Winning the War Hero's Heart. Mary Nichols

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      Many of them were in family groups, having a picnic. ‘I never thought of sustenance,’ he said. ‘And I’m suddenly devilish hungry. Would you like something to eat, Miss … Oh, dear, it will have to be Helen, after all.’

      ‘No, thank you.’

      ‘I intend to have something. There’s a woman over there selling hot pies. I think I will try one of those.’

      He left her and she thought that was the last she would see of him; suddenly she felt rather alone, even with the noisy crowds pushing and shoving and threatening to topple her over. She made her way to the edge of the throng where she could breathe freely. Five minutes later he was beside her again. ‘I thought I’d lost you,’ he said, handing her a paper packet in which reposed a succulent meat pie.

      ‘But I said no thank you,’ she said. ‘Do you never listen?’

      ‘Oh, I heard you, but I did not believe you. We have been standing about an age and I was ready to wager you would eat it if it were put before you.’

      She considered refusing, but the pie did smell rather savoury. ‘I hate to waste it,’ she said. ‘Thank you.’ She took a bite and realised she was indeed rather hungry.

      They stood together, enjoying their pies and not speaking, until a flourish of a bugle heralded the arrival of Jason Hardacre. A cheer went up as he mounted the cart with Mr Blakestone. But even before the latter opened his mouth to introduce the speaker, a troop of militia rode onto the common at a fast trot, right into the middle of the crowd, who attempted to scatter in terror, but they were so close-packed it was almost impossible to escape. There were shouts and screams as people were knocked over by the horses or hit by the blunt edge of a sword or the sharp point of a spur. Even if they had wanted to depart, which most of them did, they could not get away. In turning from one horseman, they were confronted by another.

      Miles was swift to act. He guided Helen into the shelter of an elder bush, then ran into the middle of the mêlée. Picking up two small children who were in danger of being trampled and tucking one under each arm, he pushed his way towards the lieutenant of the troop. ‘Call your men off,’ he commanded. ‘Someone will be killed. This was a peaceful gathering until you arrived.’

      ‘It is a seditious meeting,’ the lieutenant said. ‘In tended to encourage rebellion against the law of the land. I am empowered to put it down by whatever means I think fit.’

      ‘By whose order?’

      ‘His lordship, the Earl of Warburton, sitting as a magistrate.’

      ‘And I am ordering you to call off your men before someone is killed.’

      ‘And who are you to be giving orders?’

      He had obviously not been recognised in his lowly clothes. It made him smile. ‘My name is Captain Miles Cavenham of his Majesty’s Dragoon Guards. As your superior officer, I order you to call off your men and ride slowly from the field.’ His manner of delivering the order left no doubt he was used to command, even if he did choose to dress like every other man there.

      The lieutenant obeyed reluctantly, but it was some time before order was restored and the people had the common to themselves again. Roger Blakestone and Jason Hardacre had disappeared as soon as the soldiers appeared. Miles returned the children to their weeping mother and set about assessing the casualties. He was joined by Helen.

      There were a few broken bones, some blood and many bruises, but mercifully no one had been killed. Helen put that down to the Viscount’s timely intervention. He had undoubtedly also saved her, for there had been a horseman bearing down on them when he pushed her into the shelter of the bush.

      ‘This is what happens when people hold unlawful meetings,’ he said.

      ‘This is what happens when men like the Earl order mounted soldiers against innocent women and children,’ she retorted.

      He knew she was right and did not respond. Instead he said, ‘We need medical assistance. Will the doctor come?’

      ‘I’ll fetch him.’

      ‘No, send a boy. He’ll be quicker. I need you to help me with the casualties. We must separate those who can go home and look to their own wounds from those who need medical attention. And we need pads and bandages. You do not faint at the sight of blood, I hope.’

      ‘No, I am not squeamish.’

      Looking about her for someone to send, she noticed a skinny fellow in rags watching them intently. It was difficult to tell how old he was—he had a childlike look about him, though he must have been in his thirties. He was grinning and dancing from one foot to the other, his eyes bright with excitement.

      ‘Poor idiot,’ Miles said, as he suddenly darted away. ‘I hope someone is looking after him.’

      Helen found a lad to send for the doctor and set about pulling up her skirt and undoing the ties of her petticoats and allowing them to drop to the ground. She picked them up and tore them into strips. They were busy binding some of the wounds when the doctor arrived and took over.

      

      Those who had been bandaged were either sent home or to the town’s small hospital in carts and carriages. When everyone had gone and the common deserted except for a scattering of waste paper, broken pies— which were being attacked by pigeons and dogs—torn clothing and churned-up hoof marks, Miles and Helen found themselves alone, their work done.

      They stood and faced each other. He had lost his hat and his curls lay untidily over his forehead. His face was smeared with mud and blood; it was only when he raised his hand to try to wipe it that Helen noticed the long cut on his forearm. It had ceased to bleed, but there was a dirty crust of dried blood on it.

      ‘You have been hurt,’ she said, in surprise. ‘Why didn’t you say so?’

      ‘It is nothing. I felt the edge of the sword of one of the militia. It is not deep.’

      ‘It needs cleaning. And the doctor has gone. Come home with me and I’ll clean it for you. It’s nearer than Raven’s Park.’

      They walked back to the centre of town. It was crowded with people who had managed to escape the melee; they were standing in groups discussing what had happened. They watched Miles and Helen go past and that set them talking again. Helen could almost hear them: ‘What’s going on there? That’s Viscount Cavenham or I’m a Dutchman. What is he doing dressed like that?’

      ‘Did you see him scoop up those children?’

      ‘And stop that lieutenant when he would have broken the head of everyone there. Seems a strange thing for him to do, seeing who he is.’

      ‘And what is Miss Wayland up to? I wager it will be in the next edition of the paper. She is bound to be in trouble for sponsoring the meeting.’

      ‘Well, if you want my opinion they are the most unlikely couple in Christendom.’

      Miles must have realised it himself, for he was smiling as Helen opened the shop door and ushered him inside. She led the way through the front office to the printing room at the back where a basin and a jug of water СКАЧАТЬ