The Waltzing Widow

by Gayle Buck

  Abigail raised her head. Her eyes were swimming with tears. “I know it was improper of me, but I ... I had gone in to see Captain McInnes. I knew he had been hurt, but I didn't know how he would appear. I was so shocked. Oh, Mama, it was perfectly horrible! I saw Captain McInnes lying there, as though at his own wake, and the blood! And then all of a sudden I was thinking about William and all the rest."

  The tea was brought in and at a sign from Lady Mary, the ladies were left alone. Lady Mary handed a cup of hot tea to Abigail. “First of all, it is true that Captain McInnes has been gravely wounded. But I have hopes that he will not die. As for the others, you must simply keep faith for William and for the rest.” She saw Abigail shudder and she said gently, “I know it seems an impossibility to do so, Abby. Believe me, I wrestle with my own fears for William hourly. But I truly believe that he must be alive and well."

  "Mama, do you truly think so?” The color was beginning to return to Abigail's face with the dual comforts of the hot soothing tea and her mother's quiet confidence.

  "Of course I do,” Lady Mary said staunchly. She pushed deep her own conflicting emotions in her effort to reassure her daughter. Nothing must be allowed to show in her expression or her manner that might hint at her own fear to Abigail.

  "I so wish that I could cut out this faint heart of mine,” Abigail said with self-revulsion.

  "I doubt that is the sort of catharsis which would best soothe your exacerbated feelings,” Lady Mary said dryly.

  "Oh, Mama! I was not speaking in a literal sense,” Abigail said, the shadow of a smile beginning to creep back into her eyes.

  Lady Mary was glad to see the easing of her daughter's bleak expression. A faint smile flitted across her face. “You are braver than you know, Abby."

  Abigail leapt up to throw her arms about her mother. “I do thank you for that, Mama.” When she had straightened up, she said hesitantly, “I shall try to stop hanging about your apron strings so tightly, Mama."

  Lady Mary's eyes misted with tears. She smiled at her daughter and said quietly. “Already you have loosened your fingers, my dear."

  Abigail left her mother than, her spirits already recovering.

  Lady Mary was not nearly so sanguine. She was glad that Abigail was attempting to take such a responsible attitude about her own fears. It boded well for the maturing tenor of her character, and to that extent the war and its horrible consequences had been beneficial. She had watched Abigail hourly casting aside a bit more of her frivolity and selfishness.

  But as for herself, after the earlier trauma of dealing with Captain McInnes's wound and the buffeting by a riot of emotions engendered by Lord Kenmare, being brought face-to-face with Abigail's realization of the nightmare very nearly completed the fraying of her own control. The constant fears that she held at bay swelled to an almost unbearable clamor. She still did not know how her son was faring. She could do no more than sit anxiously awaiting news of him.

  Her thoughts were still so full of William that when Lord Kenmare entered the drawing room with an expression more somber than she was used to seeing upon his countenance. Lady Mary immediately leapt to the conclusion that he had had bad news of her own. Her face paled and she jumped up from the settee. “My lord! What is it? You appear so grave."

  Lord Kenmare looked at her in surprise, and the heavy frown between his strongly marked brows eased slightly. “Do I, my lady? Forgive me, I did not mean to frighten you. I have been out again. These nearly hourly conflicting reports have me in such a suspended state that I scarcely know how to respond to them anymore."

  Lady Mary sent a startled glance at the mantel clock, and was shocked at how late it had become. She had apparently sat idle, without awareness of the passing time, for more than an hour.

  As Lord Kenmare had spoken, he had gone to the side table to open a decanter of wine. He offered to pour a glass for Lady Mary, but she declined it. Instead she watched him with sharpened eyes, seeing how deeply the lines had become carved in his face and how the grim set of his jaw seemed to have settled into permanence. “Is it worse?” she asked quietly. Some part of her mind wondered at her lack of embarrassment in facing his lordship, but what had passed between them seemed totally irrelevant beside the news that it was obvious he had brought back with him.

