The Waltzing Widow

by Gayle Buck

  "I beg to differ, Cecily. Lady Mary is too calm in manner and intelligent to be other than she is, and that is an extremely attractive young widow,” the earl said, flicking the pillow back at his sister.

  Lady Cecily deflected the soft missile, staring up at her brother. A kindling expression warmed her eyes. “Ah, so you did notice!"

  "Cecily, stop that thought right where it is,” Lord Kenmare said quietly. “You know how much I detest becoming the object of matchmaking schemes."

  "But, Robert, you cannot mean to go the remainder of your life without remarrying. I said nothing to you for years after Madeline died, out of respect for your feelings and because I hoped that eventually you would cast about for someone on your own. But you have not given a single sign that you mean to do anything about it, and I can't help but think—"

  "Pray do not think, Cecily!” the earl groaned. “Come, dearest sister, when shall you give up this ludicrous notion that I cannot be happy unless I remarry? You know perfectly well that I am comfortable as I am."

  "Yes, I know all about your occasional companions, Robert,'’ Lady Cecily retorted.

  "Now, I wonder, who can be telling tales about me out of school?” Lord Kenmare mused. His expression was at its blandest. “You really should not listen to gossip, Cecily, especially the whispers of the ill-informed."

  Lady Cecily was goaded beyond endurance. “You know perfectly well that I do not pay heed to gossip! At least ... Really, Robert, surely you must realize that everyone is anxious that I am kept informed of your discreet progress. I am thought to live in dread of your begetting an heir and thus losing the title for my own firstborn. Such odious busybodies. It is quite a trial to me, I assure you. Yes, you may laugh! But if you had any feeling for me at all, you would marry tomorrow so that I may have some peace. I have often been so put out of patience with the nonsense that I have positively hoped that you have a bastard or two tucked away somewhere, and so I have said! That shut their mealy mouths, I can tell you!"

  The earl laughed again. At Lady Cecily's reproachful look, he only shook his head. He rose and gently tweaked one of his sister's glossy brown curls. “I am most sorry to disappoint you, Cecily. But to my knowledge, I have no bastards. And I do apologize for being such a cross for you to bear. I had no notion that you suffered such indignities on my behalf."

  "If you truly, truly loved me, you would remarry,” Lady Cecily said hopefully. Her brother's gaze was startled. She tried to keep a straight face but she could not. She pealed with laughter. “Oh, that was perfectly wicked of me, was it not! Pray do forgive me for teasing you so in such a horrid fashion, Robert."

  "Indeed, I must, for I do adore you.” He smiled down into her eyes, then said firmly, “But not enough to wed Lady Mary Spence or any other lady only to satisfy your notion of proper succession, which, by the by, is a most unnatural one for a mother-to-be. Any other lady would be ecstatic to have her unborn child in line for an earldom."

  "That's all very well, Robert. But you know that my dearest wish above all else is to see you settled and as happy as you were before. You see!” Lady Cecily spread her hands with an air of injured innocence. “I am completely unselfish."

  The earl lifted his well-marked black brows. “Indeed!"

  She smiled as she stretched out her hand to him. “Go away, dear brother. I wish to think private and forbidden thoughts regarding your future."

  "You fill me with alarm,” Lord Kenmare said. He bowed over her fingers, retaining her hand for a moment as though he meant to say something else. But he apparently thought better of it. He merely smiled before he left the drawing room.

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  Chapter 6

  That evening mother and daughter waited impatiently for the arrival of their invited dinner guest. When a very young gentleman attired in regimental togs was ushered into the drawing room, both ladies leapt to their feet.

  "William!” Lady Mary quickly went to him, her hands outstretched. But Abigail slipped past her to envelop her brother in a smothering hug.

  The young gentleman emerged from Abigail's fervent welcome to take Lady Mary's hands. He bowed with aplomb. “My lady, you look exceptionally well,” he said, a wide grin belying the formality of his greeting.

