The Soldier & Innocence E-Book

Vera Ansén

• Herausgeber: BoD - Books on Demand
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 896

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025

Beschreibung

A novel that inspires courage! In early 19th-century England, many knew war only from the newspapers, unless one was a soldier: The young Major Edward Langley, son of the Duke of Lancashire, experiences his return home as the greatest trial of his life. As Napoleon was finally defeated, a marriage contract binds him to Isabell, the strong-willed daughter of the Earl of Bute, who firmly rejects all forms of warfare. Strong men? Only braggarts go to war - Isabell felt certain of it - defying God's commandment: Thou shalt not kill! But evil does not only lurk in war! As events unfold, Edward and Isabell are denied the comfort of convention. Both are called to make choices of their own, seeking peace of the heart that makes mere survival truly worth living. After years of war and upheaval across Europe, nothing can be taken for granted... This compelling narrative invites us to confront the questions of our own time through the mirror of the past. Three novels. Three soldiers and their families. A story of passion and our search for peace. This is the first.

Leseprobe

To my family

Thank you, Sascha

For all whose true stories are part of this novel

Thank you, Ruthann

Table of Contents

Prologue

1. The Country Children

2. Heroes

3. Friendship and Brotherhood

4. Attention an Love

5. The First Season

6. Drill and Discipline

7. Farewells

8. House Guests

9. Wooing the Unwilling

10. Fallen Angels

11. Romeo, or the Desire to Love

12. Masquerades

13. Infernal Torment

14. In Question of Why

15. Hell‘s Breath

16. Archangel Gabriel

17. Laying Traps

18. Seeking Home

19. Irreconcilable Aversion

20. Leaving Nothing to Chance

21. Coming Home

22. Trial by Fire

23. Own Standards

24. Safe Haven

25. Haunted Souls

26. Duels

27. To love and to cherish

28. Purgatory

29. The Highest Prize

Prologue

Mainland, 1809

“In war, men, only one thing matters: making the right decision, fast! There is rarely a second chance! You need clarity in every thought. Forget who you are beyond the battlefield. Here, only your actions count. Every breath, full focus, one goal: strike the enemy with force and resolve, gain the upper hand, survive… and then, we will once again be the men we wish to be.”

From the corner of his eye, Edward Langley, the commanding Major, saw his adjutant, Billingham, briefly lower his eyelids in silent agreement. It was time. Down in the valley, the first ranks of infantry clashed. The restless anticipation among his men had settled into taut concentration. He gave the signal for them to advance in silence. From horseback, he watched the unfolding battle for a moment longer.

“Miller, take six men and scout ahead,” Edward commanded, his voice firm as he gestured to the left, toward a cluster of trees blocking their view. Once more, his gaze swept across the valley, then to the thicket where he had sensed movement. Threat! The thought flashed through him. The roar of battle below in the valley had already begun to dull his horse’s senses.

“With me!” he shouted, and with rifles at the ready, his men sprinted toward the trees. A cannonball tore through their ranks, ripping a gaping wound into the earth. Soil, gear, and fragments of men hurled into the air. Shots from the flank struck their formation, but with battle cries on their lips, they surged forward. Edward had only one objective: to take down the enemy commander. If their leader fell, it would save countless lives.

Billingham rode beside him, pistols drawn. His horse vaulted over the underbrush as their eyes quickly adjusted to the dim light, where enemy uniforms stood out in stark contrast to the gloom. They needed to push deeper into the woods.

A dull blow to his chest sent him reeling backward. He saw the reins slip from his fingers and felt himself pitch forward, his head striking the mane of his horse. The black mane, through which his hand had so often passed in quiet familiarity, was now his only hold as the ride went on. His left hand was weakening. His right arm hung useless at his side. He could no longer breathe. The world around him was closing in, turning black.

He felt his horse no longer responding to the pressure of his legs. It wanted to save him. On this day, the day he would save no one more. The day there would be no reunion with his men, no exhausted smiles exchanged among the survivors. His right hand, the one he could no longer feel, would never again rest in quiet acknowledgment on the shoulders of his loyal companions. The rhythm of his horse’s gait forced air into his lungs.

He would not win, the thought seared through him. With the last of his strength, he forced his boots free from the stirrups. His heavy body crashed into the rocky bed of a stream, the water curling around him, rousing his senses one final time. War belongs to champions.

Every battle had made him sharper, bolder. Only victory justified losses. Losses no one could understand unless they had been there. The brave laid down their lives to protect the innocent. As certain as the earth circles the sun. This time, he would not win.

Black boots crunched against the gravel beside him. It was over. Feeling nothing, Edward surrendered to the darkness that fully claimed him.

1. The Country Children

Kennhill, Wiltshire, England 1810

A beautiful summer day was coming to an end. The warm sun had heated the terrace, where two large dogs stretched out lazily. The gardeners of Kennhill had, as always, begun their evening routine quietly and without disturbance, watering the potted flowers and holly bushes before dusk settled over the land.

Life here in Wiltshire was defined by its abundant nature, by its care and appreciation. After a day spent outdoors, it was a beloved habit of Lady Evelyn Stuart, Countess of Bute, to gather herself in her private sitting room during the late afternoon. These were the hours when her children, who were hardly children anymore, were often out riding to visit friends or engaged in other adventures. She wanted to be ready when they returned, bursting with excitement, eager to share their thoughts with her. She loved these children more than anything and cherished the carefree life that her husband, Lawrence, had made possible for them here in the countryside.

Her eyes fell upon the letter from her dear friend Lady Hendrika, who, as the Duchess of Osford, led a far more engaged and social life. Already, as her gaze skimmed the first lines in the fading sunlight, Lady Evelyn understood with quiet resolve that the happiness she felt here at Kennhill was bound to the seclusion she maintained. For in the world, that much she knew, things were different.

After so many years of war and displacement in Europe, nothing could be taken for granted anymore, and she preferred not to dwell on the thought of how her children might one day find their way in a world that was constantly changing.

... Perhaps it is merely the loss of my beloved husband Cecil last year that makes me so vulnerable. But sometimes, dearest Evelyn, I truly do not know how to give my three daughters any confidence in the future. Ever since Napoleon imposed his Continental Blockade, the call to war seems unending, drawing young men away to the battlefields of Europe.

