He drew back and looked her in the eyes. “Dare I hope?” he began.
She raised her hand to his face, taking in his weary, bloodshot eyes, the raspy stubble on his jaw. “I got your letter, and I forgive you,” she said. “And I must ask you to forgive me, too.”
“Whatever for?”
“For being proud of my own righteousness, and cold in my pride. I thought so well of myself for never sinning, as if there was any merit to virtue in the absence of temptation.”
His brows narrowed. “Certainly I’ll forgive you if you wish it, but I don’t think there’s any need. I’m sure you could resist any number of temptations.”
“I’m not,” she said. “I’ll never know. But I do know I want to go on with you, and live looking forward, and not back.”
He kissed her again. “Good. I believe I promised you Paris, after all.”
She drew his good hand down to her stomach. “And as to those grandchildren you mean to boast to, I think—I’m almost sure we’ve finally made a beginning on that.”
If he’d looked happy before, now he looked radiant. “Oh, my love. I—it’s too much. Are you well? I hope you—you must take care.”
“I’m well,” she assured him, “only a little more tired than normal.”
“You must take care,” he repeated. His hand still rested just where she had left it, though his eyes grew distant for a moment. “Victor,” he said. “That would be a fitting name, given the circumstances. Perhaps Victor Arthur.”
Elizabeth couldn’t help but laugh. She’d never heard a more absurd name in all her life, but Jack would never change. “I was thinking of Richard for your uncle, or Edward for your brother,” she said mildly.
“Richard Victor, then.”
“Or we might have a daughter.”
“Victoria. It’s perfect.”
She rolled her eyes. “Anne for your mother, or Caroline for your sister.”
“Elizabeth,” he countered, “for you. We’ll call her Lizzie, or Bess.”
She nestled against his shoulder. His bright dress uniform from the ball was now dirty and dull, and he stank of sweat, horse and gunpowder, but she didn’t care. The happiness she’d given up for lost had come back to her, stronger and deeper for its testing. “We’ve time to discuss it,” she murmured.
“All the time in the world. Together.”
Epilogue
Westerby Grange, 1828
The children had already rushed ahead to the carriage, eager as always for a new adventure, but Elizabeth and Jack lingered for a moment on the doorstep.
“Ready for Canada, my dear?” he asked.
“I can hardly wait.” Jack was to be governor-general, and Elizabeth rejoiced that she would finally have the chance to see where he had lived and fought as a young man.
Since Waterloo, they had spent a little over half their time abroad. They had been two years in Paris with the Army of Occupation—their eldest, Caroline Victoria, was Paris-born, and her brother Richard was Paris-bred and Roman-born, while they were finally on their Grand Tour. Only their youngest, Giles, had been born at Westerby Grange. Elizabeth had half-expected him to be her domestic child, but if anything he was the most restless of the lot—his current dream was to become a sea captain, to the consternation of his father. Armstrong men were soldiers, not sailors.
Jack gazed for a moment toward the pastures where the year’s crop of foals frolicked while their dams grazed. “I’m glad to go,” he said meditatively. “I’ve always wanted to live there again, but just think—Caro will be a young lady by the time we come back.”
“Don’t remind me—she’s almost as tall as I am already. And I’m always glad to go—but I’m always glad to come home as well. That’s as it should be, I think.”
“And I,” he said, offering her his arm, “am always glad to go anywhere as long as you are with me.”
She nestled closer to his side as they stepped out toward their next journey together.
* * * * *
Historical Note
I aimed to depict the events and social milieu of my characters’ world as accurately as possible, yet fiction entails taking certain liberties with historical fact. In order to insert a fictional general into the War of 1812 and the Waterloo Campaign, I had to rob a few real-life commanders of a share of their glory. At the real Battle of Queenston Heights, Roger Hale Sheaffe took over command after Isaac Brock’s death. James Kempt commanded the 8th British Brigade at Quatre Bras and Waterloo and later went on to serve as Governor General of Canada. Thomas Picton did indeed die at Waterloo, but about five minutes after he does so in this story. And the incident from the landing at Ostend is adapted from Captain Cavalie Mercer’s journal of the Waterloo Campaign.
For filling out Jack’s life in Canada before and during the War of 1812, I am indebted to The Astonishing General: The Life and Legacy of Sir Isaac Brock, by Wesley B. Turner, and Crown and Calumet: British-Indian Relations 1783–1815, by Colin G. Calloway.
There are enough books out there on Waterloo to fill a good-sized library, but I relied especially upon Wellington at Waterloo, by Jac Weller, The Waterloo Companion, by Mark Adkin, Waterloo 1815, by Geoffrey Wootten, Dancing Into Battle: A Social History of the Battle of Waterloo, by Nick Foulkes, and The Duchess of Richmond’s Ball: 15 June 1815, by David Miller.
For readers who’d like to learn more, I recommend Dancing Into Battle for the social atmosphere and The Battle: A New History of Waterloo, by Alessandro Barbero, for a page-turning account of the battle itself.
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About the Author
An Alabama native, Susanna Fraser attended the University of Pennsylvania and spent a year working and exploring in England before settling down in Seattle, where she lives with her husband and daughter.
By day, she works in research administration, by night and weekend she writes, and with whatever time is left over she enjoys trying new recipes and following Mariners baseball and Auburn football. Please visit her blog at www.authorsusannafraser.blogspot.com, follow her on Twitter at @susannafraser or on Pinterest at www.pinterest.com/susannafraser.
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ISBN: 978-14268-9459-6
Copyright © 2012 by Susan Wilbanks
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