Major Lord David

by Sherry Lynn Ferguson

  “He is not an excuse,” he countered grimly. “He is a reason”

  “You want the reason.”

  “No, I am persuaded by the reason” The comment was sharp. “I would never have believed you could sound so … missish!”

  At once she was conscious of the color in her cheeks, of the stares and hushed attention about them. No one had approached them; they had been left to themselves. But Ephie, her gaze very stern, had come closer. And Billie knew their quarrel was a subject of speculation.

  “We-we take too much time,” she said. She found she could not move either to the right or the left of him without brushing against him. She met his gaze, prepared to ask him to kindly step aside, only to encounter a considering look in his that she could not quite interpret.

  “Every once in a while,” he said, “the reminder strikes me like a blow.”

  “What reminder, Major?” She tried to turn into the column, to squeeze past his broad chest, but there was no room.

  “The reminder that you are indeed a very young miss.” And with that extraordinary admission, he smoothly slipped his arm about her waist. Drawing her from their singularly exposed spot, he pulled her into the set for the waltz.

  “You mustn’t-you mustn’t dance another with me,” she said, conscious of the firmness in his clasp.

  “No?” He surveyed the dance floor instead of looking at her. “We shan’t avoid the alert eyes and ears of The Tattler in any event. At least I choose to be understood”

  “But this is our third dance!”

  “Just so” He smiled broadly at her. “If a simple tiff must be bruited about, at least The Tattler might acknowledge the reason for it.”

  “We are not engaged,” Billie insisted, forced to follow him in the dance. She knew he mustn’t claim again what she’d attempted to sever. She gathered the will to break from him at the first opportunity-their “tiff” might entail so much. But catching sight of Charis Athington’s envious expression as they passed, Billie found she preferred one victory to another.

  “The world will not be ignored just now, Miss Billie,” the major remarked idly as they stepped on down the set. “It is `too much with us,’ as the poet says. On all sides, apparently.” His hold tightened. “Do smile, sweet. I cannot act happy for both of us”

  “I am not happy.”

  “Ah, I forget. You are upset that I shall be leaving you. Very good. You think ahead of me.”

  No, she thought, I do not think ahead of you. ‘Twould be quite impossible to think ahead of you. She looked directly at him.

  “You may be an actor,” she said. “But I am not”

  “So you do not wish me to go?” His gaze held hers. “I believe I asked earlier-before our refreshing little break”

  “If I-if I were to ask you to stay, would you?”

  His hold about her waist felt strong as a vise.

  “You would not ask me,” he claimed, suddenly serious. “Which is why you make it so devilishly difficult to leave.” He turned their clasped hands unexpectedly to his lips and quickly kissed her wrist below her glove.

  She thought he could not go then, not after such outrageous behavior. She silently studied his face for the remainder of the dance, anticipating that they must have further conversation. But he did go, with no more than a farewell at the waltz’s end and just after returning her to a disapproving Ephie.

  The next morning Billie received a small volume of Wordsworth’s poetry, accompanied by a typically terse note from the major, explaining that it had been among some books from Braughton that he had gathered to take with him. He wrote: I hope you will consider this a gift. It is, like my heart, now yours. Sous bonne garde. David.

  She was left to find Enghien in the atlas-and to spend too much time puzzling over David Trent’s parting note. Again she concluded that he meant to be cryptic. Given his hasty, dashed phrases and lack of punctuation, he left one to infer too much. Sous bonne garde. Did that mean he knew his heart to be safe in her keeping? Or that she must not worry about him-that he was in the safekeeping of others? In the care of the Duke of Wellington, perhaps, or of even higher authority? She hoped all military communications did not suffer so from lack of clarity.

  Apprehension filled her days. Shortly after Lord David’s departure, word arrived from Vienna that the Congress of allies had declared Napoleon Bonaparte an “enemy of the world.” Bonaparte reached Paris on the same day that Louis XVIII, the installed Bourbon king, fled the city. Given the astonishing speed of Bonaparte’s advance and the overwhelming welcome his countrymen had given him, a confrontation between France and the rest of Europe seemed inevitable. Still, Bonaparte claimed to want only peace with his neighbors, though no one with whom Billie spoke believed as much.