Anastasia, my eldest, is seventeen now and determined to marry. But how, and to whom, should I marry her off? With the war in Portugal and the unfortunate state of our royal family’s health, I will certainly not allow her to debut, though it is her greatest wish. I tell her it is for the mourning of her father rather than for the sake of current affairs, because if we were to consider the state of things, soon, we would no longer be able to marry off any girl in England. While our most honorable men give their blood and their lives for our future, we are threatened by the Regency Bill, soon to be ruled by a wastrel and a spendthrift. I wonder, truly, what future we are to expect.

My brother-in-law James could only manage, with all his influence at the Foreign Office, to bring our beloved nephew Edward home. It took him four long months to transport the gravely wounded man back to me in Richmond. His country would have left its ‚hero‘ to die in a filthy field hospital, while our ships escort trading expeditions to Brazil. After Vimiero three years ago, Edward was not even allowed to recover in England, back then, according to the disgraceful Treaty of Cintra, our ships saw fit to ferry the entire French army, along with their weapons and plunder, safely back to France. What a disgrace for us who have lost our own! Forgive me for my blasphemy, but at the time, I wished fervently that those who signed that treaty would never reach our shores again.

I still hold little hope of bringing Edward back to life. The stench of death and decay lingers over him. When he is awake, he is entirely withdrawn, marked by the horrors of those battles. His only thought is that he can no longer serve on General Wellesley’s behalf. Death he still does not fear. And yet, he is only twenty-four …

How unusually desperate her otherwise bold and worldly friend sounded. No doubt, it was Edward’s condition that had so deeply shaken her, for the Duchess could not have held her nephew dearer, had he been her firstborn. Lady Hendrika was not easily shaken by the blows of fate. Lady Evelyn still remembered how the Duchess often spoke of them as ‘the colors that complete the painting.’ She held her friend in the highest regard, for Hendrika had been widowed so young, yet had navigated life with three growing daughters with unwavering strength and dignity.

For herself, Evelyn could not imagine such a thing. Losing her husband would mean losing all certainty about how life could go on without him. Lady Hendrika held one of the rare noble titles that passed through the female line of the family. Unlike other widows, she had no reason to fear being reduced to a mere widow’s portion after her husband’s death. As Duchess, she could preserve and strengthen her esteemed position in society until, one day, she herself would pass her title on to her eldest daughter.

The letters from Lady Hendrika, who spent her year between London, Bath, and her residence at Berryhill, were Evelyn’s carefully tended window into the grand world of personalities and opinion. She herself avoided political discourse, and whenever she took up one of her husband’s newspapers, she would quickly skip over the heated debates on Catholic emancipation.

She could not help but feel troubled by the growing unrest in the world, yet what could she, as a woman, possibly do? Lady Evelyn feared politics and religion as the seeds of turmoil that would never again allow the soul to rest. She had learned early on that life was already difficult enough for women by nature, even though husbands in their circles had grown more understanding and sought to shield their wives.

Not only had her dearest friend Tessy, who had given birth to Edward, died in childbed when the boy was just four years old. As a young girl in her father’s house, Lady Evelyn had spent years caring for a relative who rarely regained full consciousness, always confused, never recovering from a severe childbed fever. With this memory in her heart, she was grateful that Tessy had found release on what must have been the hardest night of her life and had been allowed to return to her Creator, rather than linger in a state of endless suffering.

She would never forget the sight of little Edward at his mother’s funeral, standing beside the towering figure of his father, the formidable Duke of Lancashire, so small, so utterly out of place in this moment of farewell.Beautiful he was, pale, his gaze hollow, and yet so unmistakably Tessy’s likeness. He was her legacy, her memory, her greatest love and hope, as she had often jested in his presence.

When her sister-like friend died, Lady Evelyn, though married to Lawrence, had not yet borne children of her own. Bereft of her beloved confidante, she had felt utterly lost in the world. As she stood there, unable to tear her eyes away from the coffin being carried with solemn steps into the family crypt, Lady Hendrika had quietly stepped to her side. As Tessy’s sister-in-law, she had offered Evelyn a friendship that had been carefully nurtured ever since. She still found comfort in hearing about Tessy’s son, though ever since Edward had joined the military, the letters from across Europe had mostly carried sorrow.

Lady Hendrika’s family was wealthy and had much to give. They were all generous and dutiful people. And yet, it had been remarkable that the Duke had allowed his eldest son to join the military at just nineteen. Purchasing him a commission and sending him off shortly thereafter with Commander Wellesley, who was then known for his campaigns in India, along with thirteen thousand men to invade Portugal. By now, despite his youth, Lady Hendrika’s beloved nephew was already a seasoned war hero, bringing new honor to the family. But was the price not far too high? Why could England not simply live in peace?

A deep sigh escaped her lips. Once again, Lady Evelyn was reminded of how fortunate her own life had been. As a young girl, she had never held to romantic ideas. Her much older sister, Elizabeth, had married for love, but love had brought her no happiness. Evelyn had been too young to understand her sister’s escape from their father’s house, but even now, she could hardly believe her own fortune in having married a warm-hearted and generous man. They lived at a comfortable distance from the bustling metropolis of London, on a small estate in Wiltshire, surrounded by soothing nature and kind neighbors.

Her older husband preferred this secluded life. It was Lady Evelyn’s deepest desire to be the friend and companion her husband could wish for in life. She never felt the urge to seek the company of those her own age. Instead, she was content with the few but valuable friendships they nurtured.

Her children grew up closely connected with the neighboring children of the Earl of Lansdown, who owned a prosperous and well-known estate just over a mile away. The wind carried the laughter of her carefree children through the half-open terrace door into the small drawing room where she was spending her afternoon hours. She let Lady Hendrika’s letter sink onto her lap and rose to see Isabell and Peter rushing toward her.

“I’m faster, I’m faster!“ cried the lively Isabell excitedly, lifting her skirts as she leapt over the neatly kept flowerbeds.

Her brother Peter, two years older, whistled sharply through his fingers as he ran. Alarmed, his two dogs lifted their heads from their sunny spots on the terrace and dashed towards the racing siblings.

“No, no, Arnold and Bernold!“ Isabell gasped as the dogs barrelled into her, sending her tumbling backward down the first steps of the terrace. Meanwhile, Peter reached the terrace first and jumped triumphantly into the air. Lady Evelyn couldn’t help but laugh heartily at the sight.

