Remember Love (Ravenswood #1)(44)
Ben remained with his brother throughout those years, except for the two-month period he spent with Nicholas, who was so severely wounded at the Battle of Talavera that it seemed certain he would lose a leg and very likely his life as well. Devlin spent a week with him too, but when duty called him back to his regiment, he went, leaving Ben behind. Ben in turn had proved himself to be a force to be reckoned with when he was confronted by surgeons—nothing but sawbones to his mind—who thought they were going to get away with sawing off his brother’s leg when it was not by God necessary and they would do it at peril of their lives. Nick kept his leg and, ultimately, his life.
Devlin did not see much of his brother apart from that one-week stretch, when Nicholas was so crazed with fever and pain that it was doubtful he even knew that two of his brothers were hovering over him like fierce, cursing angels the whole time. He was a major in a prestigious cavalry regiment. He was always resplendent in scarlet coat with copious amounts of gold lace and facings. His fellow officers were almost all sons of aristocratic fathers. Devlin was one rank lower and attached to a regiment that had little prestige, except for the growing respect for the rifle as a superior weapon to the musket, which other foot regiments still used almost exclusively. He also looked less striking in his green uniform coat. His fellow officers were mostly sons of the gentry. Just as he liked it. He wished he were one of them. He wished he could exchange mothers with Ben. Or exchange ages with Nicholas.
Ben was not himself a military man, of course. He was not a servant either, despite his official designation as Devlin’s batman. If he did all those things a real batman would have done, but without the salary—which he had flatly refused—and without being told, then he did them for something to do, he had explained once when his brother had protested. He nursed Devlin through his various injuries except on those occasions when Devlin told him, usually through gritted teeth, to stop fussing, damn it, Ben—it’s a mere scratch. Occasionally, and probably against every military rule that had ever been written, Ben fought in defense of his brother when he had found himself close to the battlefront, and then in defense of his brother’s men, and ultimately in defense of himself. He bore a charmed life, however. The closest he came to being wounded in all of the six years was a slight burn on the outside of one arm as a musket ball whistled by him, too close for comfort, when he was in his shirtsleeves. He grumbled about his damaged shirt and made no mention of the burn.
Like his brother, Ben chose from among the camp followers for his personal comfort. Unlike his brother, though, he picked one woman and kept her—and only her. She was large and strong and plain faced and had red hands and arms from the large washtubs at which she labored every day. She was also true to her man, and Ben was content with her. When she showed signs of getting big bellied and he confronted her on it and she admitted that yes, she was with child but he need not bother his head over it, he went and found the regimental chaplain and married her.
“I am not going to have Marjorie called whore on my account,” he explained to Devlin, whom he had asked to be a witness at the wedding. “She is a good, decent woman, Dev, and she deserves better. And no son of mine is going to be called bastard.”
They called their daughter Joy Ellis, and Devlin did not think there was any irony in the naming. He believed that Ben, in his own quiet way, loved his wife and was happy. He buried her and mourned her with stonelike demeanor when she died somewhere in the Pyrenees of a chill they could not stop to treat properly as they slogged and fought their way into France. She had looked after the infant with uncomplaining devotion, and after her death Ben tucked the child inside his almost-warm-enough greatcoat, next to the heat of his body, and she spread her hands against his neck, nestled her curly head beneath his chin, and nuzzled the collar of his coat, cooing contentedly. She was almost one year old, fully weaned, and not yet quite able to walk. Ben trudged onward without complaint, holding his Joy close to his heart and the rest of his gear and hers on his back.
Now they were in England and on their way to Ravenswood, the three of them. Ben had not yet hired a nursemaid for his daughter, unwilling as he was to let her out of his sight. Devlin had had several appointments with his solicitor in London. After one of these, on the man’s advice, he had visited a tailor to turn himself into a proper English gentleman and had purchased a carriage grand enough for the Earl of Stratton to ride in and four horses worthy of pulling it and him. Ben had also purchased new clothes for himself and his daughter. So here they were, having run dry of excuses for delaying in London, and traveling in far greater pomp and luxury than they had six years and one month ago when they had been going in the opposite direction.
Devlin had written a brief note to his mother, advising her of their impending arrival.
He had not written to anyone else and had not asked news of them either from his solicitor or from Ben. Philippa would be twenty-one now. He did not even know if she was married. Owen would be eighteen. Finished with school. Perhaps about to go up to Oxford? With a career in the church as his objective? It had seemed unlikely when the boy was twelve, but that was a long time ago. Stephanie would be fifteen. Almost grown-up. So many missing years. He ought perhaps to have maintained contact with them. But his very survival—or the survival of his sanity, anyway—had seemed to depend upon his cutting all ties, all news, all knowledge of what he had left behind. And all memories too.
It was impossible to stop oneself from thinking, of course. Thought happened whether one wanted it to or not. But he had stopped himself from thinking of what had once been home. He had done it with a ruthless effort of will, filling his mind with his new life. He had chosen a military career quite deliberately. There would be much upon which to focus his attention, he had thought. And he had been right. Fortunately he had always devoted himself to duty. He had not found it hard to transfer that training to his duties as an officer during wartime.