  The earl waved her back to her former comfortable position and seated himself opposite. Before replying to her question, he swirled the wine in his glass, observing it with a peculiar concentration. He said abruptly, “The alarm is so great this evening that I have myself witnessed one hundred napoleons offered in vain for a pair of horses to leave Brussels. In addition, I have heard that numbers of our friends and acquaintances have actually set off in this weather on foot to walk the nearly thirty miles to Antwerp or else have embarked in boats upon the canal."

  "My God, has it come at last, then?” Lady Mary whispered. Her hand rose to her throat in a betraying gesture. Her thoughts sped swiftly, and she gasped, appalled by the enormity of the situation that they faced. “But what of Lady Cecily? She can scarcely be expected to flee in her condition. It would be certain to bring on the babe. And those poor young men lying wounded upstairs and in your garden house—they cannot be left to the French!"

  Lord Kenmore threw himself almost violently out of his chair and dashed his wineglass into the open fireplace. Glass splinters flew, and wine sizzled in the heat of the fire. “Dash it, do you not think I know it?” he asked savagely. He smashed his fist against the mantel. “I have gone over it a thousand times. We've horses and carriages enough for ourselves, the servants, and perhaps three of the wounded men. We should have to leave most of the baggage behind at that, and all of it if we are to accommodate any more of the men under our care."

  "Then that is what we must be prepared to do."

  At the perfect calm in Lady Mary's voice, Lord Kenmare looked around at her. He was held astounded by sheer amazement, and then he threw back his head to laugh.

  When he met her gaze again, his expression had lost its awful savagery. “As usual you have cut to the chaste of the matter, Lady Mary.” He went over to raise her fingers to his lips. “Thank you, my lady. You are an anchor in this cursed maelstrom,” he said somberly.

  Lady Mary's face suddenly flushed with soft color. She was made unusually agitated by his praise, especially as she felt it was undeserved. “I am hardly that, my lord! Indeed, I would not be quite sane if I were unaffected by this experience. But I hope that I am practical enough to do what must be done.” She found that he still held her hand, and she gently withdrew it from his warm clasp. “I should see to things now, my lord."

  He stepped back immediately. “Of course, and I shall see that the carriages are made ready in the event that we shall need them.” He walked her to the door of the drawing room.

  Lady Mary hesitated a moment before going through the door. She looked up into his lordship's handsome face with a certain stillness in her expression. “Shall we be going away tonight, my lord?"

  Lord Kenmare was on the point of answering in the affirmative when he was stopped by the near-pleading look in her eyes. He realized that she still did not know what had happened to her son, and nor did they know what had occurred to his brother-in-law, Wilson-Jones. “I think not, my lady,” he said slowly. “The French, if they are victorious, as is so greatly feared at this hour, will hardly enter Brussels in this weather and at night. If the news is no better in the morning, we shall leave then."

  She smiled, a blazing expression of relief and gratitude. “Thank you, my lord,” she said in a low voice. She started to go then, but turned back to his touch on her elbow. “Yes, my lord?"

  "I think it best that you and Abigail lie down in your clothes,'’ he said soberly.

  Lady Mary swallowed, and then she nodded. “Of course. That is eminently practical, my lord. We shall do so."

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  Chapter 24

  The morning of the eighteenth of June was an anxiou
s one, and the scene in the Place Royale surpassed all imagination. There were thousands of wounded French, Belgians, Prussians, and English. Carts, wagons, and all types of other attainable vehicles were continually arriving heaped with sufferers. The wounded were laid, friends and foes indiscriminately, on straw, with narrow avenues between them, in every part of the city.

  The humane and indefatigable exertions of the fair ladies of Brussels greatly made up for the deficiency of adequate numbers of surgeons. Some women strapped and bandaged wounds; others served out tea, coffee, soups, and other soothing nourishments; while many occupied themselves stripping the sufferers of their gory and saturated garments and dressing them in clean shirts and other habiliments.

  Despite their unceasing ministrations, however, the ladies could not banish from their thoughts their fear for the ultimate outcome of the battle still raging.