“First!“ Peter called out over the barking dogs. “I was first. I showed you!“

“Ha! I was first with the horses, and I would have been first on the terrace too!“ Isabell retorted, breathless, as she playfully scratched the dogs’ bellies.

“Never!“ Peter teased, standing tall with his hands on his hips.

“Well then, at least your dogs love me more than they love you,“ Isabell quipped, struggling to get up from the ground between the massive animals.

The Countess stepped out onto the terrace and placed a calming hand on her son’s arm. Peter merely whistled softly through his teeth, and his dogs, still bearing the strange names Isabell had once invented, immediately stopped licking his sister. The well-trained guard dogs trotted reluctantly back to their master and, after this brief diversion, stretched out contentedly once more on the warm terrace stones.

“Your behavior is hardly ladylike, Isabell Stuart,“ Lady Evelyn called out to her rumpled daughter in a stern tone. “I am sure you can find other ways to show your brother how happy you are about his return! Without beating him at riding! Or stealing his dogs’ affection!“

Peter understood the indirect rebuke well enough and jumped down the steps to help Isabell up. She smoothed her skirts and put on an innocent smile. She was simply happy whenever her brother came home from school in Eton for the weekend.

“Come inside, children,“ Lady Evelyn said kindly. “I would like to read you a letter from Lady Hendrika.“ As she turned, she caught sight of Isabell elbowing her brother, only for him to catch her by the ponytail. With a sigh, she chose to ignore both of it.

Isabell was only thirteen, and she missed her older brother Peter more than Lady Evelyn had expected. She had only these two children, and when Peter had first expressed his wish to go to sea a few years ago, driven by an ardent desire to see India, she had, for the first time, realized how much she had grown accustomed to keeping her children’s company for herself. The thought of allowing her half-grown son to enlist in the Navy had shaken her to the core, and she could not be grateful enough to her husband for his firm refusal to permit it.

Certainly, it had been the right decision to send Peter to a good school alongside Andrew Berks, the eldest son of their neighbors. Yet ever since, life on the family estate at Kennhill had become rather dull for his younger sister, Isabell. Eager to demonstrate his fine manners to his mother, Peter escorted Isabell into the drawing room, as befitted a gentleman. He seated himself beside her on the velvet-upholstered settee, taking care not to let his coat brush against her skirts.

Lady Evelyn forbade herself from smiling at such an excess of etiquette and began reading aloud to the restless young spirits from the letter in her hand. She was careful to omit certain passages, whose content concerned the state of the war in Europe and the difficulties Lady Hendrika faced in bringing her injured nephew Edward home from Spain.

… for the reasons outlined above, I am planning this grand celebration at our residence, Berryhill, at the end of the mourning year. I also hope it will bring some consolation to Anastasia. It would be a particular joy for me, dearest friend, to welcome you and the children at the very beginning of Peter’s holidays.

As Edward will not be able to travel to London to receive his decoration, his supreme commander, Wellesley, now newly titled Baron Douro of Wellesley, has personally agreed to present him with the knighthood of the Crown.

The dance performance by our girls is but a small diversion, one that I trust will not be inappropriate to the occasion, yet may provide us with a touch of cheer in these sombre days …

“Edward the ‘hero‘ is to be knighted?“ Peter exclaimed enthusiastically.

“Edward the murderer,“ Isabell muttered sullenly.

With a sympathetic glance at his crestfallen sister, Peter shifted on the settee and, forgetting all polite restraint, turned to his mother with urgency.

“Of course, dearest Mother, I would love nothing more than to go to Richmond and witness Edward being honoured,“ Peter declared earnestly, “but surely you cannot mean for Isabell to dance with those silly geese?“

“Well, Peter, as you might imagine,“ Lady Evelyn replied sternly, “Lady Hendrika certainly does not consider her daughters to be ‘silly geese‘!“

“Of course not,“ Peter said, ill at ease. “Forgive me, Mother.“

“I believe it is a great honour for Isabell that Lady Hendrika would even consider my daughter, despite her rather tempestuous temperament, to be a splendid addition to the ballet choreography,“ Lady Evelyn explained with an approving smile. “In light of our long-standing friendship, it is my pleasure to assist the Duchess in hosting this special celebration. I expect all of us to meet the trust she has placed in us with our very best efforts.“

Silence settled over the Countess’s small drawing room as the evening sun cast a faint greenish hue over what was, in truth, a blue salon.

“Is that not so, my daughter?“ Lady Evelyn asked, slightly impatient.

“You expect me to dance for a bunch of murderers, Mama?“ Isabell drawled. She could still vividly remember her first encounter with a man in uniform. It had been three years ago at the funeral of Isabell’s grandfather. Lady Evelyn had kindly taken along the neighboring children, Andrew and Betty, to London so they could enjoy the city’s attractions for a few days after the mourning ceremonies.

At Lady Hendrika’s invitation, they had stayed at her grand London residence, Osford House, as the Earl of Bute himself did not maintain a house in town. Lady Hendrika had three daughters of her own, yet they found no pleasure in the company of the boisterous country children.

When the stiff Catholic funeral service for the grandfather, whom the children had barely known, had finally ended, they rushed impatiently into the glorious sunlight that warmed the autumn day.

It did not take long before a new quarrel arose between twelve-year-old, plump Betty and Lady Hendrika’s eldest daughter Anastasia, who had been fourteen at the time. Her younger sisters, Franziska and Josephine, soon joined in, mocking the country girl for her clumsiness.

“At least we can walk on our hands longer than you can,“ Isabell interjected defiantly and shoved the dainty Josephine aside. At ten years old, Isabell was quite certain that these know-it-all girls needed to be put in their place. The gathered funeral guests looked on in astonishment as Isabell and Betty, cheered on by their older brothers, raced across the grass beside the chapel on their hands. The girls’ white stockings gleamed in the sunlight, and their skirts tumbled over their faces, leaving them barely able to see where they were going.

Leaning on his crutch, the young, wounded officer Edward watched the unusual spectacle with amusement. A wave of melancholy washed over him at the sight of these carefree country children, so utterly out of place in London’s rigid society. Since the early death of his mother he had been raised almost as an only child, his only company being his tutor as his much younger half-siblings were from his father’s second marriage. It was only at boarding school that he had found real friends, and he was deeply impressed by the strong bond these children so openly displayed.

He had spent much of his holidays at his aunt Hendrika’s house and fully understood the visitors’ frustration with the high expectations of his young, insufferable cousins.

