Eighteen

But gradually, over the next two years, I began to see that he had found a new source of joy, as well. Letter after letter described the latest news of Charles Edward Rolingbroke, my nephew and godson. Lucien clearly doted on his heir. I saved these letters, as I had every letter before, reading them again and again.

I next saw Lucien when he approached my bed in a dismal London hospital. He looked for me there after Ciudad Rodrigo. He had seen my name among the lists of wounded and used his influence to discover what had become of me. I heard someone say, “Captain, you’ve a visitor.” I opened my eyes, and there stood Lucien, looking ridiculously worried. Delirious with fever, nevertheless I recognized him-at least for a few moments, when he seemed to me some last vision granted to me before dying. I was too weak even to speak to him, and remember nothing more than smiling foolishly at him. Neither do I remember being moved from that place, and taken to Rolingbroke House, his fashionable London residence. The quality of my care was improved immeasurably, and eventually, the fever subsided.

When at last I no longer burned alive with it, I was still weak and somewhat confused about my change of circumstance. I knew I was in Lucien’s home, and fell asleep not long after a recollection came to me of Lucien arguing with a doctor, refusing to allow me to be bled. This was confirmed by the doctor when I awoke the next morning. He chuckled. “No, wouldn’t let me bleed you, and offered to-how did he put it now? Oh yes, he promised to draw my own claret if I caused you to lose one more drop of yours. Well, my fine captain, I’d as soon fight Boney himself than try to cross swords with the earl.” My wounds, he told me, would leave me with a few scars and a permanent limp. “But only two days ago, I tried to convince his lordship that your funeral service should be arranged, so you are in far better case than expected.”

Not much later, Lucien himself came into my room, under strict orders not to make his visit a long one. I told him I did not want to burden him with the care of a lame stepbrother who was weak as a cat and not of as much use.

“I shall fetch that doctor back here,” Lucien said, “and demand a return of his fee. He distinctly told me you were no longer delirious, but here you are, speaking utter nonsense!”

“Lucien-”

“No, wait! Tell me you aren’t feverish, for I’m only allowed a short visit, and I shall be driven mad by your nephew if he isn’t allowed to at last lay eyes on his Uncle Edward.”

“He’s here?” I asked.

But that question was answered by the entrance of a small boy, who, over his nurse’s protests, opened the door and ran toward his father. He was the spit and image of Lucien.

“Papa!”

“Your lordship,” the flustered nurse said, “I beg your pardon! I’ll take him right out again.”

“Oh, no, madam!” Lucien exclaimed in mock horror. “Leave him with me. My brother has seen enough warfare as it is.”

She left us, and no sooner had the door closed than Charles’s questions began.

Did I feel better? Yes.

Had I hurt my head? Yes, that was why I wore a bandage.

Had I hurt my leg, then, too? Yes.

Did a Frenchy hurt me? Yes.

He offered to send his father to hurt the Frenchy in return. I thanked him, but said I would prefer we all just stayed home together for a time, for I had missed my brother, and would like to become acquainted with his son.

Why was my skin so brown? A soldier spends a great deal of time in the sun.

“That will do, Master Pokenose,” Lucien said, causing his son to giggle. Obediently, though, Charles ceased asking questions. He sat quietly while Lucien discussed plans for removing to the countryside. Quite against my will, I began to fall asleep. Charles brought this to his father’s attention, which brought a rich laugh from Lucien. “Indeed, youngster, you are right. We’ll let him rest for now.”

I murmured an apology, stirring awake as I felt a small hand take my own.

“Papa says you’re a great gun and we must help you to get better.”

“My recovery is assured, then,” I said, “but it is your papa who is the great gun.”

Over the next three years, I would come to believe more and more in the truth of that statement. Fibbens was made my valet, a job that for some months involved the added duties of attending an invalid. I came to value him greatly. As my physical strength returned, though, it was Lucien and his son who would not allow me to retreat from the world. Charles’s energetic encouragement and Lucien’s refusal to permit me to mope over my injuries kept me from falling into a fit of the dismals. Before long, I seldom thought so much of what I could not do, as what I could. Charles continued to delight me-I could not have been more attached to him if he had been my own boy.

On the night following Lucien’s funeral, recalling my brother’s life, I wondered how I would be able to comfort Charles over the days to come, when the numbness I felt now would undoubtedly wear off.

When Lucien’s horse, Fine Lad, had returned riderless to the stable just three days earlier, a large group of men searched frantically for him-servants, tenants, and neighbors. It was I who found Lucien. I had followed a route he often took through the woods when he rode for pleasure and discovered his motionless form along this path. He lay pale and bleeding beneath a shady tree-a thick, broken, bloodstained branch beside him. I did my best to staunch the wound on his head, and to keep him warm, even as I shouted for help.

All along the way back to the Abbey, the men who helped me carry him on a litter, and then to place him in a wagon, recounted several the strange riding accidents of which they had heard. It was their way, I realized later, of trying to make sense of what seemed impossible-that Lucien, an excellent horseman, would be so careless while riding among low-lying branches. I had the broken branch with me, though, to prove it, as much to myself as anyone. And I would show it to Lucien, and ask him what the devil he was about.

A fractured skull, the doctor said. Lucien never regained consciousness.

I knew the sort of blind rage that is the consort of our worst grief. I thought of burning the branch that had struck him. I thought of taking an ax to the tree, felling that which had felled him. I thought of shooting the horse.

I did none of these. Perhaps it was the horse’s name that cleared my mind: Fine Lad.

Charles needed me.

That single thought cooled my rage.

Lucien’s will made me Charles’s guardian and trustee. I knew he did not merely want me to keep Charles’s fortune safe, to simply be certain that he was sent to the best schools. I was to teach him what the Abbey meant to his family, what it meant to be the Earl of Rolingbroke, what he owed to his name, and owed to the memory of two good men who had held the same long list of titles before him. I had no fear that Charles would fail to be a credit to them-he was already so much his father’s son.

That evening, sitting before the fire, remembering Lucien, I knew that I would protect my young godson with my life. As the clock struck midnight, I vowed that I would do my damnedest to keep Lucien alive in his memory.

I had no sooner made this vow that the library door flew opened, startling me. Charles, pale and tearful, ran toward me, frantically calling my name. I opened my arms to him, taking him up on my lap, and waving away the small army of concerned servants whose grasps he had eluded.

As the door to the library closed again, I tried to soothe him. “What’s wrong, nipperkin?” I asked, thinking I already knew the answer.

“Papa’s alive again,” Charles sobbed.