But nonetheless he had taken the spade a careless gardener had left in the grounds, found a place far from any well-trod paths, and dug this deep hole in the dirt. It was a pitiful kind of secret for the half alive, half dead man who’d returned and was frightened of the world at large. It was just big enough for a man his size to huddle in and pretend everything beyond the mud was something he didn’t have to face. It was pathetic, he knew it, and yet he couldn’t bear not to come.
It was freezing cold and damp and bloody uncomfortable after awhile with his legs bent under his chin, but that was alright. It was how it should be. He had lost so many in the war, comrades and friends. Men he’d loved like brothers, men he’d hated but would trust his life to, men for whom he would’ve died. They rotted now in the freezing mud, either back in England or in some forgotten field in France.
Somehow, he felt a little less of the burden of their guilt out here, in the dirt and the cold. Why, after all, should he have so much when they were nought but bones? He closed his eyes, willing the images to stay away, but he was on the battlefield once more.
They’d been grievously outnumbered, and Edward had been prepared to die. He’d expected to. For his part in the battle, he’d been in company with twelve thousand men, turning out at two in the morning and marching through the night from the great city of Brussels. Twenty miles later, tired and dusty and parched on an uncommonly hot day, they had faced forty thousand French opposing them, heavily sheltered in thick woodland. They’d barely had the chance to draw breath before the bastards were on them. The numbers of French cavalry far exceeded that of the British, and Edward had watched in despair as his comrades were cut down despite their heroic efforts, leaving the remaining infantry open to attack. Somehow, he still did not know how, he’d survived the cull. Horse and rider as one, golden, defying blades and bullets and canon fire, until the last.
Until then, he’d been untouchable, blessed, cursed to survive.
Three times, the French cavalry charged the British lines, killing with impunity until they were forced to form squares of battalions. Yet the men never wavered, and Edward thought he had never seen such courage and gallantry. Of the fine brigade who had entered the field that day, by nightfall they could barely scrape together a single battalion, and that not exceeding four hundred men.
Thousands upon thousands lay dead or dying, and as a deal of the action had taken place in corn fields along a huge swathe of countryside, many hundreds died from lack of assistance, being unable to crawl away and find help. Their cries had echoed through the night, pleading for help, for their mothers ... for death. The sound of it echoed still in his ears. Edward thought he would never again be able to look upon a field of corn and see anything but a river of blood.
He put his head in his hands, clutching at his hair and shivering, though he felt nothing of the cold, only the horror of it, chilling his blood and his bones and his very soul. Suddenly, he pitied his wife. The fool thought herself safe from harm now, yet this was what poor Miss Holbrook had married, some creature bathed in blood, neither living nor dead, and knowing not where he belonged.
***
Belle dozed on the great four-poster, too full of misery to actually crawl beneath the covers, though the fire in the hearth had long since died, and the room grew colder by the moment. She had seen the snow start to fall several hours ago, big soft flakes, covering the countryside like a thick winter fleece. A soft knock at the door caught her attention, though, and she jolted awake.
Surely not now?
Pulling on a dressing gown, she scurried to the door and pulled it open just a crack, to see her husband’s valet, the man he’d referred to as Charles. Blinking in surprise, she held her wrap a little tighter.
“May I help you?”
The fellow took off his hat with a hasty hand and looked awkward, clearing his throat. He had the beginnings of what looked like a tremendous black eye that she felt certain was swelling as he spoke. “Er, actually yes. Least ways, I’m hopin’ ye might ‘cause I’m buggered ... ‘scuse my French, m’lady, but I don’t know what t’ do with the fellow.”
It took Belle a moment to comprehend what the man was saying, but finally it dawned on her. “You are having difficulties ... with the marquess?” she guessed, wondering what on God’s green earth the man expected her to do about it?
“That’s about size of it, alright,” the funny, wiry fellow agreed, twisting his hat around in his hands. “Thing is, ‘e won’t budge, and the snow’s fallin’, an’ ‘im soaked to the bone already ...”
“Do you mean to say he’s outside, in this weather?” Belle demanded in alarm.
“Been outside best part o’ the day, by my reckonin’,” the fellow agreed. “Been drinkin’, too, and, normally speakin’, I can handle that, but ‘e won’t ‘ave it tonight, m’lady. I’ve been reasonable, an’ I’ve pleaded, and I’ve tried punching him in the face.”
Belle gasped in alarm.
“Aye, well, ye can see where that got me!” the fellow retorted, apparently finding nothing amiss in punching his employer, who happened to be a peer of the realm. “So, the truth is, I’m desperate, an’ ... well, I wondered if you might talk ‘im down, like?”
Belle stared at him in astonishment.
“Me?”
The idea that this strange man was relying on her to do anything with Lord Winterbourne was laughable. Did he know nothing of his master? “But surely one of the men, or several ...” she began as Charlie shook his head back and forth, slow like a pendulum, his face solemn.
“No. Won’t fadge,” he said, looking grim. “The fellow’s ripe for a fight, he’ll likely break bones, and we can’t afford to lose any of the staff.”
“No, I should think not!” Belle exclaimed, alarmed beyond anything, now, at the idea of it. “W-well,” she stammered, still having no idea what exactly the man expected of her. “Give me a moment to put on a coat and some boots.
Belle shut the door and scurried about the unfamiliar room, trying to find the things she needed in the light of her one remaining candle. Her heart was thudding with apprehension and she felt quite sick, but she’d never been one to shirk her responsibilities, and, well ... her husband was her responsibility now. May God help her.
By the time they reached the stables Belle was shivering hard. Her pelisse was worn and thin, and as only her nightdress and wrap lay beneath the layers, she was frozen through in moments. The snow leaked into her boots and froze her toes, and the very idea that she was about to try and reason with her angry husband - her angry, drunk husband - was more than enough to chase any lingering warmth from her bones.
“‘E’s ‘ere somewhere, the daft bugger,” Charlie grumbled, though the affection behind the words was clear enough. “Over ‘ere,” he called, after he’d searched a few of the stalls. Belle ran over to where Charlie was and looked into an empty stall to see her husband, huddled in the corner on the freezing stone floor. His jacket was gone, his remaining clothes filthy and covered in mud and his cravat discarded altogether, thrown into a steaming pile of manure.