  Over the Easter break, during the last week in March, even Billie’s brother Edward spoke of possibly curtailing his studies to join up and fight Bonaparte. With some effort Billie, Ephie, and Morty convinced him that he should first finish reading for his degree-that Bonaparte might still be there for him some months later.

  By the time the Commons did begin debate on the matter of war, in late April, many forces-including Alan Athington’s company of the 52nd-had already made their way across the Channel to join the remnants of the allied army in Brussels. Wellington, who had arrived in Brussels the first week in April, was heard to claim that the clash-if it came-would not occur before July. In an effort to amass as large and overwhelming a force for him as possible, Britain and Ireland were even stripped of their garrisons. All the more reason, then, for Kit Caswell to chafe at the fact that his own company was directed to stay at home. Kit’s disappointment in that, coupled with the exceeding boredom of constant drilling in preparation for a conflict he apparently was destined to miss, had him impatiently reverting to previous form. Once again he took to excessive gaming in the company of Ronald Dumont and P.B. Marsh.

  Appalled by Kit’s increasing debts, Billie implored him to limit his wagers-to no avail. A letter of appeal to their father, Sir Moreton, only elicited the advice to let Kit learn his lesson and “reward himself for his own folly”; Sir Moreton appeared to believe that the Marshes and Dumonts of the world could do no lasting harm. Billie suspected otherwise, her resentment of the gentlemen’s influence over her brother grew, and whenever she did encounter Ronald Dumont, she made a point of “cutting” him, which annoyed Kit more than it did Dumont.

  “Can’t you like Dumont-even a little?” Kit coaxed her after a particularly public snub.

  “I cannot,” Billie assured him, and she returned to contemplating that morning’s Times. She had consistently, and with no small amount of pain, refused to lend as much as a shilling to Kit while he kept company with Ronald Dumont. She took seriously Kit’s repeated threats to “get on with the business” and flee to the Continent, because she knew Kit very well and knew that his impatience mirrored her own.

  Morty and his adoring Esther Urquhart announced their engagement, which afforded Billie some relief from considering her own uncertain status. London’s gossip pages in The Tattler never did trouble to carry an item concerning Miss Caswell and Lord David. Still, though she retained partners enough, none of Billie’s admirers was as ardent as before. Major Trent’s manifest “claim” at the Birdwistle ball had put them off. Only elderly Mr. Trahearne persisted, with a halfhearted gallantry Billie ascribed more to habit, or to forgetfulness, than to any sincere interest. Elegant Lord Grenby turned his attentions to May Sanders, a substitution that made little sense to Billie-until Hayden, who had escorted Billie and her aunt on a first foray to Almack’s, advised her that the Sanders’ fortune would keep Grenby in acceptable style for some years.

  “And they shall suit,” he remarked as his gaze followed hers, watching the couple dance. “Grenby is not a bad fellow, but there is not much to ‘im.”

  “Unlike your brother.”

  “Do you doubt it, Miss Caswell?”

  Billie’s chin rose. Her brothers had trained her
in meeting a challenge.

  “Why was Lord David sent down from Oxford?”

  “What?” Hayden’s smile was broad. “Has he not told you?”

  “I … have not asked him.”

  “Then it can’t have seemed important,” he concluded.

  “But all those years of study wasted!”

  “Oh, nothing of the sort! They weren’t wasted, I assure you. David has a fine, shaggy head full of knowledge. Attendance is the thing, after all. I scarcely managed two years at the place m’self.” When next Hayden caught her accusing eye, he added, “If the matter troubles you, Miss Billie, you must ask himwhen he returns,” he suggested with an easy confidence she was far from sharing.