  That Sunday morning the general terror and confusion in Brussels reached its highest point. One common interest bound together all ranks and conditions of men. All other subjects, all other considerations, were forgotten. All distinctions were leveled, all common forms of courtesy were thrown aside and neglected. Ladies accosted men they had never seen before with eager questions. No preface, no apology, no ceremony was thought of. Strangers conversed together like friends. All ranks of people addressed each other without hesitation—everyone seeking, everyone giving information. English reserve seemed no longer to exist.

  News arrived of the French having gained a complete victory, and it was universally believed. A dreadful panic seized the men left in charge of the baggage in the rear of the army, and they ran away.

  It was impossible for Lady Mary and the others to disguise their strong overpowering dread that the news might be true. At one point Lady Mary burst out, “I can scarcely bear it another moment. We are so near and yet unable to learn what is really passing! It is horrid to know that within a few miles such an awful contest is waged, to hear even the distant voice of war, and to think that in the roar of every cannon our brave countrymen are falling, bleeding, dying...” She broke off, smothering a choked sob behind the back of one hand.

  She had been to the Place Royale earlier that morning and had only just returned. She thought she would never forget the sight of that sea of suffering, broken humanity. Everywhere she had looked, each face that she had peered into, she had dreaded that she might find her son's dying gaze. But now she wished that she had. It would have been so much easier, knowing for certain where he was. If the news of French victory were true, she would be forced to depart from Brussels without ever learning his fate.

  Abigail stared at her mother with wide eyes. She could not recall ever hearing her mother speak with such agitation. She was shaken and dismayed. Her mother was the rock that she and the others had leaned upon for days.

  But Abigail's instinctive fright at witnessing her mother's sudden frailty was chased away by the abrupt realization that Lady Mary Spence, like any of them, could not be expected to remain unaffected by the long and protracted suspense of the past three days. The constant agitation, the varying reports and incessant alarms, the wild fluctuating of their hopes and doubts, could not be wholly endured even by one as strong as her mother.

  Abigail looked at her mother with suddenly sharpened eyes, taking note at last that her mother had lost weight and that there were darkened circles like bruises under her eyes. It shamed Abigail that she had not noticed before how much toll the ordeal and the ever-present responsibilities for the wounded had taken of her mother.

  Abigail slipped an arm about her mother's trim waist. “It will be all right, Mama. It must be all right,'’ she said unsteadily.

  Lady Mary turned her misted gaze on her daughter's earnest face. What she saw brought a smile wavering to her lips. She straightened her shoulders and pulled from under her cuff a handkerchief of fine muslin to briskly blow her nose. She felt better immediately. “Of course it shall be all right. We have only to trust God and continue to believe in our troops. Our army has never before been defeated by Bonaparte, after all."

  She had intended to speak with conviction, but even to her own ears her voice sounded falsely bright. Abigail gazed at her mother. There was a wealth of such an age-old understanding in her eyes that Lady Mary was nearly overcome. She wondered when her little girl had so grown up that a word of reassurance for her was no longer wholly sufficient. She felt a sudden aching loss for Abigail's discarded naiveté. She made a determined effort to smile. “Why do we not go up to see Lady Cecily? She will be too much alone with her thoughts just now.” They went upstairs to Lady Cecily's sitting room, where they discovered the earl already before them.

  Lord Kenmare did his best to show a calm exterior to reassure the ladies, but inside he was eaten with anxiety. He was restless, unable to stay immured at the town house without news, and he had come and gone from the house several times already in search of accurate information.

  It was just before noon. The rain had finally stopped and the sun appeared. Lady Cecily, who had insisted upon sitting at the window so that she could glance out of it, called sharply to her brother. “Robert, something is happening!"

  Lord Kenmare went quickly to the window, where he was swiftly joined by Lady Mary and Abigail. He instantly perceived what his sister was referring to when he looked down into the street and saw the flurry of activity. The horses, men, carts, and carriages of all descriptions, laden with baggage, which had filled every street all night, had apparently received orders to march.

