The Reckoning by Cynthia Harrod-Eagles

was the property of the distaff side, but once a boy went into trousers, his father might legitimately take an interest in him. He might show him how to fish and shoot and play cricket, teach him how to whistle, to use his fives, to whittle a stick –all the essential knowledge of manhood. Nicholas had always been too frail, and James too otherwise occupied, for them to have been close in that way; but since Father Aislaby had gone and Bendy had shed his frocks, James had been exhib iting a proper fatherly interest in his younger son.
    ‘ He needs a man's influence, you know,' he would say sometimes in the evenings. 'Miss Rosedale is an excellent woman, but she is only a woman, after all.'
    ‘ Yes, my James,' Héloïse would reply serenely. 'As soon as I can find a chaplain-tutor –'
    ‘ Oh, no hurry, my love! No hurry at all. Miss Rosedale's doing an excellent job – and I can take the lad out with me now and then.’
    This afternoon Benedict found his mother in thoughtful mood, and not much inclined to romp, so he went back to the battle he was fighting all over the day-nursery floor with his lead soldiers. They were a splendid and extensive set. The English soldiers were red, and the French soldiers blue – that much Bendy knew. He was too young to know anything about the war which had gone on for most of his mother's life, but he knew that opposite sides in any game were always French and English. He also knew, both from his brother and the servants, that the French general on the white horse for whom the worst fates were always reserved was Boney, and that Boney was The Bad Man.
    So while Héloïse sat nearby, deep in thought, watching him without really seeing him, he went back to his private game. He crawled about the floor on his stomach, moving the pieces and murmuring the commentary to himself. 'And then he goes down here and round here and they come round here and he goes BOOM! You're dead! Like that. And they all fall down. Hurrah! And then they come over the hill – dum-de dum-de-dum – like that, and down here, and they go BOOM BOOM – and then old Boney comes – dum-de-dum-de-dum – and BOOM! He's dead!' He flung the battered horseman up. in the air, and as it fell with a clatter he chanted the foolishnursery song, 'Silly old Boney sat on his pony . .
    The battle of Waterloo, Héloïse thought, thus reduced to its essence. She thought of all the young men who had died, of the terrible wounds she had witnessed as the survivors crawled back into Brussels. The battle of Waterloo, the culmi nation of everything that had happened since the calling of the Estates General in 1789 had set the creaking wheels of the Revolution in motion. Could it happen here? Had it started already? How would they know, until they were in the middle of it and it was too late to stop?
    ‘ Oh Bendy!' she said. He looked up, but it was not at her. The door had opened, and Mathilde looked in.
    ‘ Madame! They said you were in here. Am I intruding?’
    ‘ TILDA!' Benedict bellowed, scrambling to his feet and rushing at her.
    ‘ How's my friend Bendy?' she said, fielding him just in time to save her dress.
    ‘ I'm playing French and English. Come and play,' he commanded, tugging at her hand. 'You can be French,' he offered generously.
    ‘ Kiss me hello first,' Mathilde said, stooping.
    ‘ Soldiers don't kiss,' he informed her sternly, pulling himself free. 'Never-never-never.'
    ‘ Oh, don't they? I'm sorry. I'll try to remember that.' Disgusted with womanhood, he stumped back to his game. Mathilde turned to Héloïse. 'You're looking thoughtful.'
    ‘ You look blooming,' Héloïse said, rousing herself. Since Mathilde's soured and difficult mother-in-law, Mary Skel with, had died last winter, she seemed to have gained in confidence, and was now a happy, contented young matron. ‘What a smart pelisse. And a new bonnet, I see.'
    ‘ The pelisse is my wedding one made over – don't you see? I took the fur off, and put on the