  Hayden had sought her company frequently enough during the spring that Billie suspected him of keeping her under some form of surveillance. She might have objected to his polite attentions, if she had not overheard Dumont once accuse Hayden of “spoiling the play” with Kit. Concluding that the Trents’ sense of responsibility extended not only to herself but to keeping Kit from disaster, Billie was too sensible to desire an end to Hayden’s company. And though Morty commented with some irritation that Hayden seemed to pop up everywhere, he also acknowledged the accompanying, increased eclat in the eyes of the ton.

  Worry was Billie’s most constant companion. She followed the news and the debates in Commons with something approaching dread. The weather did not help. An unusually cloudy, wet spring was apparently visited upon all of Europe. One did not venture out without vexations of one sort or another-damp hemlines, soggy shoes, delays, and drooping spirits. Though society was not as dull as Charis Athington had forecast-there were certainly bodies enough attending every event of note-no one appeared very gay. Billie knew she was dispirited, moving halfheartedly through the steps of her own season. She wished she might be off to Brussels herself, or quietly at home, rather than living in a state of feigned pleasure and constant suspension. Merely enduring the days, though they were nothing if not comfortable, required an application of will. That anyone else around her could even appear blithely unconcerned drew her disbelief.

  Billie sought activity and motion, though the rain limited her choices. As Ephie did not keep horses, the offers of carriage rides from her “suitors” were usually, and gratefully, accepted. Billie took one or both of Ephie’s footmen and walked miles, as none of the maids could match her pace. And she practiced the piano until her shoulders and arms ached. The Dowager Duchess of Braughton, David’s grandmere, asked Billie over to play for her, and Billie enjoyed the visits. The duchess was enthusiastic and kind. But several sessions were enough, as the visits reminded her too distressingly of the absent Lord David, whom the duchess now never failed to mention. Billie suspected that the older woman knew. Yet Billie did not understand herself. Surely, surely she should have preferred any company associated with him, though he was not of the company?

  The next time the duchess invited Billie over to play, Billie pleaded a headache.

  As the month of May bore on, as the debates in Parliament resolved themselves into a declaration, by both houses, for war, and as word filtered from France that Bonaparte had managed to remobilize and retrain hundreds of thousands of soldiers, Billie’s agitation found no suitable outlet.

  May Sanders approached her at an afternoon’s call and breathlessly relayed that she had had several letters at once from Charis Athington.

  “She had set them aside and forgotten to post them-can you imagine? They are all on alert for Bonaparte. Charis says there is some talk of removing with her family to Antwerp for safety. But nothing untoward has happened yet, though she does say that they see the troops assembled nearly every day and that the Duke of Wellington lives just one block away from them and that he is to be encountered simply everywhere. Charis’ brother-you did meet Alan, did you not, Miss Caswell?brings his fellow officers by the house often, and Charis has met many others from all the armies, including the handsome and most gallant Dutch Prince of Orange. If Charis is to be believed, he has paid her some marked attention! I suppose, in all fairness, one must allow that Charis is lovely! Am I not a very good friend to say so? Oh-and she has seen Major Trent”

  Billie fixed May with a determinedly cool gaze.

  “Has she?”

  “Oh, yes! And she said that he looked very well but that by the time he arrived at the dance at-at the Royal Palace, I believe-her card was already full. But he spent some time speaking with her brother, and the Household regiments are at Egg… Egg.. “

  “Enghien.”

  “What? Oh, yes. Enghien. How funny that sounds! And the major said that the duke expects three days’ notice of any move by Bonaparte, so Charis thinks they might all safely remove from Brussels.”

  “Who intends to remove from Brussels, Miss Sanders?”

  “Why, the Athingtons, of course”

  Billie, still trying to make sense of May’s scrambled talk, refused to dwell on how full Charis’ dance card had been. Although that did not necessarily mean that David had even asked her…

  “Miss Caswell, did you hear me? I said that Charis said they had invited Major Lord David to dine. And he promised to attend them at the first opportunity. So you must see that he is well looked after, is he not?” And May, batting her falsely friendly, wide blue eyes, held Billie’s steady gaze.

  “I am sure the major-or any soldier-must be glad of fine food and pleasant company on occasion.”

