by Mary Balogh
“If?”
“When,” he conceded.
She looked grim and pale about the lips.
“For years,” she said, “when I was growing up I used to worry and worry about Aidan. War seemed so pointless to me. Why should the brother I adored be away from me and the rest of his family for so long when we needed and wanted him? Why should his life be in danger every single day? Why should I live in constant dread of seeing someone in military uniform ride up to the doors of Lindsey Hall, bringing word of his death in battle? I still think war pointless. Do you not, Lord Rosthorn?”
“Of course,” he said. “But inevitable nonetheless. It is human nature, unfortunately, to fight. There will always be wars.”
“It is in men’s nature,” she said. “Women do not fight wars. If women ruled their countries, there would be a great deal more common sense in our dealings with one another.”
He smiled.
“You find that idea amusing, Lord Rosthorn?” she asked sharply.
“Only because I believe,” he said, “that women are sensible enough to stay out of politics. They have better things to do with their time.”
“Like stitching at their embroidery, I suppose,” she said, “and drinking tea with their neighbors.”
“And nurturing their children,” he said. “And keeping their menfolk in line. And making sure that the world does not neglect the beauty of art and music and poetry.”
“I wonder,” she said, “if we are not thereby damned with faint praise, as the saying goes.”
But the officers were taking their leave of Lady Rosamond and were turning to include Lady Morgan in their farewells and to assure themselves that she was indeed to attend a certain regimental dinner that evening.
Gervase took his leave at the same time, receiving an amiable nod of farewell from Lady Morgan as he did so.
Ah, he thought, as he rode away, resuming the direction he had been taking when he met the ladies, that had gone very differently from any of the flirtatious encounters he had imagined. It was a little disconcerting to discover that the lady had a mind and that she liked to use it. But if she chose to treat him in something of the nature of a friend, then so be it.
He had never been one to look a gift horse in the mouth.
ON THE MORNING OF JUNE 13 LORD ALLEYNE Bedwyn called at the house on the Rue de Bellevue and spoke privately with the Earl of Caddick before being admitted to the ladies’ presence in the morning room. They were all at home, it being a drizzly sort of day that had not yet cleared out enough to allow for a ride or even a visit to the shops.
“The Kieg-Densons, acquaintances of Sir Charles Stuart, are leaving Brussels at first light tomorrow, ma’am,” Alleyne explained to Lady Caddick after greetings had been exchanged. “They have a daughter of their own and a governess whom they credit with a great deal of fortitude and good sense. They have agreed to allow my sister to travel with them as far as London. And Lady Rosamond too if it should be your wish.”
Morgan stiffened, and Rosamond stared with wide-eyed dismay at her mother.
Lady Caddick fanned her face and looked troubled.
“I do not know, Lord Alleyne,” she said. “It is uncommonly civil of the Kieg-Densons to make such an offer, but I cannot help thinking that Rosamond’s place is with her mama and papa. And I cannot like the idea of abandoning Gordon in his hour of need. Besides, I cannot believe the situation is so desperate. Lord Uxbridge or the Duke of Wellington himself would have given the word if they considered that we were in any grave danger here.”
“I can understand and sympathize with your sentiments, ma’am,” Alleyne said. “I shall explain to Mrs. Kieg-Denson, then, that only Morgan will be traveling with them. You must direct your maid to pack your trunks without delay, Morg.”
But before she could open her mouth to utter an indignant enough retort, Lady Caddick spoke for her.
“I cannot like it, Lord Alleyne,” she said. “Lady Morgan was entrusted to my care by the Duke of Bewcastle himself. I do not have the authority to pass off that responsibility to someone else.”
“I will take the authority upon myself, ma’am,” Alleyne said. “And Lord Caddick agrees with me that Brussels has become a potentially dangerous place to be—especially for ladies.”
He did not explain his remark. He did not need to. Morgan knew as well as anyone—though no one had ever put it into words for her—what could happen to the women of a fallen city when the conquering army was let loose in it. Was the danger really so great, then?