  "What does it mean, my lord?” Abigail asked anxiously.

  "We shall know soon enough, depending upon the direction they take,” Lord Kenmare said grimly.

  The ladies exchanged quick glances. Abigail's frown was worried and uncomprehending, while Lady Cecily looked sick with apprehension. Lady Mary knew that her expression must mirror the same feelings. “If they take the Antwerp or Ostend Road...” She broke off, appalled at the obvious conclusion that must be drawn.

  "Exactly. If they do so, we will not be holding our ground this day,” Lord Kenmare said, never removing his eyes from the frenetic scene below.

  Lady Mary found in her anxiety that she was digging her nails into her palms. But she was scarcely aware of the stinging discomfort as she, too, watched the commotion below. She felt her daughter's hand steal into her own and she relaxed her fingers to reassuringly clasp Abigail's hand.

  "I cannot bear to watch anymore,'’ Lady Cecily said, shading her eyes with one hand. But the next instant she had dropped her hand and leaned forward again to the window.

  The baggage wagons and various carts and carriages sorted themselves out and started moving up the Rue de Namur.

  "They are moving toward the army,” Lady Mary exclaimed. When Lord Kenmare glanced at her and smiled, she felt her heart turn over in her breast. A giddy feeling came over her and she clutched Abigail's hand harder for the support that the warm contact gave her.

  Unaware of the devastating effect of his own charm on a certain lady's vulnerable heart, Lord Kenmare said, “Yes. Our fellows must still be in the fight, no matter what we have heard this morning to the contrary.” He turned then to his sister and lifted her cold hand to clasp it warmly between his own palms. “We shall not be haring home just yet, Cecily."

  Lady Cecily's lips trembled. A sheen of tears glistened in her eyes. “Thank God. All is not quite lost, then."

  "Quite. We shall have luncheon as usual, and then I shall saunter out again to discover what intelligence I can,” Lord Kenmare said.

  Luncheon was a subdued meal. Each of those about the table was preoccupied with his or her own thoughts, and none seemed to have much appetite, especially Lady Cecily, who only picked at her plate before pushing it aside. Before the meal was finished, she quietly excused herself from the table.

  As she rose, Lord Kenmare looked at her with a worried frown. “Cecily, are you quite all right? You look unusually pale to me."

  Lady Cecily managed a smal
l wan smile. “Of course I am, Robert. It is just this beastly, awful suspense we are all in. I shall be so glad when it is all over,” she said. She asked the attending footman to ring for her maid. “I shall go upstairs for a bit and rest, I think."

  "Perhaps that would be best,” Lord Kenmare said. He watched his sister walk slowly and awkwardly from the room, and when the door was closed behind her, he said, “I do not like how strained Cecily appears."

  "I shall myself look in on her presently, my lord. But I am certain it is only the natural tiredness that comes with the approach of one's confinement that affects Lady Cecily,” Lady Mary said reassuringly.

  "Thank you, my lady. You greatly ease my mind where Cecily is concerned. I feel compelled to go often in hopes of hearing what is happening with our army. I would have been fearful of being absent when my sister most needed support, except that I know that she will not lack for care while you are with us."

  The expression in his eyes was incredibly warm. Lady Mary felt herself glowing with his confidence in her. “You may rest assured that I shall look after her, my lord,” she said quietly.

  The rest of luncheon was accomplished in passing conversation between the earl and Lady Mary. Usually so voluble in company, Abigail seemed unnaturally content merely to listen. When the covers were removed, Abigail said, “Mama, should you mind it if I call on Michele? I have been thinking about her all morning."

  "Of course you may, Abigail. I only ask that you take a footman with you, for I confess to some anxiousness about the safety of walking about the streets alone today,” Lady Mary said. Abigail kissed her mother's cheek, assuring her that she would take a manservant for an escort, and dashed upstairs to change into her walking dress. She left soon afterward in the protective custody of a sturdy footman.