  “Oh, as to that, they are all living exceptionally well, if Charis reports correctly. One would think it a regular holidayand the place not filled with half the alarm we’ve had here at home! To hear her tell it, all is lively bustle and excitement! How I do wish Papa had taken me over as well! Only then I should not have had the company of dear Grenby… ” As May’s blue gaze once again settled in seeming innocence upon her, Billie determined that she had had enough and excused herself.

  Lively bustle and excitement! Living exceptionally well! Promising to dine with Charis! And all this while she had been losing sleep! In a decidedly aggrieved mood, Billie returned home, telling Ephie during the carriage ride back only that May Sanders had once again had too much to say for herself.

  The evening post had brought a letter in David Trent’s distinctive hand. Under Ephie’s close scrutiny, Billie shed her pelisse and settled by the hearthside to read the missive that had taken nearly a week to reach her.

  Brussels, 25 May

  Dear Miss Caswell,

  I hope you will pardon my long silence. I have found few pauses for reflection, given the pressing needs to assemble, house, feed, and otherwise supply many men in a short period of time, much less train soldiers who have not been under arms for the better part of a year-if ever.

  Only in these past two days have I returned to Brussels for my first visit since arriving in the Low Countries at the end of March. At that time, viewed from the canal boat from Ostend, the peaceful countryside would never have been described as anticipating war. All was greening pasture, sleeping waterways, promisingly pollarded trees, and humble farms. Given the addition of so many tens of thousands of troops since, that atmosphere has altered considerably.

  I have quarters with a farming family just outside the town I mentioned. They have been generous, and the lady of the house is an excellent cook. But I dare not suppose their support. The countryside is riddled with spies and sympathizers with Bonaparte, as many of the men fought for the emperor’s armies in past years. I dare not be more explicit. I ride out daily on the back roads, where the inhabitants are not as discreet as they might be-I regret that our allied soldiers are no more so-with regard to what they observe of Bonaparte’s movements. The local farmers tend to forget that some of us have a passing knowledge of the language. But few are openly hostile; if we should prove victorious this summer, the locals will of course claim to have prayed for us all along.

  I had the opportunity shortly after arrival of touring the Belgian border with the Duke of Wellington’s
party, riding from Ostend at the Channel through Ypres and Ghent and farther south, in an effort to ascertain the state of allied defenses. The duke, I assure you, knows his ground and the challenges before him; we have, as we have always had, every confidence in his leadership. He is an extraordinary commander.

  We continue to augment infantry, but, per the above, most of the Belgian troops cannot be relied upon. There is also much resentment among these French-speaking troops of last year’s treaty granting control over Belgium to the Netherlands. Wellington is wisely mingling our many allied nationalities in all divisions and weaving among them differing levels of experience as well. There is insurance in this, though I must allow that the frustrations are perhaps equal to the benefits.

  Despite this preparation I continue to hope, from what I hear from London, that war might be avoided. Perhaps a similar hope delays Parliament, which has yet to settle upon a “stance.” Word is out that Bonaparte has political problems at home in France. Rumor claims he might be toppled there before he can pounce elsewhere. As we are in no state yet to take the battle to him, we must bide our time and observe.

  Yet I cannot describe to you the unease here in Brussels. Whatever the political developments, hostilities must be anticipated. All must prepare for them, though we make every effort to do so with least alarm. Given the circumstances, I might have wished the British population in the city smaller and less excitable. One distinctly feels part of the season’s entertainments. But the duke, bless him, seems to find the society congenial.

  At camp we are content and comfortable, though I believe it has rained every day now for almost two months; there is little to distinguish any of us in our constant state of drenched dampness. I understand I share some of your clouds, if not the delight of your company. My grandmere writes that she has had that particular pleasure. I am happy to hear it; I confess, I am exceedingly fond of her. I thank you for your kindness in indulging her.

  From what I have ascertained, I believe your brother’s company detailed at home, which is no doubt an unalloyed disappointment for him but should be of considerable comfort to you.