But even now her fears were not focused upon herself. Somehow it seemed cowardly to leave. And though she was not in love with Captain Lord Gordon or any of the other officers of her acquaintance, nevertheless she knew them and cared what happened to them. She felt sick at the thought of being sent away.
“I am not going, Alleyne,” she said.
He lofted one eyebrow as he looked at her. But he spoke to Lady Caddick.
“May I speak with my sister alone, ma’am?” he asked.
Lady Caddick got obligingly to her feet. “I need you in my room, Rosamond,” she said.
Rosamond made a face at Morgan as she followed her mother obediently from the room. Morgan also stood and went to look out the window. The rain had stopped, she could see. The pavement and road were beginning to dry.
“I am not going, Alleyne,” she repeated. She could be very stubborn when she set her mind to it, as all her family knew.
He heaved an audible sigh.
“Shall we talk plainly, Morg?” he said, strolling in her direction. “I will not have my sister put at risk of being ravished by a French soldier. Is that plain enough for you? It is pretty safe to say that Wulf would not have it either.”
“When the danger is that close,” she said, “I will leave. I will be forced to. Lord Caddick will insist upon it, and Lady Caddick will understand that she must put Rosamond and me before her concern for Lord Gordon. I will wait until that moment, Alleyne. I will trust them to make the right decision. I was sent here in their care, after all. No.” She held up a staying hand when he would have spoken. “Don’t play elder brother, Alleyne. Just be my brother. I cannot leave now. I cannot.”
To her chagrin she could hear that her voice was shaking.
“Because of Gordon, I suppose,” he said, and raked one hand through his dark hair. “Is there an understanding between the two of you after all, then, Morg? Is that it? I hope it is not a secret betrothal. Wulf would have his head.”
“There is not even an understanding,” Morgan said. “But please, Alleyne, don’t try to insist that I leave tomorrow morning. The Duke of Richmond’s ball is set for the evening after tomorrow, and those plans would not still be proceeding if there were any imminent danger, would they? The Duke of Wellington is expected to appear there. Let us wait until the ball is over and then decide what is best to do.”
“By that time,” he said, “the Kieg-Densons will be long gone.”
“But there will be other people leaving,” she said. “There will be others with whom I can go if it becomes necessary for me to go at all. Please, Alleyne?”
She blinked her eyes furiously. She had never been either a weeper or a pleader, but she was close to being both at this moment. She simply could not leave Brussels. Not now. There might be a huge battle and she would not even know of it in London for days and days. The officers of her acquaintance might be killed and she would not know of it—but she would imagine the worst every minute of every hour of every day.
Alleyne made an exasperated sound.
“Morg,” he said, “you are the youngest of us, the one all of us most adore. Why could you not also be the only biddable one among us? Very well, then. We will see what happens by the morning after the Duke of Richmond’s ball. I hope I don’t regret this for the rest of my life. It goes very much against my better judgment.”
She hurried toward him, clasped her arms about his neck, and kissed him on the cheek.
�
��Thank you,” she said.
“At least,” he said, “Gordon is someone eligible, Morg. Wulf must approve or he would not have consented to let you come here with the Caddicks. You are sure you do not have an understanding with him?”
“I am sure,” she said. But if he chose not to believe what she had said on the evening of the picnic about Lord Gordon’s being tedious, she would not disabuse him. She had to stay just a little while longer.
“It might be just as well if you did,” he told her. “There were tongues wagging after that picnic in the Forest of Soignés, as I am sure you are well aware. You allowed Rosthorn to hang on your sleeve for far too long. He has not made a nuisance of himself since?”
“Not at all,” she said. “I have scarcely seen him.”
That was not strictly true. She remembered riding with him for a while along the Allée Verte a few days before. But his manner had not been in any way flirtatious or his words loverlike. He had not once called her chérie or looked at her with those lazy eyes and that half-teasing, half-mocking smile. Instead, he had been good enough to treat her as a person rather than as a silly, delicate girl. She was so tired of being treated that way. He was the only man in Brussels—with the exception of Alleyne—who had been willing to admit the truth of the military situation to her.
