The Soldier's Dark Secret

‘When you eat, sleep, march and fight with the same men for months on end, you tend to learn a lot about them,’ Jack said. ‘Besides the fact that I helped write hundreds of their letters, and paid the occasional visit to the families of some of the men who died in battle.’ He grimaced. ‘Once, to check on a man—a very good man—who had lost both legs.’ Jack pursed his lips. ‘I remember at the time he said it would have been better for his family if he had died. I told him he was wrong, that they would rather have him alive at any cost. I had no idea how patronising that was of me, until I saw— Well, I’ve not forgotten it.’

‘Since Waterloo, the streets of Paris have been filled with men who fought with Napoleon. I don’t know what will become of them.’

‘London is no different.’ Jack took a sip of wine. ‘Victors or vanquished, the soldier’s fate is often the same. That is the true price of peace. Something ought to be done.’

‘I will paint them, and you will have engravings made of my work, and you will use them to show all the people with money and influence—your Parliament, your brother, the Duke of Wellington—and they cannot fail to see that something must be done.’

‘It’s a good idea, though I doubt Wellington will wish to have anything to do with it. Too embarrassing for him to be faced with the evidence. I know,’ Jack said, amused by the indignant expression on Celeste’s face, ‘they were his army. Without them he would not have had his great victory.’

‘Nor his great ego,’ she interjected.

Jack laughed. ‘You have his measure very well. It has to be said though, it was his great ego that won us the battle. He never once faltered in his belief that we would triumph, and there were times, believe me, when many other of his officers did.’

‘Not you?’

‘No, not me. The man is a pompous, conceited, philandering egotist, but as a soldier, as a commanding officer, he is second to none. Not even Napoleon.’

Celeste’s brows shot up. ‘You admire the man you spent all those years at war with?’

‘As a soldier.’

Jack looked down at his plate and discovered he’d eaten the tomato tart. His glass was empty. Celeste had folded her napkin neatly on her own empty plate. He got to his feet and moved the shabby settle closer to the fire, stoking the embers with more of the wood which he’d found neatly stacked in one of the small outbuildings. They sat together, watching the flames and sipping the last of the wine. ‘I don’t think I’d make a very good politician,’ Jack said. ‘I am a man of action. Or I used to be.’

Celeste’s hand found his. ‘You still are. If it were not for you, I would still have been trying to work up the courage to enlist the help of one of those Bow Street running men. You have solved the mystery of Maman’s locket and discovered the names of her parents. You have traced this Arthur Derwent, and you persuaded the great Duke of Wellington to tell you top-secret information that I would never have known existed, never mind obtained permission to read. Which puts me in mind of something I have been meaning to ask. Has he called in his favour and asked you to return to his service? Could you do so without returning to the army?’

‘Half of his staff have done so in diplomatic roles. The embassy in Paris is full of my former comrades. This most likely sounds paradoxical, given my former role, but I never practised or approved of deception. I may be wrong, but my impression is that deception, flattery and downright lies are at the heart of the diplomatic service.’

Celeste laughed softly. ‘In that case, I can think of no one less suited.’

‘I wish that were true, but you know it’s not.’

‘Jack, you could not be more wrong. It is the fact that you are honest, and that you have a conscience, and that you will not accept the lies of the army and of Wellington that makes you different from that Colonel Carruthers and all the others.’ Celeste turned sideways on, gently forcing him to look at her. ‘You are the one who is right, not them. What you saw, regardless of how it happened, it was a terrible thing, and it will always be with you. As it should be. But that is a very different thing from taking on the burden of blame.’

‘It was my fault, Celeste. I thought I’d made it plain.’

‘It may have been. It may not have been. I might have saved my mother from drowning herself if I’d listened to her. I may not have. You are so very set on proving that I could not have, so very set on sparing me the guilt that you are so very determined to keep to yourself. Are the cases really so very different?’

‘Yes,’ he replied automatically, ‘of course they are. You know they are.’

‘I know you think they are. Just as I know you think this—us—is hopeless.’

‘Don’t. Please don’t. I can’t bear it.’

‘Jack.’ She touched his cheek. ‘Jack, you don’t have to.’

‘I do.’

‘Then I must bear it too.’