  Lady Mary laughed and shook her head at him. “You'll not stand on such ceremony with me, I warn you,” she said. In imitation of her daughter's exuberant welcome, she threw her arms around him. She was surprised and touched when his strong arms came up to clasp her close.

  The silly tears started to her eyes and she blinked them back. She released him with a last pat and stepped back, once more mistress of herself. She made a production of looking him up and down while he stood grinning at her.

  William Spence was a sturdy young gentleman of average height, with his shoulders broad and held proudly. His face was open and boyish except for the thin sliver scar that cut deep across his left brow. Lady Mary was pleased to note that her son appeared as pleasant-natured as ever. She had unconsciously feared that somehow his chosen profession would coarsen his sensitivities.

  Her son had inherited her wide gray eyes and his hair was blond, not gold like Abigail's, but wheaten even in the candlelight. Attired as he was in scarlet coat and breeches and Hessian boots, a shako under his arm, he was the very picture of the best of English manhood, she thought with a touch of pride. “It is so good to see you at last, William. I believe you've grown broader than when we saw you last."

  William laughed, his audacious grin flashing at his mother. “Put that down to the feed we fellows are getting. Mama. Beer, bread, meat, and gin are cheap in Flanders."

  "Really, William!” Lady Mary laughed. “I am serious. I could swear you have grown a full inch. You appear to such fine advantage in all your finery, I assure you."

  "Yes, you have become quite the handsome one, William. Or do you pad your shoulders with buckram?” Abigail asked, feeling her brother's upper arm with exaggerated curiosity.

  He slapped away her hand and said with dignity, “Indeed I do not, brat. And I'll thank you not to inspect me like a cut of beef offered for sale by the village butcher.” Abigail giggled. She threw herself at him to kiss his cheek again. William tolerated the salutation good-naturedly and affectionately tweaked one of her gold curls, remarking that she had improved considerably since he had last seen her. “You've turned into a dashed pretty girl, Abby. If you weren't my own sister I would instantly fall at your feet in admiration."

  Abigail blushed hotly at her brother's lavish compliment. “Oh, William, truly? Am I pretty?"

  He pretended to study her judiciously, while she stared up at him in anxious suspense. “I doubt that there are more than one or two who can hold a candle to you,” he said at last.

  Abigail was made speechless with pleasure.

  Lady Mary had listened with amusement, but she shook her head in mock reproval at her son. “William, you must not encourage her so. Your sister is already as vain as she can hold."

  William's easy smile flashed out. “Is she! Then I shall certainly exercise restraint in future. And I shall warn off my friends by saying that my sister is only passable and not worth their attention."

  "Oh, no, no, William! You would not be so beastly!” Abigail exclaimed, horrified. “Why, I would not be asked to dance at all."

  William laughed at her. “Silly puss. As though the fellows don't have eyes in their heads. I promise you that you shall never lack for dance partners."

  Abigail realized that she had been the butt of one of his teases and she pushed him. “Wretch! I shall revenge myself upon you, see if I don't.'’ William immediately threatened her with a turn over his knee for her impertinence. Abigail squealed and put a table between them. “You would not dare!"

  "Wouldn't I just!'’ William said, grinning. He feinted a lunge toward her and she squealed again, her eyes reflecting high enjoyment of her brother's company.

  "A truce, I pray you!” Lady Mary protested, laughi
ng. “Don't you think that we may go in to dinner?"

  "Of course. Allow me to escort you properly, Mama,” William said, holding out his arm to her. He offered his other arm to his sister and proudly escorted both ladies into the dining room.

  Dinner was a convivial meal, made pleasant by lighthearted banter and laughter and the familiar teasing between brother and sister. Lady Mary could not remember being happier, when she had the two people dearest to her heart beside her. As she glanced from her son's animated face, with its slender bones and the hint of down on his upper lip, to her daughter, whose blue eyes sparkled with unalloyed pleasure, she wished that her husband had survived long enough to see what fine children they had made between them. She found that she was content merely to watch their expressive faces and listen to their chatter. It was a scene that she knew she would always cherish—the candlelight shedding its soft friendly glow over them, the happy vivacious conversation, even the lingering aroma of roast roebuck and chestnut gravy that they had consumed for dinner.