“That is good to hear,” Alleyne said. “We had better hope none of that gossip gets back to Wulf. The rain has stopped, I see. Do you want to run and fetch your bonnet and come walking in the park with me? I cannot help feeling I have neglected you since we came here.”
“I suppose,” she said before leaving the room, “it is because you are a working man at last, Alleyne, and have better things to do than run after a sister all day.”
“I always did, Morg.” He chuckled.
ON JUNE 14 NEWS ARRIVED THAT THE FRENCH army was concentrated about Mauberge and that they had even crossed the frontier into Belgium. It was a mere showy flexing of muscles, according to general opinion in Brussels. There were over one hundred thousand Prussian troops guarding every road between Ardennes and Charleroi, and an only slightly smaller force of British and Allied soldiers guarding every road between Mons and the North Sea. There was no way for the French to get past.
But on June 15 there was a grand review of the troops quartered in Brussels on the Allée Verte, while crowds of onlookers watched, perhaps with a little more anxiety and slightly less gaiety than they had displayed at similar reviews in previous weeks.
And late that same afternoon, though few people heard of it, news reached the Prince of Orange and the Duke of Wellington that a Prussian brigade had been attacked close to Charleroi and that Thuin had been captured. Later in the day Wellington issued orders for the Second and Fifth Divisions to gather at Ath in readiness to proceed into action as soon as the word was given.
But for those British visitors who were staying in the city, there was still no extraordinary sense of urgency. It was generally known that the Duke of Richmond’s ball was to proceed as planned and that most of the officers stationed in or near the city intended to be there. Word still had it that Wellington himself was to be a guest. A group of sergeants and privates of the Forty-second Royal Highlanders and the Ninety-second Foot were to entertain the guests with reels and strathspeys to bagpipe music. It was to be a grand affair indeed.
Fortunately, perhaps, for Morgan, Alleyne had been sent unexpectedly to Antwerp on embassy business and was not expected to return until the next day. She simply had to attend the ball. There was a sense of urgency, even a sense of history focused upon the occasion. Everyone knew it was going to be the last chance any of them would have to make merry together.
It was possible, of course, that the gathering of the troops was all so much maneuvering and that within a day or two they would be back in Brussels and Napoléon Bonaparte would be back in France and life would proceed as usual again.
It was more probable, though, that this was no false alarm but that the armies were amassing for what would prove to be a deadly battle.
CHAPTER V
UNDER THE CIRCUMSTANCES IT MIGHT HAVE been expected that very few guests would attend the Duke of Richmond’s ball on the evening of June 15, but in fact, it turned out to be the grandest squeeze Brussels had seen since the British had started streaming across the English Channel in large numbers more than a month before. Surprising too, perhaps, was the fact that officers of all regiments stationed in and about the city turned out in large numbers. Clad in the bright splendor of their dress uniforms with silk stockings and dancing shoes instead of their boots, they looked as if marching into battle were the farthest thing from their minds.
The ladies sparkled as if there were nothing more important in life than dancing and no place more desirable in which to do it than the Richmond ballroom.
But appearances could be deceptive. Gervase, having paid his respects to the duke and duchess, sought out a group of his male acquaintances and found that they were deep in conversation over the military situation. There was no doubt in any of their minds that by morning the whole army would be marching in the direction of the frontier. The only uncertainty was whether there was likely to be a pitched battle somewhere or whether the strong defenses of the Allies would deter Napoléon Bonaparte and persuade him to retreat. The consensus was that there would be no French retreat and that there would indeed be a battle.
The sounds of animated conversation and laughter rose even above the lively music the orchestra was playing. The rhythmic tread of dozens of feet performing the steps of a country dance underlay the hubbub.
Gervase caught sight of Lady Morgan Bedwyn, flushed and smiling brightly, vividly lovely in a white gown that shimmered in the candlelight. She was dancing with Gordon and seemingly had eyes for no one but him.
