style="font-size:15px;"> She frowned at the jacket. Pale blue velvet was not the ideal material for rolling up and pillowing a lady’s head. Especially not a lady who’d taken refuge in a stable. She shook it, brushed off the straw and slid her arms into the sleeves.
Ben stopped scratching, and gave her a hard stare.
‘It’s no use telling me that now the battle is over, I should go to the authorities and ask them for details,’ she informed him testily. ‘They would simply order me to go home, like a good girl, and wait for official notification. Which would get sent to Blanchards. Well,’ she huffed as she went to rummage in her saddlebag—which she’d draped over the stall door in case she needed it in a hurry—and came up with a comb, ‘they did send notification to Blanchards, didn’t they? And much good it did me.’
She raised a hand to her head, discovered that most of her braids were still more or less intact and promptly thought better of attempting anything much in the way of grooming.
‘And anyway,’ she said, shoving the comb back into the saddlebag, ‘if I walked into headquarters, unescorted, they’d want to know what I was doing in Brussels on my own. And don’t say how would they know I’d come here on my own, Ben, it’s obvious. If Blanchards had come to Brussels with me, he would be the one at headquarters asking the questions. See?’
Ben shuffled forward a little and licked his lips hopefully.
‘Yes, I do have more sausage in here,’ she told him, dipping her hand once more into the saddlebag. ‘You may as well have it,’ she said, breaking off a piece and tossing it to the straw at his feet. Her stomach was still coiled into the hard knot that had made eating virtually impossible since the moment Blanchards had told her Gideon was dead. Though she’d still packed plenty of provisions when she’d run away from Antwerp, thinking it might take her a day or so to locate Gideon, or his commanding officer, Colonel Bennington Ffog.
She wrinkled her nose as Ben disposed of the sausage in a few gulps. Why she’d thought, however briefly, that Bennington Ffog might be of any use, she couldn’t imagine. It would be far better to find her oldest brother, Justin.
‘Now, Justin might be cross with me,’ she said as she pushed open the stall door and ventured into the aisle, ‘but he won’t send me back to Antwerp without telling me what I need to know first. He might be the stuffiest, most arrogant, obnoxious man,’ she said, peering out into the stable yard to make sure nobody was about. ‘He may give me a thundering scold for leaving the safety of Antwerp, against his explicit orders, but he does at least understand what Gideon means to me.’
With Ben trotting at her heels, Sarah made her way to the pump, where she quickly rinsed her face and hands. Ben took the opportunity to relieve himself and have a good sniff round.
When she made for the stable again, though, he was right beside her.
‘Good boy,’ she said, pausing to pat his head, before reaching for her riding hat, which she’d set on one of the doorposts.
‘The only problem is,’ she said, holding her hat in place with one hand, while thrusting as much of her hair as she could under it, ‘I’m not entirely sure where to find him. However,’ she added, deftly securing everything in place with a hatpin, ‘Mary Endacott will.’
Ben dropped down on to his haunches, tilting his head to one side.
‘Yes, I know. She doesn’t like me. And I don’t blame her. But you have to admit, since she’s lived in Brussels for years, and knows everyone, she’s bound to know who we can ask for his direction if she doesn’t already have it. And what’s more,’ she added, when he didn’t look convinced, ‘she’s the one person who is likely to want to know it just as much as I do, since the poor girl is in love with him.’
She lowered her head to fumble the buttons of her jacket closed as her mind dwelt on the last time she’d seen Mary, when Justin had been ordering her to leave Brussels, too. If she’d done as he’d told her...
No. Mary wouldn’t have left, not even had they still been betrothed. The school she ran was her livelihood. And Justin had forfeited any authority he might have thought he had over her the minute he broke off their relationship in such a brutal fashion.
Besides, she wasn’t the sort of woman to give up hope and sit about weeping, any more than Sarah was. Even after Justin had said all those horrid things, Mary would want to make sure he’d survived the battle, even if he didn’t want to have anything more to do with her.
She lifted her head, squared her shoulders and strode out of the stall on her way back to the water pump. This time she saw Pieter shambling across the yard, rubbing his eyes sleepily.
‘Be so good as to saddle my horse,’ she said.
He hesitated for a moment, only tugging at his cap and making for the stable once he saw Ben come trotting out and joining Lady Sarah at the pump, where she was now filling her water bottle.
‘I’m so glad I found you yesterday,’ she said, bending down to stroke Ben’s head as he lapped up the water splashing to the cobbles. ‘At first I just thought stumbling across the regimental mascot was a sign I was in exactly the right place, at the right time. But today I’m thankful that having you with me means I won’t have to face Mary alone.’ It wasn’t going to be easy. Mary had no reason to greet her warmly. Yet what was the worst Mary could do? Show her the door? Or not even let her inside? What was that, compared to what had already happened? If Gideon really was dead.
Which she wasn’t going to believe until somebody gave her some solid proof.
She mounted Castor and, with Ben trotting at her side, that determination carried her as far as the Rue Haute, where Mary’s school stood. But then doubts started assailing her from all sides. If Mary wouldn’t speak to her, then who else could she turn to?
‘At least I won’t have to knock on the front door and beg for permission to speak to her,’ she observed, drawing Castor to a halt. For Mary was standing outside alongside a horse, talking to a group of bedraggled-looking men who stood with their mounts.
But even though this meant she’d overcome the first hurdle she’d imagined, Sarah’s spirits sank. For Mary was, as always, looking neat as a pin.
Whereas she must look exactly as though—well, as though she was still wearing the same gown in which she’d spent a whole day on horseback, fighting her way against a tide of refugees fleeing the very place she wanted to reach more than anywhere on earth. And crawled through the mud to rescue Ben, and ended by sleeping in a stable because the landlady, upon whose compassion she’d relied, refused point blank to permit a muddy, fierce dog inside her house.
No, you couldn’t feel your best in a gown you’d been wearing for two days, especially when you’d put it through all that. Besides which, women like Mary, petite, pretty women with pert little noses, always did make her feel like a gangly, beaky beanpole.
It was Ben who came to her rescue, for at least the second time in as many days, by letting out a series of joyful barks and bounding right into the group of men milling about on the front path. Because she’d been staring at Mary and wondering how on earth she was to persuade her to help, she hadn’t been paying the men much heed. But now she noticed, as they bent to ruffle Ben’s shaggy head rather than scattering in terror, that they were wearing the distinctive blue jackets of artillerymen. The blue jackets of her brother’s unit, their facings and insignia only just recognisable under
