Go after the command of the Rogues, fight Major Bartlett for it, and one day, when you are a general, I will boast that I met you once, on the field of Waterloo.
Rose
Flint ran his fingers over the marks where tears had fallen, blotting her writing. I won’t marry anyone else…I will boast that I met you once…the life you gave back to me.
He waited until his v
ision cleared and his hand was steady before opening out the other sheet. She had left in the night, taking her maid with her. Papa was not to worry, she had plenty of money with her and she knew the way. She was going home to England to think.
‘How will she be travelling?’ He realised that Lord Thetford had a greatcoat slung around his shoulders, and his hat and gloves lay on the table.
‘Canal passenger boat would be cheapest, but she has funds. I imagine she has hired a carriage to Ostend for speed.’ He picked up his hat. ‘Why has she done this? I don’t understand it.’
‘I thought she loved you,’ Lady Thetford said, glaring at Flint over her handkerchief. ‘What did you do to drive her away?’
‘Failed to listen to her.’ Failed to speak to her about what was in his heart with conviction because he was so shaken by it himself. Failed to make her trust him. Failed her. ‘If she hired a chaise and four, she’ll be almost in Ostend by now. If she can catch the tide she’ll be at sea by the time I get there. Where will she go in England?’
‘The London town house or the place in Kent she inherited from her godfather.’ Lord Thetford turned to the door. ‘Come on.’
‘I’ll ride, go alone, it will be faster. Give me the addresses. You stay here with Lady Thetford, sir. She needs you and it will cause talk if both of us leave Brussels.’
*
‘Moss!’ The ex-sergeant was on his feet as Flint slammed into the kitchen. ‘Find Major Bartlett. Tell him to go to headquarters, tell them I have had to leave the country on urgent family business. Give him my papers and tell him to take over my work.’
‘You’re going absent without leave?’ Moss was already jamming his battered hat on his head.
‘Rose has left, gone to England.’ Flint grabbed pen and paper and scrawled two lines. ‘Here. That’s my resignation. Give that to Bartlett, too, tell him to deliver it. And tell him I’m going to jam his teeth down his throat and tie his balls in a knot next time I see him.’
Maggie, uncharacteristically grim-faced, handed him his wallet from the dresser. ‘I’ll pack a valise. You going to hire a carriage?’
‘No. I’ll ride. Just what you can fit in a saddlebag while I fetch Old Nick, Maggie.’
He did not stop to hear her reply, but ran. The stallion, sworn at, behaved. Dog, ordered to his bed, cowered. But Maggie stood her ground when he brought Old Nick to a snorting stand in the yard and took the saddlebag from her.
‘Do you love her?’
‘Yes.’ He tightened the straps and gathered up the reins.
‘Tell her, then.’
‘I did. She doesn’t believe me.’ He gave the stallion its head, hooves skidding on the cobbles.
Behind him he heard Maggie shout, ‘Don’t talk to a woman about honour and duty, you id—’ The rest was lost in the noise of the street.
*
Four days after he had left Brussels, Flint watched the harbour at Margate come closer as the Channel’s choppy waters finally calmed in the shelter of the breakwater. The easier motion was a relief: the aftermath of the gale that had kept every ship in port at Ostend had done nothing for guts already churning with anxiety for Rose.
The harbourmaster confirmed that a passenger hoy for Margate had left a few hours before the gale struck. It was a sturdy vessel with a reliable, experienced captain, the man had assured Flint, but his imagination, always so reliably under control, was running away with him. Rose drowned, Rose clinging to wreckage, Rose driven ashore goodness knew where…
‘There you are, Major, the Channel Star, last packet boat out of Ostend before the gale blew up.’ The mate of the fishing vessel Flint had chartered leaned on the rail beside him and pointed. He scratched his chin and eyed the furled sails and bustle of activity around the vessel tied up on the Margate pier. ‘She’s been in a while by the look of her, they’re reloading and taking up a powerful lot of room doing it. We need to find a clear stretch to get that animal of yours ashore.’
It had taken considerable persuasion backed up by a great deal of hard cash and some unsubtle hints about secret military business to get them to winch Old Nick on board. At least a trained warhorse knew all about boats and the men had been vocally surprised at how cooperative the stallion was at the indignities of winches and hobbles. The stallion’s rolling eye promised retaliation to come, just as soon as his hooves met solid land.
*
‘Come on, you bloody-minded animal.’ An hour later Flint dodged snapping teeth and loosened the hobbles as the winchman pulled the canvas sling free from under the horse and scuttled to safety. ‘Behave and you can have a rest and a feed in a minute.’