Mama nodded and kissed Frederica’s curls again. ‘I did and I love you, my dear girl. And although I do not know what it is like to lose a husband, I do know what it is to lose a loved one. My own mother and two of my beloved children. That sort of pain does not go away after days or months, even years. But they are not gone entirely. You carry them with you in your heart wherever you go. So please laugh at salt in tea, bear cubs in bedchambers, and every other happy memory you have of Samuel. It is in your memories that you can keep them alive.’
A sob broke from her throat and her mother wrapped her arms around Frederica as she wept. She cried and cried until she could no more. And then she laughed and snorted.
Rubbing her wet nose with the back of her hand, she said, ‘Remember when I was eight and he dared me to eat a grasshopper?’
Her mother cringed. ‘I can still hear the sound of you crunching on the shell. I nearly lost the contents of my stomach.’
‘He paid me a guinea.’
‘You could not pay me a hundred guineas to eat a grasshopper,’ Mama said with another shiver of disgust. ‘And when I complained to your father, he assured me that it was perfectly good for you.’
Frederica sniffed. ‘I’d forgotten. Papa ate a grasshopper with me.’
‘And I could not kiss him for a week.’
Leaning her head on her mother’s shoulder, she let out another watery chuckle. ‘I wish I could kiss Samuel again.’
‘Did his skills finally surpass the Italian count?’
Another laugh tore through her. ‘Yes. Yes, they did.’
Her mother dropped another kiss on the top of her head. ‘I would like nothing more than to relive memories of Samuel with you all day, but I must go. There is too much to do at the hospital. So many men have been wounded and need my help. And you will be helping too. I believe we will go through every bar of red soap that you made.’
Pushing away from her mother’s arms, Frederica felt herself snapping out of a trance. ‘Just give me five minutes to dress, Mama, and I will go with you.’
‘You are still recovering from your wound.’
Frederica shook her head, pushing off her coverlet and forcing her sore body to stand. ‘I want to be too busy to think.’
‘Well, I can certainly promise you that.’
Her mother helped her change her shift and gown. It made Frederica feel like a little girl again. But after Waterloo, she knew that she had left all childhood behind. Even for a wild young woman who grew up in a castle with exotic animals life was not a fairy tale. Terrible things happened to everyone and all she could do now was save another woman’s sweetheart.
They walked down the stairs arm in arm to the landing where Miss Wade stood waiting. She took Frederica’s other hand, and they walked in a line down the street to the church. A servant opened the door, and Frederica saw an immaculately clean room with rows of camp beds and each held a soldier—officers and privates mingled together. There were nearly one hundred men in the large room. Most of the men were missing an arm or a leg, besides flesh wounds. Mama put on a white apron and handed one to Frederica and Wade.
‘The surgeons are gone,’ a woman said in a tired voice. ‘They have done what they can do for the men. All we can do now is make them as comfortable as we can.’
Her mother touched the other woman’s shoulders. ‘Yes, of course. Go home and get some rest.’
‘I will return this evening to trade places with you.’
Mama bowed to the woman of inferior rank. ‘I do not doubt it.’
Her mother then turned and led Frederica and Wade to the cloister, which was being used as a kitchen. Frederica recognised the cook, for he was their own cook. He stood stirring three large pots of soup that looked to be mostly chicken broth with a few herbs. And one pot was full of tea.
‘The tea needs a little more time, but there is no reason why the men cannot drink spirits to celebrate their victory,’ Mama said. ‘Frederica and Wade, set out the wine that is currently being stored in the confessional booth and help Miss Brady and the other volunteers distribute it.’
Wade and Frederica immediately pulled back the curtain of the confessional booth and saw six cases of wine. They each carried one case back to the cloister and then returned for the other four. The dark-haired woman had already opened the four cases and was efficiently doling out the bottles to the volunteers.
‘Start down that line there and only fill the glasses halfway,’ the woman said in a businesslike tone. ‘We need to make sure that there is enough for everyone.’
Frederica continued to pour wine, until she reached the second to last man in her row. He was not wearing a shirt, and his chest was covered in bandages, his left arm a stump from amputation. She gently touched his shoulder but no response. Touching him again, she realised that he felt cold. She would tell her mother that he was dead, as soon as she served the last man—he was missing his right leg just below the knee. A bandage covered half of his face and his middle.
She looked closer and recognised the face. ‘Mark, it is me, Frederica.’
There was no response. His wounds had been attended to, but when she put her fingers on his arm, his skin was on fire. She moved her hand to his forehead, which burned to the touch. If she could not relieve his fever, Mark wasn’t going to live through the day. She brought a fist to her chest at the pain and anguish. Looking around her at the hundred other wounded soldiers, she realised that she would not be able to help them all.
Yet, she could not bear for another friend to die. She placed the wine and the glass on the floor near his camp bed and ran back to the kitchen. Grabbing a bucket, she went outside to fill it with fresh cold water from the well. She came back inside and found a stack of clean linens. She took the top few and headed back to Mark. She dipped the first linen in the cold water and laid it on his face where there were not bandages, but without covering his mouth or nose. She unbuttoned his shirt and placed another wet cold linen on his chest.