Just as Betty began to wobble and lose her balance, the portly clergyman who had delivered the funeral sermon came hurrying over and put an abrupt end to the spectacle. He snatched up a branch from the ground and yanked Isabell upright, raising the stick to strike her on the spot while Betty let out a startled scream.

“Just you wait,“ Deacon Samuel Preston panted angrily. “You are next!“ As fast as Edward could move with his crutch, he hurried toward him and seized the stick just as Preston raised it for another strike.

“The children are hardly under your authority to punish, sir!“ Edward reprimanded the startled man sharply, refusing to release the stick. Preston was speechless, his gaze shifting to the onlookers who had now turned their attention to the scene.

In his position, it was hardly seemly to publicly oppose a so-called ‘hero’ who had fought for the fatherland, so he straightened himself without letting go of Isabell. “They stood somewhat in the background,“ Preston replied gruffly. “I did not realize you were supervising this spawn of the devil.“

Cold anger rose in Edward as he saw Preston’s fingers pressing around Isabell’s wrist so tightly that his knuckles turned white. “Let go of the girl,“ Edward said calmly into the sudden silence.

Preston muttered irritably about the godless indecency with which the girls had flaunted their undergarments. With one last meaningful glance at the Maltese cross on Preston’s collar, Edward leaned toward Isabell and looked at her intently. “Did he hurt you?“ the unfamiliar officer demanded to know.

Never before had Isabell seen such a handsome, perfectly proportioned face on a man. With his dark hair and clear blue eyes, now fixed on her with solemn attention, she was certain she was looking at the Archangel Gabriel, of whom the priest occasionally spoke on Sundays.

“Did he hurt you?“ Edward asked again, his voice gentler now as he noticed the little girl’s wide, startled eyes.

“No, of course not,“ Isabell said defiantly and quickly wiped the tears from her cheeks. “It‘s just that the grass always pricks my fingers, and then my eyes start watering all on their own. But those over there have no idea about that!“

“I see,“ Edward nodded knowingly, casting a sidelong glance at his horrified cousins.

“Let the little brats lift their skirts to the heavens,“ the humiliated deacon ranted, still within earshot.

“What is your name?“ Edward now asked the frightened Betty, who was all too eager to step into the protective aura of the friendly soldier.

“My name is Betty, but Isi can walk on her hands better than I can. She can also ride better and climb trees better than any of you!“ Betty declared with the pride of the older one and stuck out her tongue at the cousins. Isabell giggled.

Suddenly, the boys knocked Edward over and aimed their sticks at him. “Bang, you’re dead!“ Peter cried excitedly. ‘Just children!’ the thought flashed through Edward’s mind as he fell, the sun blinding him.

“Poor cover, soldier!“ Andrew called out triumphantly. Isabell had seen the sudden shock on Edward’s face and hurried to help him up. The tall man in uniform lay on the ground, pale with pain. He struggled to push himself up on his elbows just as his cousins came rushing over.

“What do you think you’re doing?“ Anastasia shouted, outraged, and shoved Andrew with all her might.

“Our cousin is a hero!“ Franziska exclaimed in disbelief.

“You mustn’t shoot him dead!“ little Josephine cried, breathless.

Peter dropped down onto the grass beside Edward. “Why are you in the military,“ the twelve-year-old asked matter-of-factly, “if you can’t even walk?“ Edward’s adjutant and his batman came striding toward him, but Edward signaled them to wait. “When I joined the army,“ Edward replied seriously, “I could run at least as well as you!“

“And then you had an accident?“ Isabell asked, concerned.

“He was shot,“ Anastasia announced eagerly.

“But Edward’s regiment killed them all!“ Franziska added emphatically.

Shocked, Isabell let go of his arm.

“Isi knows nothing about war,“ Andrew remarked dryly.

Edward allowed his men to help him to his feet.

“And now you will never be able to climb trees again?“ Isabell asked, trying to grasp the full extent of Edward’s misfortune.

“It will heal,“ he said with a wink.

Peter was the first to notice Lady Hendrika approaching with his mother. A few steps behind them followed Elizabeth Preston, Lady Evelyn’s sister.

“I hope you recover very soon, Sir, Officer,“ Peter said quickly.

“Officer? I thought he was a soldier,“ Isabell said, confused, glancing between Edward and her brother.

“She truly has no idea,“ Andrew confirmed once again.

“These children respect nothing,“ Elizabeth grumbled.

“Forgive them, Edward,“ Lady Evelyn said gently. “They meant no harm. I try to keep them away from all this for as long as I can.“ Lovingly, she stroked little Isabell’s head, and Edward bowed politely.

“I cannot blame you for that, my lady,“ he said kindly.

“How can I send you back to Spain when you can’t even handle a few children?“ the Duchess laughed, shaking her head.

“Come now, let us go to the funeral repast,“ Lady Evelyn suggested, finding the public attention far more uncomfortable than she cared to admit. Determined, she linked arms with Lady Hendrika and Elizabeth, who had remained standing stiffly.

“Ah, so you do remember,“ Elizabeth said sharply, “that we are all here for a funeral?“ “Oh, Elizabeth, please,“ Lady Evelyn smiled indulgently. “No one can truly mourn our father, except perhaps your husband, Samuel. Come, let us go!“

Back then, Isabell had never even heard of war, the military or soldiers. By now she understood more, and the thought of traveling to a foreign land to kill other young men, no matter the reason, seemed not only barbaric but utterly senseless. What unsettled her most was how foolish she had been to see Edward as her savior. Like a hero in shining armor, rushing in to rescue her from distress, just as in the fairy tales of childhood. How naïve she had been. And how full of themselves these men were, strutting about in their uniforms and believing they could trample upon the laws of Providence as they pleased. ‘Thou shalt not kill’ was one of the Ten Commandments. Surely, a person of true honor should be able to abide by at least those few simple rules.

“Isabell, you are trying my patience,“ Lady Evelyn said firmly and fixed her daughter with a stern look.

“It’s true, Mama,“ Isabell replied with a sulky expression. “Anastasia and her sisters never miss a chance to make fun of me!“

“Then you will show them that the daughter of the Earl of Bute has nothing to fear,“ Lady Evelyn said meaningfully.

“You think I’m afraid?“ Isabell asked, indignant, sitting bolt upright in an instant. Lady Evelyn smiled gently. She knew she had struck the right chord with her daughter.

