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written to mark the Duchess of Richmond’s ball on the eve of the Battle of Waterloo
THE WIND, NO longer warm from the rays of the sun, bit at her face, causing her to blink. Long, chestnut-colored hair whipped around her slender neck and her lashes. She put one ungloved, delicate hand up and brushed the thick strands away from her face as she stopped her determined steps.
Desolate eyes stared at the tall oak—their oak. They had carved their initials there when they had a future, when they had hope.
“Johnny,” she whispered. “Oh, my Johnny.” Finality infiltrated her tone and resignation the slope of her shoulders. Anguish tempered by time swept through her body as she dropped to her knees, heedless of the damp grass.
A year had passed—one entire year since the Duchess of Richmond’s ball, since the last time she had kissed his lips, seen his face—one year since Waterloo.
A sick sensation swept over her when she tried to recall his face, that wondrous, boyishly handsome face as he stood before her that awful night.
They went, all of them, almost merrily to Waterloo. Even then—with those dreadful drums beating throughout Brussels—even then, they looked as though they were off to a parade.
Jenny remembered the sound of those drums, calling their men to arms. The officers attending the Duchess of Richmond’s ball had left hurriedly, some actually going off to battle in their ball attire, and Johnny, her Johnny had been among them.
Exploding cannons—the sound filled the atmosphere, as the beau monde breathlessly awaited the outcome. So many of her friends, so many of the English gentry were there in Brussels that spring.
Napoleon had escaped, gathered his army, and begun to march. The Duke of Wellington, their hero, went off to meet him. The English believed Wellington would win the encounter with the Frenchman and were there to witness it.
No one had anticipated the amount of blood it would take to fulfill their expectation. Thus it happened on June 18, 1815, that Wellington met Boney at Waterloo, and her John was lost forever.
Mac had been there. He had lived, and while she searched for Johnny, Mac found her. Lieutenant William McMillan had taken hold of her shoulders, and when she saw his distorted features she backed up from him screaming. She wasn’t sure anymore what she had screamed.
“Jen, Johnny’s last words to me were of you. He said he loves you and that you have to move on …”
Jenny thought she could no longer cry and was surprised at the tear that made its way down her cheek. She closed her eyes. She had come to their tree to say good-bye, but could she? She didn’t feel ready. “Haunt me, Johnny, come to me as a ghost,” she hugged herself and prayed. “Stay with me forever.”
Her father and aunt had hurried her home to Devon, and even for their sakes it had been so very difficult not to fall into a decline. For weeks all she wanted to do was go to sleep and not wake up.
Her father had coaxed her outside by telling her the horses she loved needed attention. And that had worked to get her out a bit. Slowly, albeit listlessly, she began to eat, talk, walk, but she felt as though all joy in life had been snatched away.
She got to her feet and touched the tree before turning towards home. She loved the quiet solitude of her beloved Devon landscape. It was like a tonic that soothed her. Johnny had never quite been at home in the country. He was too restless.
She crossed the open field with slow, long strides and felt the overgrown grass brush against the thin material of her stockings at her ankles and calves. The day had been touched with scudding clouds, and they hovered with the tease of rain.
It was still mid-afternoon, and yet, because of the overcast sky, it appeared later. Jenny’s gaze swept upwards, and she made the decision to take the shortcut across Farmer Cubbins’ field. She reached the roadside fence, picked up her skirts, climbed nimbly up, sat on the aged wood stocks, and then pushed herself forward onto the country dirt road.
She had been so engrossed with getting her skirts past the splintered rail and her feet over the ditch that lined the road that she hadn’t noticed the rider coming around the bend.
Her sudden descent onto the road caused the horse to rear and champ at his bit. This startled Jenny, and before she knew what had happened, she had released a screech, stepped forcefully backward, and landed herself in the very ditch she had tried to avoid.
~ One ~
A LOW, STRONG MALE voice cursed beneath his breath as Jenny tried to recoup and get to her feet.
As she pressed her hands into the earth and tried to straighten, she heard him dismount and within an instant felt herself pulled up into a standing position, though she wasn’t sure her shoes were touching the earth.
A pair of startlingly blue eyes glared angrily down into her own, and the voice said in a tone that made her open her eyes wide, “Well, well, at least it’s a pretty wench that’s detained me.”
He sounded as though he were some huge giant about to eat her, and without another word, and before she realized what he was doing, that was what he did.
Jenny found herself being ruthlessly kissed! In that moment, with this stranger’s lips on hers, she was almost too shocked to react, but she was just a bit aware of a tingling sensation that journeyed through her body.
At length her mind returned to her and she made an effort to resist by putting her hands to his chest and pushing hard. This, however, did not budge him. He seemed to hold her in a vice-like grip. She should have been afraid but was too astonished to consider that.
She was, however, furious at his daring, and when he put his head back to look at her and laugh, she felt something of her old self return. The old, vibrant Jenny would never stand for such treatment!
As he got into position, obviously meaning to kiss her again, she reacted and, feeling both outrage and anger, formulated a quick plan.
