Harry had seen the weakness in the French position and had believed that one armed man with daring could take it. Unfortunately, his strong, valiant men had thought otherwise.
Out of loyalty or foolishness, they had disobeyed his orders to stay in rank and had followed him into the attack.
One man could have made it through.
A large number of troops had been easy targets for French sharpshooters.
And the horrific thing was that Harry had been right. He and Ajax had succeeded in their attack. He’d quickly secured the cannon. The French had run from his sword. Wellington could then march forward. However, when he’d turned to give the signal all was well, he’d had to watch his beloved men being mowed down.
Wellington had not faulted him for what he’d done. His actions had enabled British forces to win the day and had saved many lives. Therewere witnesses who had heard Harry tell Lieutenant Fleshman to stay in position.
Being right didn’t make Harry feel less guilty.
These had been men with wives and families along with feckless bachelors such as himself. He’d drunk with these men, laughed with them, fought beside them. That they would march after him to their own deaths out of nothing more than misguided loyalty humbled him.
It had also become an unbearable burden to carry.
Opium had helped ease it. Drink had always offered solace, and he had embraced it with a willingness beyond what he’d shown before.
And now he was in danger of never being the man he’d once hoped to be. There had been a time, and not too long ago, when he’d thoughthecontrolled his vices. But now they controlled him, and he wasn’t certain when the change had come about ... perhaps around the time of Thea’s arrival?
Stumbling up to his room, he opened his door and practically fell through it.
Rowan was tidying the bed. He looked up in surprise at Harry. “Colonel, you are not well. Here, let me help you to bed.”
Harry shook him off. “No, not here.” He knewthis would not be pleasant. He walked over to the desk by the window, pulled open a drawer and took out a purse. “There is a man, an Alexander Rimmer on Fife Lane, who says he has a cure. Tell him I am coming to his house. Have him prepare a room.”
Rowan took the money, bowed and left, meeting Margaret at the door. She didn’t ask permission but walked in.
Harry sat at the desk, clasping his head in his hands. Just the thought of leaving the crutches he’d used these past two years more than filled him with anxiety.
“What are you going to do?” his sister asked.
“I want to save Neal,” Harry said. “He’s always been here for me. Yes, sometimes he’s been a pain in my backside, but what brother isn’t?”
“I want to help,” Margaret said.
Harry shook his head. “No.”
“Yes.” She walked over to stand before him. “You weren’t here when Father died. He went quickly, Harry. Faster than I could imagine. You will need my help.”
Visions of his men following him into combat formed in Harry’s mind, only this time it was his sister at risk.
“I go alone.”
She didn’t like his command. Margaret was the headstrong one in the family.
He reached over to pick up one of Christopher’s marbles resting on his desk. It was the shooter. Harry had won it from the boy in a challenge. Christopher had enthusiastically vowed to win it back.
“Life has to mean more than what we have here,” Harry said half to himself, rolling the marble in the palm of his hand. “It must.”
“Neal seems happy,” Margaret answered. “Even knowing what is happening to him, he seems at peace.”
Harry looked up at her. “Are you at peace?”
His sister shrugged. “Love is not for me. I’m better alone. Happier.”
She didn’t sound happy, and the thought went through his mind that she was hiding something. Margaret was a beautiful woman, yet she kept herself apart from the rest of the world.