“Mama, if it is that important to you, I will join the choreography,“ Isabell said quietly, without enthusiasm. “But only for your sake.“

“That is quite enough for me,“ Lady Evelyn said with satisfaction. “Tomorrow morning, I shall write to Lady Hendrika and tell her how very much we are all looking forward to it!“

The dogs suddenly tore through the reading room, barking wildly, and before Peter could hold them back, the sounds of disaster were already echoing from the hall.

“Damnation, you beasts... aah, ahha!“

“Out, out!“ the butler called out, clearly dismayed.

But by the time Lady Evelyn and the startled children reached the hall, Lawrence Stuart, the Earl of Bute, was already lying on the floor in a rather undignified manner. “Father, oh Father, have patience!“ Peter rushed around him, holding the dogs back. “They only wanted to let you know that I am home.“

“Yes,“ his father sighed deeply, “that much I managed to gather from their barking.“ The butler had helped the Earl to his feet, and Isabell quickly handed her father his finely decorated walking cane. “Father, forgive me,“ Peter said, remorseful. “I will take them to the stables at once!“

“Hold on, my boy,“ the Earl stopped him. “Let me have a look at you. I am glad to see you, Peter!“

“Good evening, Lawrence,“ Lady Evelyn said with a smile, hastening to explain. “I am so relieved you were not seriously hurt. I have told the children a thousand times that the dogs are not allowed inside, and this time we truly could not... “

“It is quite all right, my dearest,“ Lawrence said with a wistful smile, brushing his still beautiful wife’s cheek.

He would have loved to be the kind of father who could share his children’s passions with enthusiasm, but that simply wasn’t who he was. As a much older man, he was just grateful that he had been able to give Evelyn this purpose in life. “How is your friend?“ Evelyn asked her husband gently. Despite the joy of having their son home, she could not ignore the sorrowful shadows beneath his eyes. Tenderly, she took his hand from her cheek and held it tightly.

“Not well, my dearest,“ Lawrence answered without pretense. He knew there was no need to deceive his wife, for she could usually see straight into the depths of his soul. “His doctors have been unable to improve his condition,“ he continued quietly. “It saddens me so deeply that I hardly wish to speak of it.“ Lord Lawrence gave his wife’s hand a gentle press before releasing it.

“Now to you, Peter,“ he said, noting with pride that his son seemed a little more grown every time he saw him. “What news do you bring from your splendid school?“ He placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder. With his other hand resting on his cane, they walked together toward the drawing room.

“I suppose I shall take the dogs to the stables then,“ Isabell sighed. So far, she had failed to draw her father’s attention in any way. Yet she did not begrudge her beloved brother his moment with him. She only wanted to hurry and return quickly to the grand salon, eager to listen to Peter’s account of life at Eton.

2. Heroes

Richmond upon Thames, Summer 1810

The morning air was still pleasantly mild, and so Lady Hendrika had retreated to the far end of the pleasure garden at Berryhill with a few letters she had long intended to read in peace.

The privacy of the beautifully designed garden maze, conceived by Cecil’s uncle like everything else in this remarkable residence, did full honor to its creator. Many times her husband Cecil had brought her to this very part of the garden for precious moments of solitude together.

Softly, the gravel crunched at the far end of the garden. Even this morning, Lady Hendrika had sought some distance from the bustle of her own household, yet it now seemed as though someone intended to track her down. Today was her forty-eighth birthday, but without her beloved husband, with her increasingly exhausting daughters, and a houseguest who was more dead than alive, she had no desire for any kind of celebration. Her utterly exhausted, wounded nephew Edward had barely survived under her roof, and she could hardly have borne another death in the house.

Her late Cecil had always been full of life and brimming with wild ideas. Often buoyed by the fortunate circumstance of not being responsible for the title or its continuation, the Duke of Osford had preferred an unconventional life.

Today, Lady Hendrika wondered whether she ought to have spent more time with him alone. Without the man who had been the center of her heart, the very axis of her well-ordered life was missing. Her grief for him was still so overwhelming that she had yet to embrace what her future as a widow would look like.

The beautiful colors and flowers surrounding her blurred as she let the tears fall, no longer willing to hold them back. The multicolored snapdragons and summer blooms, framed by carefully trimmed boxwood ornaments forming a clover shape in the rotunda, could bring her no joy that afternoon.

For the third time, she attempted to finish reading Lady Evelyn’s letter.

… the children are already quite excited. Above all, the change of air will surely do Isabell a great deal of good, as she so often seems lost without Peter at Kennhill.

I am doing my best to introduce her more and more to needlework and the arts. Pursuits for which, I must confess, she has never shown much patience or inclination. She truly strives to please me, yet I fear she would still abandon everything in an instant for the thrill of a reckless horse race. But I try to take heart in the small progress she makes, hoping that, in time, she may yet grow into the lady she is meant to be.

Lord Lawrence, for his part, is quite content with our absence, as it allows him to visit his friend in Berkshire for an extended stay without feeling that he is neglecting his family. I am certain you already expected that he would send his regrets for your grand celebration, dearest friend, and I can only beg you not to take it amiss. Neither Edward’s knighthood nor even your most gracious invitation alone could have persuaded him.

Even after all these years of marriage, he still shies away from public appearances with me, convinced that he only hinders my enjoyment of such occasions. You know well my thoughts on this matter, yet his decision saddens me nonetheless. Every hour with him is precious to me, and already I find myself troubled by the thought of what life will one day be without him…

Lady Hendrika was grateful for these lines, which reminded her that she was not the only one who loved and missed her husband when he was not at her side.

A few petals drifted down onto her skirts, and as she looked up in surprise, she found her brother-in-law, Sir James Langley, Cecil’s younger brother, standing beside her with a knowing smile.

The steady presence of his tall, imposing figure and his sun-weathered face seemed almost defiant against the years, as though refusing to belong to a retired colonel in his mid-fifties.

“Once a soldier, always a soldier, is that it?“ she said dryly, covering the fact that he had genuinely startled her. “How fortunate we have a pleasure garden where one can so conveniently practice sneaking about.“

“Did Edward tell you that?“ Sir James asked with a knowing grin.