Gervase had not expected to see her. A number of British families, especially those with children and young female members, had left for the greater safety of Antwerp or for home itself during the past couple of days. He would have expected Caddick to have more sense than to remain when there were two young ladies in his household as well as his wife, though of course there was young Gordon to make them all reluctant to leave. Lady Morgan had probably felt that reluctance too. It was a wonder, though, that her brother who was attached to the embassy had not insisted that she leave.
There was something brittle, almost desperate, about her smile.
He had not spoken with her since that day when they had met on the Allée Verte and ridden together for a while. But he had thought about her a great deal. She had all the almost-unconscious arrogance of the Bedwyns, but she was also intelligent, forthright, and honest—all qualities that he admired. She was also attractive as well as classically beautiful. Despite the untutored way she had kissed him in the Forest of Soignés, she had stirred his blood.
Truth to tell, he was beginning to feel guilty. His hatred of Bewcastle and his desire somehow to make him suffer had not been one whit assuaged by the way he had singled out Lady Morgan Bedwyn for dalliance and gossip. But he did feel that perhaps his actions had been small-minded and he had begun to regret them. The best he could do tonight, he decided, was stay away from her.
MORGAN HAD NOT REALIZED UNTIL THIS EVENING that she would be able to smile and make merry and dance and converse and laugh in the face of such a looming catastrophe. She would have thought such behavior inappropriate, disrespectful, unfeeling, impossible. Yet she was quite incapable of behaving any other way. And if it was any consolation to her, everyone else was doing the same—Rosamond, the officers of their acquaintance, everyone.
It was the merriest ball she had attended all Season.
It was also the saddest. Somewhere deep down she was aware of the terrible fragility, the tragically ephemeral nature, of human life.
She danced the opening set with Captain Lord Gordon. She stood at his side later while the bagpipes droned and the Scottish dancers dazzled and awed the gathering with the energy and intricate footwork of thei
r reels and with the imposing visual spectacle they presented with their swaying kilts and tartans. She waltzed with Lord Gordon at midnight, just as the Duke of Wellington was arriving, looking as cheerful and as festive as all the other guests. But by that time rumor had already made the rounds of the ballroom that the Prince of Orange, also a guest, had received a dispatch during supper informing him that Charleroi had fallen.
Charleroi was twenty miles inside the Belgian border.
Morgan’s smile had not faltered. Neither had anyone else’s.
She felt a strange, almost desperate tenderness for the captain—perhaps because everyone expected that they would make a match of it and he was always so eagerly attentive while she had felt nothing for him since their arrival in Brussels but a mild irritation—and sometimes not even so very mild. Tomorrow he would be going into deadly danger. Tomorrow he might be going to his death.
“I daresay, Lady Morgan,” he said cheerfully as they waltzed, “we will have an early start of it tomorrow. But I am glad of that. I am glad Old Boney has dared to come and that we will have our chance to crush him once and for all on the battlefield. We will be heroes tomorrow or the next day or whenever the battle finally comes. I will make you proud of me.”
Behind his boastful words, she thought, there must be a terrible fear.
“Your mama and papa and all who know you are already enormously proud of you,” she said. “I am sure they do not need you to prove your courage in battle. Perhaps a battle may yet be averted.” She did not believe it for a moment.
“Pardon me for having even mentioned such a topic,” he said, twirling her with small steps and cautious precision. “I should not worry your pretty little head with such talk.”
She tried to ignore the flaring of irritation she always felt when she heard those words. She smiled at him and focused her attention on him. If he needed her company and her admiration tonight, then she would not deny him. There was so little women could do.
They had reached the doorway of the ballroom, and he stopped dancing suddenly, caught her impulsively by the hand, and hurried her through it. Crowds milled about outside, but he glanced hastily in both directions and hurried her along a corridor to their right, past open doors leading into busy salons and card rooms, and along to the end, where he drew her into the shadowed privacy afforded by an open door.