Six
Lucas walked around the pond, completely convinced now his illness was gone. His limbs were fatigued, but the previous days’ inactivity could account for that. He rounded the last bend and came face-to-face with a well-dressed older gentleman.
‘You, sir!’ The man’s tone was instantly bellicose. ‘What is your business here on my property?’
This must be Miss Wallace’s father, the Baron of Dunburn, Lucas supposed. Lucas bowed. ‘Forgive me if I have intruded where I ought not to have been. I hope you would have heard of me. I am Mr John Lucas, the one indebted to you for the care I’ve received while ill.’
‘Oh!’ The man’s expression brightened. ‘You are the Englishman my children brought home! I quite forgot. I am Dunburn, you see. Well. Well. You look very fit for a man supposed to be at death’s door.’
‘I believe I might credit your household for that,’ he responded. ‘I was very unwell when they found me, I’ve been told.’
‘Indeed. Indeed.’ The man clapped him on the shoulder. ‘Good that you are well now, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, I shall not have to prevail on your hospitality for much longer.’ Lucas had the feeling that Dunburn knew very little of his situation. ‘If you wish me to leave today—’
The Baron lifted his hand. ‘No need for that. Stay as long as you wish.’ He eyed Lucas up and down. ‘My son told me you are a cavalryman. Rode in the charge at Waterloo.’
Lucas’s spirits plummeted. He had no wish to talk of Waterloo. ‘I was in the cavalry. No longer,’ Lucas responded.
Dunburn did not seem to notice he’d not mentioned Waterloo. ‘What was your regiment again?’ he asked.
‘First Royals,’ Lucas managed to say.
‘Yes, yes. That was what Niven told me!’ Dunburn’s excitement escalated. ‘I knew it. You were at Waterloo. Part of the glorious charge with the Scots Greys!’
Hardly glorious, Lucas would have said. Not when it killed his brother.
The man fell in step with him. ‘Come sit with me and tell me all about it. Do you not think the Scots Greys’ bravery secured the victory?’
Lucas opened his mouth to refuse, even though it would be churlish to do so, but Dunburn reached inside his coat and took out a flask, raising his brows and smiling.
Perhaps Lucas could talk about the Scots Greys, if he were fortified by whisky.
Dunburn led him to a nearby bench and passed him the flask when they sat down. Lucas lifted it to his lips and took a long sip, savouring the familiar aroma, taste and the warmth spreading through his chest.
‘The Greys did their part,’ Lucas said.
He spoke of the tactics, the successes of the Greys, the sort of account that would appear in a newspaper. As he spoke, memories returned of the blood, the rage and fear on the soldiers’ faces, the wild eyes of the horses, the mud, the screams, the horror of seeing his brother cut down. Lucas drank most of the contents of Dunburn’s flask.
As he sat with the older man, who clearly had no shortage of Scottish pride, he spied Miss Wallace on the path near the kitchen garden. She stood a long time watching her father converse with him. He had not a clue what she might be thinking. After some time she turned and walked away.
The sun rose high in the sky and warmed the air even more. Finally, Dunburn stood. ‘My head’s mince! I promised I would call upon Laird Buchan and now I’m a wee bit late.’
Lucas rose with him.
Dunburn clapped him on the shoulder again. ‘It would be grand if we could invite you to dinner, Mr Lucas.’ He raised his arms helplessly.
‘No, sir. I would not presume.’ He did not wish to be treated as a house guest, not when he was an actual burden.
The Baron nodded agreeably. ‘For a Sassenach, you are a right fine fellow.’
Lucas bowed. ‘Thank you, sir.’
* * *
Mairi left the kitchen garden to help Mrs Cross with cleaning the drawing room, the sitting rooms and the library while her parents were calling upon Laird Buchan. She wished she’d been able to do more. Truth was, she was not very good at hoeing the earth.
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