Page 1 of The Earl's Disguised Governess
Prologue
“It is a hot June day, is it not?”
Ernest gasped as he trudged through tents erected across the battlefield. War was brewing on the horizon, and nobody knew when it would arrive. They were little under two weeks into the summer month, and it seemed every man held his breath on the battlefield, eyes on the horizon, waiting for the cries of war to come for them.
Graham Courtenay, a fellow army surgeon and Ernest’s apprentice, tugged on his high-collared greenish-brown uniform jacket, kept relatively clean, thanks to their aprons they’d left back in the field hospital.
“Indeed,” Graham muttered. “I am tired of the blood, and the war has not even begun.”
Several soldiers had already been injured. Scouts and messengers caught in the crosshairs were sent back with limbs hanging on by a thread and gouges in their muscles and bodies, messages sent in blood on paper. It was unthinkable.
“Do you think the war might even begin?” Ernest could not help asking as they walked through the hard ground in Waterloo. “It has been several days now, and there has beensight nor sound of the French. Perhaps we have been called to war for nothing.”
Graham snorted. “That is wishful thinking.” He frowned. “I am sure the French only wish to keep us waiting. They are a pompous lot; are they not?”
Ernest grunted, not quite agreeing nor disagreeing. He was not there to play politics, only to treat the wounded under the obligation of being called to service. He was following in his father’s footsteps—a physician for the king, in what was said to be a great battle and an even greater victory.
Dread and excitement filled the air, anxiety lingering among the fields.
“Still, I suppose Archibald shall be glad to see our mangy faces.”
Ernest could not help laughing. The battlefield was already too grim not to take a light-hearted moment when it was to be found. They made their way to the tent occupied by Viscount Archibald White, who served as a captain for the king’s army. It was closed, but a soft candlelight emanated from the large blue tent.
“He is no doubt anxiously poring over those maps,” Graham muttered. “He shall be seeing the lay of the land in his sleep if he is not careful.”
“Perhaps that is what he wishes for.”
Several men walked out as they approached, inclining their heads to Ernest and Graham. Ernest recognized one—the Duke of Colchester, whom he had seen at a spring ball only three months ago. The man had danced a wonderful quadrille with a lady in the scandal sheet the following day. He had been somewhat upset over it, yet to Ernest’s knowledge, they had married. Now, the man strode out, stone-faced, a general, ready to lead his troops at the first call of war. He shuddered at the insanity of it. Ernest was a healer, not a fighter, and he was glad for his father’s gifts for being a medic.
“Knock, knock, old man,” Graham called out as they entered the viscount’s tent.
He is a captain now, Ernest reminded himself. That is all he is now. Until we … return.
He cast one more look back out at the empty field, frowning, before he ducked inside.
The tent was indeed lit up by candlelight, and the scent of rum filled the room.
“Good evening,” Archibald said, nodding his head at them. He had a strong face and piercing ice-blue eyes thatlooked right through a man as if he could immediately assess everything in his field of sight. “How was the hospital?”
“Hard,” Graham muttered, rubbing his eyes.
Archibald glanced at Ernest, who nodded. “Hard. But it is our job, and we are proud to serve in the king’s army in such ways, are we not, Graham?”
“Most proud,” his assistant muttered. “But yes. Indeed, it is an honour.”
“Well, I have just finished up my meeting. We have assessed the land. General Whittingham is moving some of his troops to higher land for a better vantage point. He thinks the French shall strike any moment now.”
As if to prove a point, the air went silent, and they strained to listen for gunfire. None came, and they all visibly relaxed. It was possible, even if it felt foolish.
“It seems God is looking kindly upon us at this moment.” Archibald laughed. “Men, tomorrow, we might go to war good and proper. We might lift our rifles and tend to broken bodies or cover up the dead, and we might serve our country. But tonight, we drink, and we remember.” The captain’s face was bright and optimistic. “But most of all, we shall think of the day we return to our loved ones.”
“Oh, here he goes,” Graham said. “Do not make me listen to one more sonnet about your beautiful betrothed.”
“Do not mock me, boy.” Archibald laughed. “For I have power back in London and on the battlefield. Perhaps you would like to empty the chamber pots for the soldiers in the trenches?”
“I am content to listen to you talk about your betrothed, General.” He cleared his throat, nodding his faux agreeance. “Do go on.”
Ernest coughed to cover up a snicker as Archibald pulled up three glasses and poured them each a serving of rum. “Lady Samantha is rather beautiful, is she not? Only many weeks ago, she wore a delightful pink gown to the last ball of the season. It was quite a spectacle. I could scarcely pull my gaze from her. She is very generous with her time, and I cannot wait to promenade with her once again. Oh, those eyes. And her dark hair. It spills like night down her back. Her eyes are the beacons upon which I am guided by in my darkest of days.”
