It was Marthe who, returning from the market where she had made a few small purchases, suggested that they move to Brussels. “For they say that now there are as many English milords in Brussels as there are in London. The Duke of Wellington has arrived along with the Earl of Uxbridge and the Duke and Duchess of Richmond and many others are arriving each day, for everyone is expecting that a great battle will be fought here.”
“The Duke of Wellington, Lord Uxbridge, so soon?” Isobel turned pale.
Marthe, who had seen her mistress through countless troubles and some danger could not ever remember her looking so alarmed. Wisely she held her tongue, but it was as clear to her as the nose on her face that it was the thought of the handsome English milord, who was also a soldier, that was at the root of Mademoiselle’s concern. Bon! At least now Mademoiselle looked alive again. For the past months, ever since they had left England, Marthe had been worried about her mistress. It was not like the independent Mademoiselle Isobel to be so languid and uninterested in her surroundings, and to Marthe it had seemed as though her mistress had been living in a dream. She had walked, talked, dressed for and attended balls and salons, but she had lost her sparkle. There was no expression in her eyes, no passion in her voice and it was as though she had retreated into some sort of place where nothing and no one seemed to touch her or even reach her. Now, in an instant, with news of the arrival of the English in Belgium, that shell had disappeared and her mistress had come back to her, worried and afraid perhaps, but at least she was alive and herself once again.
Chapter 31
After spending several nights in Ghent they set forth on the road to Brussels, arriving late one evening, too exhausted to do anything more than take the two remaining rooms at the Hotel d’Angleterre in the rue de la Madeleine. Marthe insisted on bringing her mistress supper in her room and making her rest after the journey. “Tomorrow you will remain in the hotel, mademoiselle, while I look for some suitable lodgings for us. It may take some time for everyone says that the British are arriving in great numbers—mothers and sisters are anxious about their sons and brothers in the army, wives wish to be with their husbands before the battle that is to be fought—everyone is looking for a place to stay and not much is to be had.
“Thank you.” Worn out by the trip and worry over her father’s health, which seemed to be weakening, not to mention speculation as to the likelihood of Lord Christian’s joining his old commander in the fight to stop Napoleon, Isobel had no strength for anything at the moment and gratefully allowed Marthe to take over.
A night’s rest restored her natural energy, however, and she was able to join Marthe the next afternoon as they went to look at lodgings she had found for them in the rue du Musee. The house belonged to the widow of a banker who was only too delighted to rent it to them while she went to stay with her married daughter in Antwerp, safely away from the impending conflict. The house was small and easily managed by Marthe and the young serving girl Madame Hubert left behind, but its chief recommendation to Isobel was that there was a pianoforte in the drawing room that Madame Hubert was happy to have her play.
The duc might deplore the fact that most of the French court remained in Ghent, but his daughter reassured him that it was far safer for them in Brussels. “Papa, we are only a few streets away from the headquarters of Wellington himself; surely they will not fall into the hands of Bonaparte.” Not the least of Brussels’ attractions, at least for Isobel, was its distance from the Comte de Pontarlier and the Chevalier d’Evremont.
Not long after their arrival, Isobel discovered another advantage to staying in Brussels when, walking in the park with Marthe, she heard the sound of a familiar voice hailing her. “Isobel, is that you? My dear, how delightful that you are here and not in Ghent, for surely it is far more amusing to be here. Why there are so many people come over from England that a walk in the rue Royale is like a promenade on the Steyne in Brighton. I do believe that the only one who is not here is Prinny.”
“Emily! Whatever are you doing in Brussels?”
“Is it not delightful? I could not convince Verwood to go to Vienna which is quite a good thing as it turns out, what with that shocking Corsican loose again, but Verwood’s youngest brother, Reginald, insisted on buying a commission in the Guards and, as he is so young, Verwood’s mother begged us to come look after him, so we are here. And everyone who is anyone is here as well. We are going to the Wallingford’s tonight, where we are sure to see Wellington himself. You must come with us. I am sure that Lady Wallingford would be thrilled to have you sing for her guests.”
Isobel demurred, but Emily was so insistent that at last she promised to consider it. When later that afternoon she received a note from Lady Wallingford herself, she was left with no excuse not to accept. Her father, however, could not be persuaded. The trip and the threat of another exile had exhausted him to such a degree that he was content to sit in the drawing room and work on his memoirs. “If we were in Ghent, I should be a great deal easier about your going out, for there you would be among friends,” was his only comment.
“I am among friends. Papa. I have known Emily as long as I have known the Comtesse de Sallanches, and longer than I have known Monsieur, for I did not meet him or the Duc de Berri until we moved to London. And it is far safer here for the Duke of Wellington and the entire army is here, while in Ghent we have only a few officers from the Maison Militaire to protect us.”
The duc did not deign to reply and his daughter was forced to content herself with her own belief that she had done the right thing in coming to Brussels and to comfort herself with the thought that at the Wallingford’s she would have the opportunity to sing. She spent a good deal of the afternoon at the pianoforte, lost in her music as she prepared for her performance, delighting in a reason for throwing herself into her music.