“Yes,“ Lady Hendrika said crisply, “and not in a feverish daze!“

His bright blue eyes, framed by thick dark-grey brows, studied her with amusement before he produced a broken lilac branch from behind his back. “Happy birthday, dearest sister-in-law,“ his warm, pleasant voice filled the rotunda. “You are just as beautiful and wonderful as I have always remembered you. Cecil would have wanted me to propose to you after his passing. But alas, I cannot shake the feeling that you have had quite enough of soldiers for the time being?“

“Cecil would never have wanted you to court me in earnest, you fool,“ Lady Hendrika laughed, casting an indulgent glance at the lilac sprig, now doomed to wilt for the sake of James‘ ridiculous declaration of love. “He was far too stout and ungraceful to bear the thought of his athletic younger brother stealing his girl.“

“I know,“ Sir James admitted with mock despair. “When Father bought me my commission, Cecil sent me off with the words: ‘At the very least india and do not return before the birth of my first son!’“

Lady Hendrika laughed so heartily at this outrageous exaggeration that her tears of sorrow mingled with those of joy. When her amusement subsided, the two mourners exchanged a look of quiet understanding.

“Oh, James! I miss him so,” Lady Hendrika said softly. She patted the bench beside her, wordlessly inviting him to sit.

For a while, they sat in silence. “It is good that you have stayed these past weeks, James,” Lady Hendrika said with genuine affection. “I know how the North keeps calling you back. But I cannot imagine how I would have managed this brooding patient without you.”

“But dearest Hendrika, do not be unjust,” Sir James said with a frown. “Edward is still young, and now he must come to terms with the fact that he will never return to battle.”

“To battle?” Lady Hendrika repeated incredulously, shaking her head. “How many battles must a soldier fight to prove his bravery and sense of duty? Must he throw himself into danger again and again until it is his last?” “Yes, Hendrika,” Sir James answered firmly. “If you put it that way: Yes! Edward is by far one of England’s most fearless soldiers. He carries nothing within him that would make him fear death.”

“But that is madness!” Lady Hendrika cried, visibly shaken.

“Please, please,” Sir James raised his hands in a calming gesture. “With all his heart, he grants his younger brother title and estate, while he himself wishes only to serve England. One might call that noble.”

“It is devoid of all reason,” Lady Hendrika retorted angrily.

“I see your distress, dearest sister-in-law,” Sir James relented, wrapping an arm around her trembling shoulders. “After losing Cecil last year, you now fear for Edward.”

“I have feared for him, as you put it, for five years and four months,” Lady Hendrika managed to say, struggling to sound composed. “Since his mother’s death, Edward has been like a son to me. That his father’s lack of understanding would drive his eldest into the military... I never saw it coming. I was not prepared!” Her own anger toward the Duke of Lancashire stirred. “For now, at least, he is here again,” Sir James attempted to soothe his distressed sister-in-law. “And his recovery is progressing. It was no small feat to arrange a transport for Edward that would not kill him after he had taken that shot through the lung.”

“He will forever be in your debt for pulling him from that sickbed,” Lady Hendrika declared firmly, squeezing Sir James’ hand in gratitude. “And so will I!”

The colonel brought her hand to his lips with formal courtesy and smiled at her conciliatorily. “Until the festivities, I must take my leave, dearest Hendrika,” he announced in his smooth, reassuring tone. “I have brought several letters from London for Edward. He is in high demand. Among them is a letter from the Prime Minister. I only hope they will not use his next decoration as an excuse to discharge him. That is something he could hardly bear at present.”

“You are leaving me after all?” Lady Hendrika remarked in dismay, rising from the now uncomfortably hard stone bench. “But you will return in time for the celebration, won’t you, James?”

“I would not dream of missing my nieces’ ballet performance,” Sir James said mischievously. “If they take after their father, it promises to be most entertaining!”

“Oh, James!” Lady Hendrika laughed, shaking her head, and linked arms with her incorrigible brother-in-law. Together, they strolled back through the garden toward the residence.

Although Berryhill had been expanded multiple times over the past century by her husband’s uncle into a masterpiece of English Gothic architecture, the estate, with its two wings, numerous halls, and winding corridors, did not seem particularly suited to housing her nephew comfortably in his current condition.

Lady Hendrika decided that Cecil’s former study, a spacious library on the ground floor, would be the most practical choice as Edward’s sickroom due to its size and central location. Since washing and tending to him was a laborious task, she had all carpets, unnecessary furniture, and decorations removed. Instead, two comfortable armchairs were brought down from her own chambers. Chairs in which she and Cecil had once spent many hours playing cards and reading together.

Edward’s adjutant, the Sergeant Jason Billingham, had taken an indefinite leave from the regiment after Sir James’ arrival at the field hospital and now rarely left Edward’s side, shadowing him like a silent guardian.

At first, Lady Hendrika was unsure what to make of this exceedingly quiet man, who, despite being only two years older than Edward, already had streaks of silver threading through his red curls, which he kept tied back at the nape of his neck with a leather band. Billingham insisted on setting up his quarters in the very room where Edward was being cared for.

After a week, however, Lady Hendrika had managed to assert herself enough that his field bed was replaced with a servant’s cot, placed in front of a now permanently closed doorway leading to the great hall. Once a few additional curtains were installed to grant the adjutant a minimum of privacy, the Duchess resigned herself to the Irishman’s stubbornness and allowed him to continue his devoted care for Edward.

The journey had been grueling for the severely wounded man, forcing them to keep Edward in a deep sleep throughout the crossing with a constant administration of laudanum. It had been exhausting weeks for Sir James, Billingham, and the involved servants to wean him off the morphine while preventing further fever and infections.

After the Colonel had brought a former regimental doctor from his time in India up from London, and this man had taken over Edward’s treatment from Dr. Simmons, the Duchess’ household physician, clear signs of recovery began to show. Billingham seemed to get along well with the pragmatic Dr. Blanks.

From then on, Lady Hendrika was also permitted to visit Edward regularly, though his persistent ill temper seemed enough to drive away even the kindest soul. She tried in vain to persuade her perpetually bickering daughters to read to the patient more often and keep him company. Most of the time, they could not agree on who should read when, or Edward’s cynical remarks on their chosen passages soured them on their duties as caretakers.

Edward’s thoughts circled endlessly around those final moments before the enemy bullet struck him, sending him slipping from his horse.

By now, he knew every texture of the wooden paneling in the library, having studied it in the shifting light of different times of day. He had counted the spines of the books over and over again. By shelf, by alcove, by color, by size. The enforced idleness was driving him mad. And memories haunted him.

