her? Certainly not I."

  "Women are such unpredictable creatures. It is oft noted that they can become devoted to the most unlikely of spouses, and if she loves you .."

  "There you have the truth of it; I don't believe that she does. The betrothal was hastened because, like every other young buck of my generation, despite my father's protestations against his heir's laying himself open to such dangers, I was eager to hasten to war. Lady Jennifer and I knew each other for such a short time, with little opportunity to be private. In short, I must admit to its being a contrived marriage, a mariage de convenance brought about by our respective sires. I took my commission and hastened to Spain, as eager as any Englishman to face Old Boney. I have been too long away; we will be but strangers"

  "Was there no communication between you?"

  "We wrote very little, and I felt no desire to impart the horrors of war. I would shield her from such abominations. I preferred to keep my own counsel and instead encouraged her to tell me of the season's gaieties and divert my thoughts"

  Wilmot appeared incredulous. "You made no effort to engage her affections?"

  "How could I, from such a distance?"

  "I would not have thought that to pose a problem to you, Edward. I always thought you a man of considerable address"

  "If that be the case, how, then, am Ito present her with who I have become? She's not even aware of the extent of my injuries, and I would wish to be the man she thought me when we became betrothed"

  Wilmot raised his eyebrows in disbelief. "You've not informed her of the nature of your wounds?"

  "I felt not the need to distress her with the details."

  The medic shook his head. "You take this desire to shield her too far, Edward. Surely it would have been wiser to have prepared her for your homecoming ...?"

  Sinclair, his face set, raised a hand to silence the doctor. "My mind is made up. I shall release her from her promise. I wouldn't wish that she take me out of pity."

  "There is no reason, once your wounds are thoroughly healed, you can't lead a full and healthy life," Wilmot replied, closing his bag with a snap and taking up his cloak. "The amputation has left you feeling low. You will feel completely different in a few months' time."

  "But I don't have a few months, John. My betrothed has sent word that she is to visit me within the week, and then we shall see what strangers we have become. I have no illusions. She was but seventeen when the arrangements were made, and I have been away for over two years. She is still so young. The engagement was made at the instigation of her family; my prospects appealed to them. Now that I have ascended to the title, I will not be married for my rank and fortune, which is where my only desirability lies. Despite my disabilities, I would prefer to remain unwed than accept such a compromise."

  "You are thoroughly convinced that the marriage should not go ahead? I can say nothing to persuade you otherwise?"

  "Nothing can dissuade me"

  "Then far be it from me to attempt to change your mind. You will no doubt take your own course"

  "You may not have persuaded me, my friend, but in openly expounding it, I have convinced myself that the marriage should not take place and in so doing have shaken a burden from my shoulders."

  "Then my visit has at least been of some use to you?"

  "Undoubtedly!"

  "You are now resolved to the issue?"

  "Perfectly!"

  "Then, my old friend, the only way is forward!"

  On the morning of the promised visit from Lady Jennifer, Edward, having spent a restless night thinking of his betrothed, watched as rivulets of rain ran slowly down his bedchamber window. They singularly suited his mood. At dawn's first light he had raised himself up on his pillows, his thoughts filled with the pending reunion. Only now would he allow himself to dwell on thoughts of what might have been had he been returning to her as a whole man-a return he had anticipated so often during his time at war.

  When Croft entered the room, the man was clearly surprised to find his master fully awake, his features drawn. "Have you not slept well, sir?" he asked, full of concern. "Shall I arrange for breakfast to be served here? Perhaps you should delay your foray to the lower floor until you are stronger."

  "I will not receive Lady Jennifer in my bedchamber," Sinclair stated, pushing aside the coverlet and placing his feet on the floor. "I have two perfectly sound legs, and, with your aid in dressing, I'll entertain my visitor in the morning room. It has a pleasant and open aspect, and I wish not to appear dull for her visit."

  Croft nodded and busied himself about the room. "The Holland covers have been removed from all the rooms, sir, and everything is as it should be. My Rose has seen to that. She has made ready your regimentals. ..

  The earl pushed himself erect. "Then she need not have bothered. I'm not in the military now. I am a civilian and have no wish to cling to my uniform. Lay out the blue superfineit will suffice"

  "Aye, sir, I thought you might say that" Croft grinned and brought forward a chair for Sinclair. "Until your valet arrives from London and takes over its care, Rose has had your entire wardrobe refreshed"

  Sinclair sat on the chair, not wishing to admit to the weakness he felt from rising, determined to greet his betrothed with at least some of his old vigor. "When my visitor arrives, serve refreshments immediately, and then I wish for no interruptions for the remainder of her visit. Is that quite clear?"

  "Perfectly, sir."

  "Then bring my razor, and help me prepare."

  Once his dressing had been completed and Croft had been dismissed, the earl stood before the large mirror and examined the results. While not thoroughly pleased with what he saw,
he felt some satisfaction at returning at last to his civilian clothing. The empty sleeve had been pinned to the breast of his coat, which, though still fitting the broad expanse of his shoulders, hung on his battle-hardened frame. He stood for a moment longer and made a mental note that a visit from his tailor should be arranged as soon as possible. Turning abruptly away from his reflection, he crossed to the dresser and, opening one of the drawers, took out the miniature.

  He held it before him, a slow smile spreading over his countenance. Then, as if taken by a sudden decision, he crossed to the hearth and threw it into the newly lit fire. However, seeing the flames rise up to lick the edges of the frame brought a pain to his breast he could not bear, and, snatching up a pair of tongs, he bent quickly and retrieved it once more, unable to endure its destruction.

  "Not yet. Not yet," he whispered to the sweet face that looked back at him. "It is too soon. I will have you with me a while longer. I cannot bear your going." Taking it once more to the dresser, he pulled out a fine linen handkerchief and, spreading it wide, laid the portrait within its folds and returned it to the drawer.

  His shoulder and the wounds to his side ached. The long journey back to England had taken its toll on his resources, but, wishing not to evoke pity, he was determined to present no feeble form to his betrothed when she arrived. Instead, he pulled back his shoulders and, casting a final glance at the mirror, left his apartment and made his way to the breakfast room on the ground floor.

  It was the first time he had ventured from his chamber since his arrival, and he felt the warmth of familiar surroundings once more envelop him, the only sadness being that his father was no longer present. It had been just before the battle at Albuera that he had heard of his death. However, the urgency of the situation in Spain had precluded his return, even though his desire was to be with his younger brother, Peregrine, whom he now found to be his ward. The boy, then but fifteen years of age, had gone to live with their married sister, Lady Flora Carlton, in Essex but was now in his first term at Oxford. Notice of the earl's return had been sent to Peregrine, and arrangements were in progress that he should return to Fly Hall at the end of term in two weeks' time. Edward had thought it prudent that his brother not return before the given date, as he wished to be more recovered from his journey for their reunion. Peregrine idolized him, and he wished to appear still strong.