  "I hope that there is a war."

  William's cheerful statement destroyed Lady Mary's contentment. She straightened in her chair. “I trust you are not serious. There is not a chance of it, is there?"

  William looked across the table at his mother, surprised by her abrupt tone. “Why, Mama, everyone knows that we're going to go head-to-toe with Boney again. It is just a question of when."

  Lady Mary was disturbed. “Are you certain of this, William? I had heard of Bonaparte's escape from Elba, of course, but I never imagined that it would mean war again. Everyone, surely, must be sick of war."

  "There you are out, Mama,” said William confidently. “There are hundreds just like me who would like nothing better than to test our mettle against one of the greatest generals of our time. Besides, it will mean that I shall have my promotion in no time at all."

  "I think it vastly exciting, don't you, Mama?” Abigail exclaimed, her eyes shining. “Why, it is just like out of a romance. William will charge off against the enemy and return triumphant, with the enemy routed and put to flight, and then kneel to receive a kiss of gratitude on the cheek from his lady.''

  "Abigail, how you do go on,” Lady Mary said in gentle reproof.

  "Quite right. As though I would be so daft as to kneel for some girl or other, whom I've never met, only to be kissed on the cheek,” William said scornfully. He arranged his features into a soulful expression and pretended to salute a lady. “My lady, I humbly beg for a token of your esteem from your own marble lips,” he lisped.

  Abigail shrieked with laughter. Even Lady Mary had to laugh at her son's absurdity, and the conversation passed on to reminiscences of past Christmas charades and other pleasant memories.

  It was not until much later that night, after William had left them to return to his quarters and Abigail had said good night while hiding a yawn behind her hand as she went to her bedroom, that Lady Mary recalled the breezy and knowledgeable manner in which William had declared that there would be another battle.

  While the maid brushed out her hair. Lady Mary stared at herself in her mirror. She saw the anxiety reflected in her gray eyes. “Dear God, it cannot happen. It must not happen,” she murmured.

  "What was that, my lady?” the maid asked.

  "Nothing, Beatrice. That is enough. Thank you,” Lady Mary said, dismissing the maid for the night. She remained sitting at the vanity, fingering a pot of face lotion as though she meant to make use of it. The maid curtsied and quietly exited the bedroom, unaware that she left her mistress prey to disturbing thoughts. Lady Mary was appalled at the mere possibility of her precious son going off into battle again. Abigail's safety could well be jeopardized also, she thought, since the most likely arena for confrontation with Bonaparte's forces was the Low Countries, which were at that moment occupied by the allied troops.

  Lady Mary considered herself a practical woman, not easily frightened or given to imagined fears, so she tried to shrug away her misgivings. She would await events, she thought. Undoubtedly she would learn more of what was behind William's extraordinary opinion once she was better connected in society. If her son's easy statement proved to be founded on more than a young boy's hopes for glory and promotion, then possibly there would come the time when she must decide whether to return with Abigail posthaste to England. But she knew even to voice such a possibility to her daughter now was to invite tearful protests, and she decided to keep her own counsel for the time being.

  In the meantime she would make discreet inquiries and form her own opinion. Surely there were those in Brussels who were well-informed and who could be expected to know what was most likely to happen, she thought hopefully.

  Her decision made. Lady Mary got into bed. She blew out the candle on her bedside table and settled herself against the soft pillows. She was tired and quickly fell asleep. But her night was not entirely restful, being disturbed by half-formed dreams of flashing bayonets and the ominous rolling of drums.

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  Chapter 7

  That fortnight, while all Brussels waited to hear what Bonaparte was getting up to, the Spence ladies adjusted to their new surroundings. Abigail had never been in such an exciting place, and never in her life had she met so many different people.

