Lady Catherine sat down with a huff. “Well, I suppose you should be saying, ‘I told you so.’”
Anne pulled a chair close to her and sat down. “No, Mama.”
“Sir Walter Elliot, indeed! Of what could Lady Metcalfe have been thinking? The man is a dolt! Never have I seen a man so vain! And the way he looked at me; you would think I had grown two heads! I have always been celebrated for my youthful appearance.” She looked at her daughter. “It is certain that you inherited your lovely complexion from me, my dear,” she said as she caressed her face. “Yes, you have turned out very well indeed.”
“Thank you, Mama.”
“And General Tilney—why the way he looked at me! It is certain what
Anne patted her hand. “You have had a narrow escape.”
“I have indeed. Thank goodness for my unerring judgment of character.” Lady Catherine sighed.
“Are you tired, Mama?”
“A little. Bath is no easy distance. Perhaps we may talk later… about improvements to the dowager house?”
Anne kissed her mother. “As you wish.”
Buford and Fitzwilliam were sharing dinner together at the boardinghouse, perhaps for the last time. Rumors of the French crossing into Belgium had been circulating around the camp for days. It did not help that Wellington had placed the army under a form of alert; certain units were moving as they ate.
“Brandon says nothing?” asked Buford.
“No, and Denny, neither. What good is it to have friends at headquarters if they will tell you nothing?”
Buford grunted. “You and Denny have reconciled, I take it?”
“Yes, he is a good sort of fellow, in his way,” Fitzwilliam allowed.
“Even though he is friends with Wickham?” Buford goaded him.
Richard’s eyes were on his plate. “I suppose I cannot hold that against him. After all, I eat with you.”
It took a full glass of wine to relieve Sir John after he choked on his food.
Later over port, Fitzwilliam asked, “Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?”
Buford looked down. “I think I have attended all the balls I am going to during this campaign, Fitz. You?”
“No, I have a feeling I need to be close to my regiment.”
“Yes, I feel it too.”
The next afternoon, Colonel Brandon and Major Denny were conferring with the other ADCs regarding the rumors of a French invasion of the United Netherlands, as the polyglot Holland and Belgium were known, when the door burst open at about three o’clock. A sweaty and dusty Prussian officer, who had obviously ridden hard, walked in the room.
“Where is the duke?” he cried in German. “
Wellington walked out of his office. “What was that, sir?”
The officer repeated in English, “The French are here! The French have taken Charleroi!”
The office was deadly silent. Charleroi was only thirty miles away.
Over the next hours, the staff worked to verify the information. Soon information from riders sent by Blucher and the Prince of Orange corroborated the intelligence. By five, the duke began ordering his troops into position south and west of Brussels, but the staff still did not know whether the thrust at Charleroi was a feint or the main axis of Napoleon’s attack. Until the picture was clearer, the duke could not advance.
“Sir,” asked an aide, “what about the Duchess of Richmond’s ball?”
Brandon looked at his chief.
Wellington looked up. “Until we know for certain, there is no reason to panic. I do not feel that Bonaparte can advance so fast. Morale is important. Let the ball go ahead as planned.”
The Duchess of Richmond’s ball was the social event of the season. Held in an impromptu ballroom in what used to be a coach maker’s depot, the over two hundred invited guests included the Prince of Orange, the Duke of Brunswick, the Prince of Nassau, four earls, twenty-two colonels, and a total of fifty-five women, only about a dozen of whom were unmarried. The hall was done up in crimson, black, and gold with flowers everywhere. The music was gay, but the attendants were not, as concern over the rumors of a French advance were everywhere.
At about midnight, Wellington and his staff arrived. A young woman, Lady Georgiana Lennox, dashed to meet the duke.
“Sir,” she cried, “are the rumors true? Are the French here?”
Wellington’s face was grave. “Yes, they are true. We are off tomorrow.” The room buzzed with alarm. Wellington walked over to a sofa to sit with Lady Dalrymple-Hamilton. Between chats with the woman, the duke would give the odd order to some senior officer.
“Come, Denny,” said Brandon, “let us get something to eat while we can.” Apparently, the Iron Duke felt the same, as he left the sofa for his meal.
As the men ate with all the room watching, a pale Prince of Orange approached the commander-in-chief. His whispered message had an extraordinary effect on the duke. A look of utter disbelief flashed across his aristocratic face and then faded.
For the next twenty minutes, Wellington ate and conversed with his fellows, showing no alarm. Finally, the duke rose and informed his host of his intention to retire for the night. As good-byes were exchanged, Brandon overheard his commander whisper in Lord Richmond’s ear, “Do you have a good map in the house?”
Brandon and Denny followed their chief into the study, and the requested map was spread open before Wellington. He studied it hard, looking at the distance between the French border, Charleroi, Quatre Bras, and Brussels. Brandon knew he was using his extraordinary memory of the physical features of the countryside. Wellington looked up, shocked.
“Napoleon has
“But what are you going to do?” asked an incredulous Richmond.
Wellington looked at the map again. “I have ordered my army to concentrate at Quatre Bras, but we shall not stop him there. And if so, I must fight him
His finger moved over the map and stabbed down just south of a small village called Waterloo.
At eight o’clock in the morning, the emperor met with his marshals at the La Caillou farmhouse south of the village of Waterloo that he used as his headquarters to plan the final destruction of the Allied army. The plan he outlined was simple.
He would bombard the Allied line at Mont St. Jean with cannon fire while making a demonstration—a diversionary attack—against the strong point at Chateau de Hougoumont. Then a few hours later, there would be a major thrust led by Marshal d’Erlon’s corps from the right. If all went well, the French would roll up Wellington’s army while dividing it from the Prussians. To prevent any interference from the Prussians, the emperor ordered Marshal Grouchy and his 33,000 men to find Field Marshal Blucher’s army and finish the pounding the French had delivered two days before at Ligny.
The emperor needed a simple plan. Time was not on his side. Yes, his Army of the North had won a great