The Wallingford’s drawing room was a crush of people abuzz with gossip and speculation as to Napoleon’s movements. Though in many ways it resembled gatherings of the ton that Isobel had occasionally attended in London, the presence of so many scarlet coats and a certain intensity in the conversations revealed that at the back of everyone’s mind lay the very real possibility that at any moment, half the men in the room could be called into battle.
Without even being aware of what she was doing, Isobel found herself examining the men in uniform, almost afraid to recognize one soldier in particular, yet certain that he was not likely to miss what was sure to be the final struggle with Bonaparte.
Just as she was being led to the pianoforte by her hostess, Isobel became aware of a heightened excitement in the crowd and a commotion in the doorway. “It is the duke,” Emily whispered. Glancing in that direction, Isobel could just make out the tall figure surrounded by admirers. However, it was another equally tall figure just behind the duke’s shoulder that caught her attention. Almost before she recognized Lord Christian she gasped as her knees weakened and a warm flush spread over her face. He was here! She had known it, and now she admitted to herself, she had longed for it.
In a daze she sat down at the pianoforte while her hostess called her guests’ attention to the performer. In a daze she allowed her fingers to move over the keyboard of their own accord until the power of the music took her over and she was able to lose herself in the song.
At the far end of the room, Christian was answering an anxious dowager who was expressing her concern over the army’s state of preparedness. “I assure you, madam, the duke is doing ...” He broke off as the first liquid notes of Isobel’s song soared over the crowd, which had fallen into a hush the moment she had begun to sing. She was here after all. His heart pounded so heavily that he was sure Lady Cholmondely could hear it, or even see it beating under the gold facings of his uniform. “Ah, er, excuse me. There is something I must attend to.” And without further ado, he turned and made his way toward the pianoforte, leaving the astonished woman staring after him.
From that moment on, the crowd in the room disappeare
d entirely for Christian. All he could see was Isobel seated at the pianoforte casting the spell of her music over her audience. He moved toward her, drawn inexorably by the spell of her music and the longing he had endured for so many months.
The final round of applause awoke Isobel to her surroundings. She rose and acknowledged her audience, looking desperately around for some means of escape. Her emotions were in too much turmoil for her to be able to face anyone with any degree of equanimity. She must get away, at least for a moment, to gather what shreds of composure she had left. At last she spied a window, its draperies billowing gently in the night air, and, nodding mechanically, she excused herself from her enthusiastic admirers, “I must get some fresh air.” She made her way to the window with the desperation of a rabbit seeking its burrow. At last she felt the cool breeze on her face and, gliding behind the velvet draperies, let it fall to block the glitter and the noise of the ballroom behind her.
She stood motionless, gulping in the night air for a few minutes only before she felt the draperies billow behind her. “Mademoiselle Isobel.” A deep voice spoke softly, almost in her ear. She fought the urge to turn around, though she could feel the warmth from his body. As she brought her hands forward to clasp them tightly in front of her, she felt the scratchy wool of his uniform rub against her elbow. She closed her eyes, willing him to go away, but it was no use.
“Mademoiselle, I came ... I am here ... to apologize.”
Still she did not look at him until a warm hand, gentle, but firm reached around to grasp her chin and turned her to face him. At last she was forced to look into his eyes. Her heart turned over at the haunted look in them, at the dark hollows underneath them, at the lines of fatigue running from his nose to his mouth, barely visible in the diffuse light from the ballroom. She longed to reach up and smooth those lines away, to tell him that she had been thinking of him constantly since she had left London, but she could not. She was still angry at the presumptions he had made about her brother and his interference in her life, and she was afraid that if she gave in to her feelings he would only become a greater part of her life than he was at the moment and she could not afford that. She had to think of herself and her father.
Isobel drew a deep breath, and clenching her hands at her sides, she spoke at last, “Your apology is accepted.”
She bowed her head gracefully and slipped away before Christian could stop her, but not before he had caught a glimpse of tears welling up in the dark blue eyes and clinging to the long lashes. There was nothing for him to do but let her go. He sighed and let the drapery fall behind him as he too returned to the ballroom. He did not remain there long, however, but made his way unobtrusively to the door, down the stairs, and out into the street.
The neighboring houses were dark, the hardworking Bruxellois having gone to bed at a respectable hour, but English officers were hurrying here and there; carriages carrying people from one distinguished gathering to another rattled over the cobblestones.
Christian strolled slowly down the rue du Musee into the Place Royale, and then into the park, where at last he paused, drew a deep breath, and, hands clasped behind his back, began to pace along the carefully laid-out walks.
The moment he had caught sight of Isobel, he knew with a clarity he had not thought possible, that he was in love with her. It all seemed so simple now and so obvious that he was astounded he had not realized it before. But how was he to convince her of it, and, even more difficult, how was he to make her love him in return? He smiled mockingly in the darkness. Making women fall in love with him had never been a problem in the past; it had always been quite the opposite as he had tried to extricate himself gracefully from relationships where the expectation had all been on the woman’s side.