  Brussels society was truly international in character. Though a surprisingly large number of Belgians spoke English, they heard just as much French and Flemish as well as a heavy sprinkling of German, Spanish, and Russian. There seemed to be a representative of royalty from every European country on the map in residence in the city. During a particularly long introduction of royalty at a ball, Abigail whispered to her mother, “Fancy! I had no notion that those with royal blood in their veins outnumbered their subject populations.'’ Though Lady Mary hushed her impertinent daughter, she could barely stifle a gurgling laugh as the ballroom company again dipped low like so many swaying grasses at the entrance of yet another royal personage.

  Lady Mary and Abigail quickly found their feet in society, and they could count a great many cordial acquaintances among the English, many of whom recalled Lady Mary as a pretty, well-bred girl and had welcomed her back to her proper place in the ton. The Spence ladies had also a lesser but growing number of friends among the congenial Belgians, whom they had found as a people to be especially courteous, having an incorrigible habit of shaking hands upon meeting or departing.

  The ball that evening was hosted by the du Boises, a prominent Belgian family.

  Lady Mary had made the acquaintance of Madame Helen du Bois while out shopping only a week previously. Madame du Bois was an Englishwoman who had married a Belgian gentleman of consequence. Lady Mary had immediately liked the lovely and sociable Madame du Bois, and her liking was reciprocated in full. The two ladies promised to visit more formally and exchanged directions.

  That same afternoon Madame du Bois had come to call, accompanied by her daughter. Mademoiselle Michele du Bois was of an age with Abigail. She had not inherited her mother's pale English loveliness, but instead was a striking brunette. Her black curls, her heavily lashed and sparkling midnight-blue eyes, her elegant hourglass figure—all served to intimidate Abigail, who felt pale and childlike by comparison. But Michele's ease of manner and complete lack of condescension quickly reassured Abigail, and within minutes the two girls had become instant friends, each having discovered a kindred spirit in the other as they talked animatedly of parties, lovely gowns, gentlemanly admiration, and romantic ideals.

  Lady Mary had regarded the two girls, one head gold and one shining black, as together they looked over a book of fashion plates. The girls animatedly debated the merits of a certain lace for an evening gown, completely oblivious of the older women's more staid conversation.

  Lady Mary smiled as she glanced over at her visitor. “I am glad Abigail has found someone of her own age so soon. I had feared that she would be horribly homesick for her old friends at first,” she said.

  "I am also
glad that the girls have hit it off so well. Michele needs someone besides myself with whom she can practice her English. I infinitely prefer that a young lady such as Abigail become her constant companion rather than one of these dashing young officers,” Madame du Bois said with a laugh.

  Lady Mary laughed also and nodded. “The young gentlemen are rascals, are they not? Abigail has heard nothing but compliments since we arrived, and her head is quite turned by the constant admiration of the soldiers, whom one cannot avoid meeting everywhere."

  "Indeed, one must actually take care not to trip over them,'’ Madame du Bois said, her blue eyes twinkling. “Our quiet city has become very gay since the allied armies have been stationed in the Low Countries. We have spent the winter very merrily, and in particular with the arrival of the London Guards, the cavalry, and the other English troops that have been quartered up and down the country. There is not a young lady in all of Brussels who lacks for admirers."

  "It seems so very odd to me. I cannot help thinking of why all those young gentlemen are in uniform, but it seems not to be of the least importance when placed against the next ball or soiree,” Lady Mary said.

  Madame du Bois shook her head in agreement. “Indeed, it is odd. Brussels is an open city, quite undefended by battlements or the like. However, my husband says the prevailing attitude of gaiety does not surprise him in the least. It is Francois's opinion that people are so positive that they may rely upon the Duke of Wellington to protect us that they cannot entertain a thought to the contrary. For myself, though, I cannot but wonder how his grace is to accomplish the thing when he is still in Vienna. I quite fail to understand it.” Her frown was dispelled when she laughed suddenly. “Francois tells me that I am not pragmatic enough, that one has only to realize that the duke is a god and a hero all rolled into one and then it becomes perfectly understandable."