“Good-bye, then,” he said. And he squeezed her hand until he was aware of her wincing. He released it immediately.
Her eyes filled with tears. “Please keep yourself safe,” she said. “Please!” And she lifted both hands and placed her fingertips lightly against his cheeks for a brief moment. She looked over her shoulder rather jerkily. “Papa,” she called. “Papa, Lord Eden wishes to say good night to you.” And she was gone from the room almost before Charlie was back in it.
Damnation to all leave-taking, Lord Eden was thinking a few minutes later as he strode down the street in the direction of his new billet. Now what had he done? Had he raised expectations? Was he now honor-bound to make her an offer when he returned to England? And did he want to? He was not at all sure. And he did not want to be plagued by such thoughts, such problems, such doubts. He wanted to be free of all emotion.
Devil take it. He had only just stopped himself from scooping her into his arms and pouring out his love for her and his desire to keep her safe from anxiety for the rest of her life. Would he never learn? Did he love her?
He did not know and did not want to know at that particular moment. He would not think of it. How much longer before they were finally engaged against the French? A week? Two? It could not be soon enough for him. He was ready. He was restless. He needed to get at it, this great battle that he had decided would be his last in one way or another. Time enough afterward to think about love. Not now!
He was glad to find his friend at home in the rather sparsely furnished and very masculine rooms that were now his new home too. Captain Norton’s boots, none too clean, were crossed at the ankles on the table before him. His hands were clasped behind his head as he contemplated a corner of the ceiling. There were a half-empty bottle of cognac and a glass on the table.
“Old Picton is due to arrive in Brussels any day,” Lord Eden said, flinging his hat onto a chair that was already overloaded with discarded clothes. “Newly appointed commander of the Fifth, in case you had forgotten, Norton my lad. You had better not thrust those boots into his face the way they look now if you know what is good for you.”
“Why polish them before it is absolutely necessary to do so?” his friend asked cheerfully, a slight slur to his speech. “Find a glass, Eden, and pour yourself some cognac. Hate to drink alone. There should be one underneath all those papers on the chair. Letters from m’mother and the girls. They all write books instead of letters. I must read them sometime. Remind me.”
Lord Eden found a glass, carefully avoided inspecting it too closely for cleanliness, settled at the table, his own highly polished boots joining those of his friend, and reached for the bottle.
ON WEDNESDAY, JUNE 14, the rumor began to circulate that the French army was concentrated about Mauberge to the south and had even crossed the frontier into Belgium. Word had it that Bonaparte himself was at its head. If it was true, people said, old Boney had done it again. He had taken his fellow generals of Europe by surprise.
It was ridiculous to say such a thing, of course, when the whole spring had been taken up with nothing else but preparations for just such an eventuality. But still, people said, when every day brought a dozen rumors, truth took one rather unawares. The duke, of course, had his spies and would not be so dependent upon rumor as almost everyone else. But the duke had really expected that the attack would come from the west and the north, had he not? That was where he would attack if he were Bonaparte. He would try to cut off the allied army from the channel coast.
But then, Bonaparte could never be relied upon to behave with predictability and good sense. That was the very fiendishness and brilliance of the man, depending upon whether one feared or admired him more. Those people in Brussels in June 1815 tended to fear him.
And of course, no one knew for certain that this rumor was true, except perhaps the duke himself, and everyone knew how tight-lipped he could be. The more he smiled and looked relaxed, the more truth there was likely to be in what they had all heard. And the duke was looking very relaxed these days. There were those who began nervously to pack their belongings and choose their route to the coast, either to Ostend or to Antwerp.
At three o’clock in the afternoon of June 15, word reached the Prince of Orange as he sat at dinner with the Duke of Wellington that the Second Prussian Brigade of General Ziethen’s First Corps had been attacked by the French army during the early morning and that the attack was being directed on Charleroi.
At four o’clock the duke received a dispatch from General Ziethen himself to say that Thuin had been captured. But Wellington was reluctant to act too hastily. Although he did not doubt the truth of either piece of news, he was not sure that the attacks were not merely a ruse to draw off the major portion of his army to the south while Bonaparte himself came along the expected westerly route of attack.
The duke made quiet plans to send his troops into action while waiting, patiently or impatiently-who could tell which with the duke?-for more definite word from Grant, his intelligence officer at Mons.
How did word of these matters leak out into the streets and salons of Brussels? Who knew? But leak out it did, causing excitement, exhilaration, despair, panic, just about every extreme emotion of which man is capable. On the whole, the troops hoped it was all true and that they would see action before another day had passed. The period of waiting was telling on taut nerves.
Most of the women felt despair. Some clung tearfully to their menfolk. Some demanded to be taken from the scene of the danger immediately. Some, especially those who had had experience with army life, began busily and quietly to prepare and roll bandages, bought at chemists’ shops or torn from sheets and shirts. Some continued with their lives as if nothing unusual were happening. And perhaps nothing was. The spring had been full of such false alerts.
Plans proceeded unchecked for the grand ball to be held that evening at the Duchess of Richmond’s house on the Rue de la Blanchisserie. Everyone who had any claim to gentility had been invited. And it was said that the Duke of Wellington and all his personal staff had every intention of attending even if the French were already in Belgium and part of the Prussian army put to rout.
Ellen and Captain Simpson decided not to go to the ball, though they had been invited and had considered going. They sat at home hand in hand until he put his arm about her shoulders and drew her closer. And they talked about any piece of nonsense they could lay their minds to.
Charlie was eager to be on his way, Ellen knew, as he always was at such times. And she must sit with him, quietly cheerful, doing and saying nothing that might distract him from the concentration he was beginning to build inside himself for what was to come. She knew and she understood that he grew away from her at such times. He was as affectionate, as loving. But he always talked to her of what he had done to provide for her in the event of his death-though the possibility was never expressed baldly in words like that-several days before there was any real chance of active service. Never, except under the severest surprise attack, at the last moment.
Before seven o’clock the duke had ordered the Second and Fifth divisions to gather at Ath in readiness to move at a moment’s notice. Most of the officers remained in Brussels, and many of them intended to go to the ball. But the time had definitely come. There would be no more waiting around.
It was almost a relief. Ellen rested her head against her husband’s shoulder and closed her eyes. They lapsed into silence. Neither made any move to go to bed, though the hour was late. They would not make love. The time for such intimacy was past, even if it had not been the wrong time of the month for Ellen. They would wait. Charlie would be called before morning came. Better to be up and ready. Her arm stole around his waist, and he kissed her forehead and patted her shoulder.
They both rose to their feet quite calmly when Lord Eden’s knock sounded at the door. They had expected it. The moment had come.
Chapter 7
LORD EDEN HAD DECIDED TO ATTEND THE Duchess of Richmond’s ball even though his division was already under orders and it was perfectly obvious that he would be on the march before the night was out. The house on the Rue de la Blanchisserie was, in fact, crowded with officers of all ranks. The entertainment was perhaps the perfect outlet for nervous energies that found it difficult, if not impossible, to wait quietly.
Lord Eden danced and smiled and conversed with the ladies, and listened to numerous conflicting reports of