Still, he had hope. The pulse at the base of Isobel’s throat would not have been so noticeable, her breathing so rapid, nor her hands so nervously clenched at her sides if he did not affect her in some way. Of course, he acknowledged miserably to himself, those signs could have been just as indicative of anger as of attraction. However, if she had been angry, would there have been tears in her eyes as she left him? He traced and retraced the patterns of the walks in the park, trying to decided if it was anger or attraction, the stress of seeing someone again who had annoyed her, or her distress at not knowing how to deal with her feelings for him that was responsible for her agitation.
So many times in the past her words had echoed his own thoughts. Was it not possible that she too was feeling the way he was, overwhelmed at the sight of someone whose absence had left a hole in his soul, a dull gnawing loneliness ever since they had parted? He had to know. He had to find out.
Resolved on following her until he could make her talk to him, Christian stopped his pacing and headed back to his quarters in the house nearby Wellington’s headquarters in the rue Montagne du Parc to try to sleep. He, along with the rest of Wellington’s staff, had been burning the candle at both ends, rising early to read reports of troop movements, to review troop strengths, and to struggle over planning a variety of alternative actions depending on where Napoleon chose to cross into Belgium. At the same time, they all knew that their commander was counting on them to maintain the atmosphere of normalcy and avoid panic among the hordes of British visitors by appearing unconcernedly at one ball after another, as though they had nothing more serious on their minds than the next waltz.
Christian and all the rest of the officers had done their best, but the strain and the mounting tension as reports of attacks on Prussian outposts near the Sambre River were closely followed by confirmations from well-paid peasants that Napoleon had indeed massed troops along the Sambre and the Meuse was beginning to show. They all looked forward to action of any sort to relieve the agony of waiting and watching.
Chapter 32
Isobel was silent as the Verwoods’ carriage clattered home; even Emily’s enthusiastic praise for her performance failed to rouse her. “You were magnificent, my dear.” Emily patted her gloved hand reassuringly. “And Lady Conyngham asked me, as a particular friend, if I would beg you to sing at her party on Wednesday. Will you not enjoy that? Isobel, Isobel, what on earth is ailing you? It was a veritable triumph this evening.”
Isobel massaged her aching forehead. “It is just that the crowd, the heat, has given me a headache. I... I shall be better in the morning.” She fell silent for some time, but feeling her friend’s eyes on her full of concern, and not a little curiosity, she continued, “It is the worry, as well, over what will happen—Papa, what if we have to flee again, so many things. But never mind, we are all faced with that worry. Yes, tell Lady Conyngham I shall be happy to sing at her party.”
“My dear, of course you worry, and I am a brute not to see that,” her friend hastened to reassure her. “But thank you, I shall convey your message to Lady Conyngham.”
Isobel had reason to bless both Lady Wallingford and Lady Conyngham more than Emily could know, for their invitations forced her to think of something other than Lord Christian. Whenever the vision of his haunted face appeared before her, she would struggle to replace it with a mental image of the music she planned to perform. And whenever the sound of his voice, deep and caring, intruded into her thoughts, making her shiver with an odd kind of longing and sadness, she would force it out by mentally rehearsing arias or scales, anything to fight the overwhelming urge she had to seek him out, to throw herself into his arms and tell him how empty her life had been without him.
Lady Wallingford had also eased her mind another way, for the morning after Isobel’s performance, a footman had appeared bearing a gracious note of thanks and a small leather bag of gold sovereigns which he had handed to the Belgian serving girl. The Duc de Montargis did not see the bag, which Isobel hastily thrust into her pocket, but he did question his daughter about the note. “It is merely Lady Wallingford thanking me for singing at her ball.”
“Bah.” The due snorted. “My daughter acting like a common actrice d’opéra. I will not h
ave it.”
Isobel rose, her eyes dangerously bright. “And would you have me insult our protectors by refusing the kind invitations of these English who have given us a home for all these years and are now waiting to spill their blood to protect us once again while our leaders hide themselves at Ghent?” She drew a long, shaking breath and her voice quavered dangerously close to breaking as she continued, “You speak of pride and breeding. Papa. Well, I have the de Montargis pride as well, and it will not let me repay their kindness with ingratitude. I am far too proud to act the boor and refuse the invitations of my friends’ acquaintances because of some misguided vision of what is due to a name that is no more illustrious than theirs. I will sing for these ladies who ask me to do what I can to calm and reassure everyone during these difficult days.”
Her voice steadied and then rang out proudly as her father gazed at her in silent amazement. However he might disagree with her, he was forced to admit that she was magnificent, and as she swept from the room, he acknowledged to himself that she had the air of a true de Montargis.
Isobel’s performance at Lady Conyngham’s was greeted with even more enthusiasm than it had been at Lady Wallingford’s. “I have never heard “Porgi amor qualche ristoro” sung half as well by anyone,” the man introduced to her by her hostess as Mr. Creevey, congratulated her. “You sing like an angel,” a turbaned dowager declared, wiping her eyes. And more than one person compared her favorably to Catalani or Mrs. Billington.
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