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
"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
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