in the latest episode of Doña Inez with oblivious glee. Indeed
they demanded its retelling so often Emily grew downright snappish. That baffled them.
Guiltstruck, Emily forced herself to read the tale again con brio.
When the letter came at last it contained no apology for the delay--indeed, Emily realised
ruefully, it showed no consciousness that there had been delay. It was briefer than usual, and rather
hard to decipher, being composed, as the author pointed out, in a tent during a downpour.
Doña Inez's adventure was a lackluster affair. The children heard it with their usual hopeful
enthusiasm. No taste.
Emily did not ask for any details of the Battle of the Pyrenees. A week before Amy's
October birthday the newspapers reported that the Duke of Wellington had crossed the Bidassoa
into France.
Amy received Doña Barbara the doll with complaisance. There were other gifts.
Sir Henry gave her a handsome English doll, a milkmaid blonde with a fetching straw bonnet who
entered into a complex three-way relationship with the black-clad Spanish ladies. Emily allowed the
little girl to use one of the window seats in the nursery as a doll parlour. When Matt came the
superior male, as he still sometimes did, Amy would turn her back on him and retreat to the
company of her ladies, with whom she carried on long discussions in Spinglish.
For the most part Amy and Matt squabbled amiably. They even worked out a system for
sharing the rocking horse. It began to look jaded from too much galloping over the plains of La
Mancha.
Emily felt some satisfaction that her reasons for taking up baby-farming were proving out
so well. She ought to have been pleased that Sir Henry now accepted her curious household--he
even boasted about it to his friends--but her feelings were not so simple. She had grown thoroughly
entwined in the lives of the Falk children. She triumphed at Tommy's first step--March--rejoiced
when Amy finally learned to count in English--April--and flinched when Tommy's first word was Mama --May.
The trouble was, she foresaw only unhappiness for herself and the children whether
Captain Falk lived or were killed. If he lived, and, as now seemed possible, the war ended, he
would take the children away to some garrison town--or even, God forbid, India. If he were
killed...
Unfortunately for Emily's sanity, the Duke of Wellington seemed determined to give her
no respite. The army had not gone into winter quarters as usual. In stately succession followed the
battles of the Nive and Orthez. Glorious, said Aunt Fan. Emily had never been so out of sympathy
with her aunt's sentiments.
To complicate matters, the winds in the Bay of Biscay waxed surly. The army had
invested Toulouse before Emily received word that Captain Falk had got his majority by brevet--the
Nive--and been slightly injured in a fall from his horse--Orthez. "Just a scratch," he wrote, with
what she considered unnecessary malice.
As the bells of Mellings Parva announced Bonaparte's abdication and the subsequent
costly victory of Toulouse, Emily received a curt note, sans Spanish romance, to the
effect that Captain Falk, now Major Falk, was coming home.
That was her first interpretation of his letter. Rereading after her initial flurry of relief
subsided, she was forced to another version. Owing to his rise in rank he was compelled to
exchange into a new regiment, and that regiment were bound for North America where the former
colonists were still in arms. He meant first to escort a wounded friend to England. Time pressed. If
she had questions that required his response perhaps she had best write his solicitor. In short he was
not "coming home" to Wellfield House.
That infuriated Emily. Surely he owed his children as much consideration as he owed a
mere friend. She wrote a scathing letter and posted it, fuming, to Toulouse. She placed no reliance
on his sense of parental duty, however, so she did not tell the children that their father would soon
be in England.
they demanded its retelling so often Emily grew downright snappish. That baffled them.
Guiltstruck, Emily forced herself to read the tale again con brio.
When the letter came at last it contained no apology for the delay--indeed, Emily realised
ruefully, it showed no consciousness that there had been delay. It was briefer than usual, and rather
hard to decipher, being composed, as the author pointed out, in a tent during a downpour.
Doña Inez's adventure was a lackluster affair. The children heard it with their usual hopeful
enthusiasm. No taste.
Emily did not ask for any details of the Battle of the Pyrenees. A week before Amy's
October birthday the newspapers reported that the Duke of Wellington had crossed the Bidassoa
into France.
Amy received Doña Barbara the doll with complaisance. There were other gifts.
Sir Henry gave her a handsome English doll, a milkmaid blonde with a fetching straw bonnet who
entered into a complex three-way relationship with the black-clad Spanish ladies. Emily allowed the
little girl to use one of the window seats in the nursery as a doll parlour. When Matt came the
superior male, as he still sometimes did, Amy would turn her back on him and retreat to the
company of her ladies, with whom she carried on long discussions in Spinglish.
For the most part Amy and Matt squabbled amiably. They even worked out a system for
sharing the rocking horse. It began to look jaded from too much galloping over the plains of La
Mancha.
Emily felt some satisfaction that her reasons for taking up baby-farming were proving out
so well. She ought to have been pleased that Sir Henry now accepted her curious household--he
even boasted about it to his friends--but her feelings were not so simple. She had grown thoroughly
entwined in the lives of the Falk children. She triumphed at Tommy's first step--March--rejoiced
when Amy finally learned to count in English--April--and flinched when Tommy's first word was Mama --May.
The trouble was, she foresaw only unhappiness for herself and the children whether
Captain Falk lived or were killed. If he lived, and, as now seemed possible, the war ended, he
would take the children away to some garrison town--or even, God forbid, India. If he were
killed...
Unfortunately for Emily's sanity, the Duke of Wellington seemed determined to give her
no respite. The army had not gone into winter quarters as usual. In stately succession followed the
battles of the Nive and Orthez. Glorious, said Aunt Fan. Emily had never been so out of sympathy
with her aunt's sentiments.
To complicate matters, the winds in the Bay of Biscay waxed surly. The army had
invested Toulouse before Emily received word that Captain Falk had got his majority by brevet--the
Nive--and been slightly injured in a fall from his horse--Orthez. "Just a scratch," he wrote, with
what she considered unnecessary malice.
As the bells of Mellings Parva announced Bonaparte's abdication and the subsequent
costly victory of Toulouse, Emily received a curt note, sans Spanish romance, to the
effect that Captain Falk, now Major Falk, was coming home.
That was her first interpretation of his letter. Rereading after her initial flurry of relief
subsided, she was forced to another version. Owing to his rise in rank he was compelled to
exchange into a new regiment, and that regiment were bound for North America where the former
colonists were still in arms. He meant first to escort a wounded friend to England. Time pressed. If
she had questions that required his response perhaps she had best write his solicitor. In short he was
not "coming home" to Wellfield House.
That infuriated Emily. Surely he owed his children as much consideration as he owed a
mere friend. She wrote a scathing letter and posted it, fuming, to Toulouse. She placed no reliance
on his sense of parental duty, however, so she did not tell the children that their father would soon
be in England.
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