The Soldier's Dark Secret

There would be a time for explanations, but it was not now. Celeste led him into her living room, where the fire burned and the uncurtained windows showed them the night-time Paris sky. They kissed, the deepest, thirstiest of kisses, as they shed their clothing, claiming each other with their mouths and their hands. They kissed, and they touched, and they sank on to the rug in front of the fire and they made love. There would be a time to discuss the future, but what mattered now was that they had a future, and it started here.

Epilogue

Trestain Manor—two years later

‘ “It was with some interest that we attended the exhibition of paintings which is currently being displayed at the town house of a certain celebrated member of the ton.”’ Sir Charles looked over the newspaper at his wife. ‘Well, we all know who that is a reference to. I wonder how Jack managed to persuade him?’

Lady Eleanor finished pouring the tea. ‘My love, when I think of the amount of money Jack has persuaded the great and the good to part with for this enterprise of his, convincing his lordship to hang Celeste’s pictures in his salon would have been an simple matter.’

Sir Charles laughed indulgently. ‘Very true. Though I confess, they are not the sort of pictures I’d want hanging in my salon. I much prefer those landscapes she used to paint. Very pretty, they were,’ he said.

‘Yes, one could think of many words to describe her recent works, but pretty would not be one which springs to mind,’ Eleanor said with a shudder. ‘Those portraits which she made of the Waterloo veterans, for example. Why must she choose the— Well, frankly, Charles, the shabbiest and the most pathetic of men. As I recall, one had no legs, and another— His face. I could not get the image of that poor man’s face out of my mind for days.’

‘Which was rather the point, don’t you think?’ her husband said drily. ‘That particular set of paintings was, I gather from Jack, almost solely responsible for raising the funding needed to establish the hospital in Manchester.’

‘Jack would say that. I have never seen a man so besottedly in love. Or so proud of his—his wife.’ Lady Eleanor put down her tea cup. ‘You know, it is such a relief to finally be able to address Celeste as Mrs Trestain. I don’t know why it took them so long to get married.’

‘There was the small matter of her origins, though I believe that dear Celeste was rather more concerned about that than Jack.’

‘She is the daughter of an English lady and a French count. Such a romantic story. It is a pity they were not married, but look at the FitzClarences. Being base-born never did them any harm.’

Sir Charles patted his wife’s hand. ‘Would that everyone saw it your way, my dear, but Celeste’s French family will not even acknowledge her.’

‘Well, her English family are very happy to own her. Now that she is finally Jack’s wife, of course. Do read me the rest of that piece, my dear.’

Sir Charles cleared his throat. ‘“The portraits are painted by Mademoiselle Celeste Marmion, who has, we understand, lately taken on the name of Mr Jack Trestain, formerly Lieutenant-Colonel Trestain, known to many of us as the Duke of Wellington’s renowned code-breaker.” Wellington will not like that. He has made it very publicly known what he thinks of Jack’s fund-raising.’

‘To his detriment. I never thought I would say this of the man who saved England, but I think his attitude towards those poor men who fought for him, indeed laid down their lives for him, is shameful.’

‘Absolutely. It is enough to make one consider turning Whig,’ Sir Charles said. He waited for his wife to laugh at his joke and, slightly unnerved when she didn’t oblige, once more returned to the newspaper. ‘“Contrary to what we have come to expect of Mademoiselle Marmion’s work, this latest selection of paintings is bucolic, a mixture of landscapes and portraits, all of which were made in the north of Spain. The funds which Mr Trestain hopes to raise from the sale of the paintings are to be directed towards one village, in recognition of the support which the Spanish peasants gave the British army in the latter years of our war with France.”’

‘It is rather an odd thing to do, is it not?’ Lady Eleanor asked, frowning. ‘Why this particular village?’

‘I am sure it is merely a case of it being representative,’ Sir Charles replied, folding up the newspaper. ‘Symbolic, don’t you know. Shall we take a trip up to town next week? We can take a look at Celeste’s latest exhibition, and we can have dinner with the pair of them. Jack is in fine form and excellent company these days. He is quite restored.’

‘I like to think that we played some small part in his recuperation.’

‘I rather think Celeste must take the lion’s share of the credit for that. And Jack himself. I must say I’m immensely proud of what he’s achieved, even if it is considered beyond the pale by some of my acquaintances.’