They had been positioned on the hilltop as the rearguard when something in the battle unfolding below had struck him as odd. Unable to put it into words just yet, he had sent scouts into the nearby woods. Then, suddenly, it had become clear, at least two ranks of the advancing infantry were missing.

Wasting no time waiting for the scouts to return, he had given the order for his men to move to the flank rather than descend into the valley. A cannonball had shrieked toward the hilltop before they had even heard the shot. In the chaos of the explosion that followed, they had charged toward the woods, where the enemy had been forming for an ambush.

Later, in the field hospital, they had told him that his intervention had secured England’s victory in the valley, as the anticipated flank attack had never come. And yet, he should have led the assault differently. More precisely, with greater focus, without endangering his men so needlessly in an ambush he should have foreseen.

A servant entered the library and placed a tray with soup in front of him. Every forenoon, they brought him soup. How he despised it by now! Whenever he tried to lift the spoon to his mouth, he could not help but notice how much thinner his wrists had become. Today, he was lying far too low to eat properly, but the servant had already left.

His empty-headed cousin Franziska, droning on about the trivialities of London society from the newspaper, showed no intention of stopping and would have been of no help in propping him up, even if she had.

Billingham sat in an armchair by the fireplace, not looking in his direction. The sturdy Irishman was always there, and the many duties he took upon himself in Edward’s care were more than the young major could stomach. His aunt employed valets to handle shaving and washing, but Billingham was the only one who would not be cowed by Edward’s curses when they tried to move his weakened body, despite the pain.

Edward recoiled at the smell of himself and his bedding, so Billingham had the household staff change the linens far more frequently than the doctor deemed necessary. And as the only one able to shave Edward’s hollowed cheeks without nicking him, the adjutant had unwillingly inherited that duty as well.

Billingham appeared to be resting, so Edward slowly, laboriously, lifted the spoonful of puréed soup to his lips. Suddenly, Franziska giggled, unexpectedly, since Edward had not been listening to her at all. Horrified, he stared down at the spoon, watching as its contents spilled onto his chest, his uncontrollable trembling betraying him. “Billingham,” Edward called weakly, but the adjutant did not seem to hear him.

Franziska set aside the newspaper and hurried to his bedside. “I can feed you, cousin,” she offered eagerly, curtsying undeterred by the dangerously forbidding expression on the patient’s face. “You can do no such thing,” Edward growled, pressing his fists into the mattress to push himself upright.

Franziska stood motionless before him, eyes wide, as a jolt of pain shot through his right side, making him slump onto his shoulder with a groan. The tray tipped, and the bowl slid just out of Franziska’s reach. Scalding soup seeped through the thin sheet, spilling down his stomach, along his hips. With a disgruntled huff, Edward let himself sink back into the pillows. Franziska bit her lip, feeling awkward, realizing that this was certainly not a part of a man’s body a fifteen-year-old girl ought to regard too closely... or assist with.

“Billingham!” Edward snapped, hurling the useless spoon still clutched in his hand against the armrest of the chair where the adjutant had been resting.

“I will fetch someone at once,” Franziska offered hastily when she saw Billingham struggling to rise from his seat. At the sight of Edward’s furious expression, the adjutant quickly straightened himself and hurried over.

“Yes, sir?” Billingham asked at once, squaring his shoulders.

“What the devil is wrong with you?” Edward growled, the soup soaking further into his clothes.

“I must have fallen asleep, Major,” Billingham admitted stiffly, immediately setting to work, removing the tray and bowl from Edward’s bed.

“With all that prattling, you managed to sleep?” Edward grumbled, causing Franziska to flush a deep red. “I wish I could have!” Billingham cast the girl a sympathetic glance and quietly asked her to fetch the servant who usually helped him reposition Edward. Fighting back tears of shame, she fled from the room.

Under his adjutant’s reproachful gaze, Edward lowered his head in remorse. With practiced efficiency, Billingham propped him up into a sitting position and stripped away the soiled linens.

‘Sleep,’ Edward thought bitterly. He only wished to die. Just as fate had intended for him in that battle.

After Lady Hendrika had calmed her weeping daughter, she stepped quietly into the library, where nothing remained to recall the unpleasant incident. Edward appeared to be asleep, while Billingham sat in a chair near the sickbed, smiling as he read the newspaper articles Franziska had marked with a colored pencil.

Silently taking her leave, the Duchess closed the library door behind her and found herself wondering whether she could still love her nephew. Now that nothing seemed to remain of the man she had once held in such esteem, after this last injury. Secretly, she admired Billingham, who seemed entirely untroubled by it all. What had these men endured together, that now bound them in this quiet, unshakable understanding?

“Major Langley,” Billingham roused the dozing man later that day. “I should like to read you a few letters from London.”

“Leave me be, Billingham,” Edward muttered tonelessly.

In the dimly lit room, he could not make out Billingham’s face, but he heard the adjutant toss the stack of letters onto the foot of the bed before turning on his heel. With brisk strides, he crossed the library and drew back the curtains with purposeful force.

“The weather is mild today, Major,” Billingham stated firmly, seemingly unaffected by his superior’s dismissive tone. “I suggest that, from now on, you spend the late afternoon hours on the terrace.”

“You are to leave me alone, Sergeant,” Edward growled irritably. During his laudanum withdrawal, they had strapped him to the bed, and the raw, painful sores on his back and hips made lying down an ordeal in itself.

Billingham regarded him briefly from a distance before turning his gaze back to the broad sandstone terrace that stretched along the entire south wing of the estate.

“Assuming your consent,” the adjutant continued, unfazed, “I shall instruct the staff to arrange planters in a knight’s move formation outside our quarters. That way, you will remain shielded from unwanted glances, Major Langley.”

“Billingham!” Edward spat the name in warning. What was meant as a roar came out as little more than a feeble cough, sending another sharp pain stabbing through his right side.

When Edward finally caught his breath and opened his eyes, he found his adjutant standing directly before him.

“Yes, Major Langley?” Billingham inquired calmly.

“We are no longer at war, for God’s sake,” Edward whispered, exhausted. “Stop calling me Major, Billingham, for the love of the devil!”

“And how would you prefer to be addressed?” Billingham inquired, sounding both puzzled and affronted. “Lord Langley, Marquess of Lancashire, My Lord?”

“Oh, Billingham, old friend,” Edward sighed, sinking wearily back into his pillow. “Call me Langley Cannon Fodder, Edward Bayonet-Bait... whatever comes you to mind.”

Moved, the adjutant stood motionless before his wounded superior. No words would come to him.

“If those fools in London mean to discharge me, then it has all been for nothing,” Edward murmured softly, before drifting back into his restless sleep.

Lady Hendrika permitted Billingham to extend his arrangements for her nephew onto the terrace, but her insistence that he take up residence in his designated guest room proved futile. Though his bed was removed from the library and the doors to the great hall were now left open more frequently during the day, as soon as night fell over Berryhill, the stubborn adjutant had his cot set up in the grand library within moments and continued to sleep within calling distance of Edward. With considerable effort to conceal her irritation, Lady Hendrika was forced to acknowledge through her household staff that the bed in the guest room prepared for Billingham had not been used even once.

The Duchess eventually chose to lay the dispute over Billingham’s accommodations to rest, as she had come to deeply admire the seemingly endless patience this peculiar man displayed with her nephew. Instead, she surprised him with an offer: would he like to invite someone dear to him to stay in the unoccupied guest room? After all, he had been with them for so long, yet had taken no leave for himself.

Caught entirely off guard by such generosity, the soldier could only offer a polite word of thanks. Without unnecessary elaboration, he explained that his family lived in Ireland and that, since he had renounced his faith to join the army, there was no one left there who would wish to visit him in England. An awkward silence settled over the breakfast parlor, bathed in the golden light of morning. In these times, it was not noble birth that most divided the enlightened souls of Great Britain, but rather the enduring and futile exclusion of Catholics.

Billingham inclined his head and swiftly took his leave, carrying breakfast for himself and Edward. Struggling for a response, Lady Hendrika watched the determined man depart, momentarily at a loss for appropriate words.

Without further regard for Edward’s reluctance to acknowledge the letter from Prime Minister Perceval, Billingham, in his calm and steady voice, began reading it aloud on one of the following afternoons, as the last rays of the evening sun illuminated the terrace:

... To our esteemed Major, Lord Langley, Marquess of Lancashire. London, 1810.

Honored servant of our fatherland, though we intend to soon recognize your sacrifice for our freedom with knighthood …

“I do not want to hear this, Sergeant,” Edward growled irritably, turning away. He had been moved outside in his wheeled bed, and though his sore back had healed well from days of sitting, he still felt far from ready to face the end of his soldier’s life.

Billingham stepped around the bed and, for the first time, looked at Edward with unwavering intensity and quiet sympathy.

“What?” Edward asked, suddenly alert, pushing himself upright.

“At times, it takes a man not to flee like a mouse,” Billingham said firmly, his gaze steady and unrelenting.

“That is mine,” Edward muttered, tugging impatiently at the blanket.

“Did all of it mean nothing in the end?” the adjutant asked, a serious doubt in his voice.

“Why didn’t you just leave me there in that muddy creek, Billingham?” Edward’s voice was laced with bitter accusation. ”I still freeze today when I think of that cold.”

He fumbled clumsily with the blanket, trying to pull it higher over his shoulders. In all his years at war, he had never truly felt cold. Winter in Spain had been merciless, but he had endured it. This was different. But never had the chill seeped into his very bones the way it did now, since that last injury.

“Maybe because I’ve known that cold too,” Billingham said, his voice quiet but firm. “Except when I was with you, Major.” He had spoken the rank deliberately, quietly but with intent. In all three regiments he had served, never had he met a soldier like Langley. Having been assigned to such an unyielding, life-loving, and selfless officer had been the greatest stroke of luck in Billingham’s otherwise unforgiving life. No other superior had ever shown such care for his men, in battle or in the fragile peace between them. For all the bitterness, Billingham was far from ready to abandon the man he had once revered to his wounds and the suffocating weight of his own self-pity.

“May I continue reading now?” Billingham asked, not truly waiting for an answer. “The light is fading.”

With practiced hands, he draped the Duchess’s shawl over Edward’s shoulders before settling himself at the foot of the bed, making it abundantly clear that no further objections would be entertained. The evening wind had already begun to stir.

... In these challenging times, we wish to emphasize that we cannot and will not forgo the service of outstanding soldiers who are no longer suited to the rigors of battle. Since the collapse of the French monarchy, it has become necessary to establish an intelligence network with extraordinary and far-reaching powers, enabling us to root out enemies and harmful individuals who exploit these uncertain times to sow confusion or enrich themselves at the expense of our nation, regardless of their noble status and without attracting public attention.

Thus far, our primary focus has been the pursuit of title and estate thieves and the apprehension and disenfranchisement of war profiteers. However, by enlisting men of your esteemed experience, we hope to counter the overwhelming enemy with new strategies, using targeted and strategic individual actions to curtail the seemingly endless bloodshed on the continent.

This endeavor requires men of exceptional skill from all social ranks. Alongside your unwavering bravery in the face of the enemy, your high social standing is of particular significance for diplomatic introductions across Europe.

It is an extraordinary honor for us to offer you the privilege of extensive discretion in shaping your future duties, both in terms of personnel and operational focus, within the Crown’s intelligence service.

We sincerely hope to dissuade you from returning to your regiment and instead invite you to London as soon as your recovery permits. We look forward to discussing all further considerations with you in person at greater length.

With our best wishes and utmost respect,

Signed by

Prime Minister Spencer Perceval

and the Lord Chancellor of Internal Affairs, Lord Cummings.

Twilight cast the sprawling gardens in gentle hues. Neither man spoke a word. Billingham watched with quiet satisfaction as a slight furrow appeared on Edward’s brow. His gaze told the adjutant that, somewhere in the darkness of his aimlessness, a spark of hope was trying to take hold.

Still silent, Billingham rose from the foot of the bed and, with a simple gesture, signaled the ever-watchful servant to come forward and help him return Edward to the library.

3. Friendship and Brotherhood

Berryhill, Richmond upon Thames, Summer 1810

The sun stood high in the sky as Peter Stuart, the young Viscount of Bute, took the opportunity to write to his neighbor and school friend, Andrew Berks, about the events of the past weeks. Since the start of the summer holidays, he had been staying at Berryhill Hall with his mother, Lady Evelyn, and his younger sister, Isabell, as guests of Lady Hendrika, the widowed Duchess of Osford.