Major Lord David (16 page)

By the time the Commons did begin debate on the matter
of war, in late April, many forces-including Alan Athington’s company of the 52nd-had already made their way across
the Channel to join the remnants of the allied army in Brussels. Wellington, who had arrived in Brussels the first week in
April, was heard to claim that the clash-if it came-would
not occur before July. In an effort to amass as large and overwhelming a force for him as possible, Britain and Ireland
were even stripped of their garrisons. All the more reason,
then, for Kit Caswell to chafe at the fact that his own company
was directed to stay at home. Kit’s disappointment in that,
coupled with the exceeding boredom of constant drilling in
preparation for a conflict he apparently was destined to miss,
had him impatiently reverting to previous form. Once again
he took to excessive gaming in the company of Ronald Dumont and P.B. Marsh.

Appalled by Kit’s increasing debts, Billie implored him to
limit his wagers-to no avail. A letter of appeal to their father,
Sir Moreton, only elicited the advice to let Kit learn his lesson
and “reward himself for his own folly”; Sir Moreton appeared
to believe that the Marshes and Dumonts of the world could
do no lasting harm. Billie suspected otherwise, her resentment
of the gentlemen’s influence over her brother grew, and whenever she did encounter Ronald Dumont, she made a point of
“cutting” him, which annoyed Kit more than it did Dumont.

“Can’t you like Dumont-even a little?” Kit coaxed her after
a particularly public snub.

“I cannot,” Billie assured him, and she returned to contemplating that morning’s Times. She had consistently, and with
no small amount of pain, refused to lend as much as a shilling
to Kit while he kept company with Ronald Dumont. She took
seriously Kit’s repeated threats to “get on with the business” and flee to the Continent, because she knew Kit very well and
knew that his impatience mirrored her own.

Morty and his adoring Esther Urquhart announced their engagement, which afforded Billie some relief from considering
her own uncertain status. London’s gossip pages in The Tattler
never did trouble to carry an item concerning Miss Caswell
and Lord David. Still, though she retained partners enough,
none of Billie’s admirers was as ardent as before. Major
Trent’s manifest “claim” at the Birdwistle ball had put them
off. Only elderly Mr. Trahearne persisted, with a halfhearted
gallantry Billie ascribed more to habit, or to forgetfulness,
than to any sincere interest. Elegant Lord Grenby turned his
attentions to May Sanders, a substitution that made little
sense to Billie-until Hayden, who had escorted Billie and
her aunt on a first foray to Almack’s, advised her that the
Sanders’ fortune would keep Grenby in acceptable style for
some years.

“And they shall suit,” he remarked as his gaze followed
hers, watching the couple dance. “Grenby is not a bad fellow,
but there is not much to ‘im.”

“Unlike your brother.”

“Do you doubt it, Miss Caswell?”

Billie’s chin rose. Her brothers had trained her in meeting a
challenge.

“Why was Lord David sent down from Oxford?”

“What?” Hayden’s smile was broad. “Has he not told you?”

“I … have not asked him.”

“Then it can’t have seemed important,” he concluded.

“But all those years of study wasted!”

“Oh, nothing of the sort! They weren’t wasted, I assure
you. David has a fine, shaggy head full of knowledge. Attendance is the thing, after all. I scarcely managed two years at
the place m’self.” When next Hayden caught her accusing eye,
he added, “If the matter troubles you, Miss Billie, you must ask himwhen he returns,” he suggested with an easy confidence she was far from sharing.

Hayden had sought her company frequently enough during
the spring that Billie suspected him of keeping her under
some form of surveillance. She might have objected to his polite attentions, if she had not overheard Dumont once accuse
Hayden of “spoiling the play” with Kit. Concluding that the
Trents’ sense of responsibility extended not only to herself
but to keeping Kit from disaster, Billie was too sensible to desire an end to Hayden’s company. And though Morty commented with some irritation that Hayden seemed to pop up
everywhere, he also acknowledged the accompanying, increased eclat in the eyes of the ton.

Worry was Billie’s most constant companion. She followed
the news and the debates in Commons with something approaching dread. The weather did not help. An unusually
cloudy, wet spring was apparently visited upon all of Europe.
One did not venture out without vexations of one sort or
another-damp hemlines, soggy shoes, delays, and drooping
spirits. Though society was not as dull as Charis Athington
had forecast-there were certainly bodies enough attending
every event of note-no one appeared very gay. Billie knew
she was dispirited, moving halfheartedly through the steps of
her own season. She wished she might be off to Brussels herself, or quietly at home, rather than living in a state of feigned
pleasure and constant suspension. Merely enduring the days,
though they were nothing if not comfortable, required an application of will. That anyone else around her could even appear
blithely unconcerned drew her disbelief.

Billie sought activity and motion, though the rain limited
her choices. As Ephie did not keep horses, the offers of carriage rides from her “suitors” were usually, and gratefully, accepted. Billie took one or both of Ephie’s footmen and walked
miles, as none of the maids could match her pace. And she
practiced the piano until her shoulders and arms ached. The Dowager Duchess of Braughton, David’s grandmere, asked
Billie over to play for her, and Billie enjoyed the visits. The
duchess was enthusiastic and kind. But several sessions were
enough, as the visits reminded her too distressingly of the absent Lord David, whom the duchess now never failed to mention. Billie suspected that the older woman knew. Yet Billie
did not understand herself. Surely, surely she should have preferred any company associated with him, though he was not of
the company?

The next time the duchess invited Billie over to play, Billie
pleaded a headache.

As the month of May bore on, as the debates in Parliament
resolved themselves into a declaration, by both houses, for
war, and as word filtered from France that Bonaparte had
managed to remobilize and retrain hundreds of thousands of
soldiers, Billie’s agitation found no suitable outlet.

May Sanders approached her at an afternoon’s call and
breathlessly relayed that she had had several letters at once
from Charis Athington.

“She had set them aside and forgotten to post them-can you
imagine? They are all on alert for Bonaparte. Charis says there
is some talk of removing with her family to Antwerp for safety.
But nothing untoward has happened yet, though she does say
that they see the troops assembled nearly every day and that
the Duke of Wellington lives just one block away from them
and that he is to be encountered simply everywhere. Charis’
brother-you did meet Alan, did you not, Miss Caswell?brings his fellow officers by the house often, and Charis has
met many others from all the armies, including the handsome
and most gallant Dutch Prince of Orange. If Charis is to be believed, he has paid her some marked attention! I suppose, in all
fairness, one must allow that Charis is lovely! Am I not a very
good friend to say so? Oh-and she has seen Major Trent”

Billie fixed May with a determinedly cool gaze.

“Has she?”

“Oh, yes! And she said that he looked very well but that by
the time he arrived at the dance at-at the Royal Palace, I
believe-her card was already full. But he spent some time
speaking with her brother, and the Household regiments are at
Egg… Egg.. “

“Enghien.”

“What? Oh, yes. Enghien. How funny that sounds! And the
major said that the duke expects three days’ notice of any
move by Bonaparte, so Charis thinks they might all safely remove from Brussels.”

“Who intends to remove from Brussels, Miss Sanders?”

“Why, the Athingtons, of course”

Billie, still trying to make sense of May’s scrambled talk,
refused to dwell on how full Charis’ dance card had been. Although that did not necessarily mean that David had even
asked her…

“Miss Caswell, did you hear me? I said that Charis said
they had invited Major Lord David to dine. And he promised
to attend them at the first opportunity. So you must see that he
is well looked after, is he not?” And May, batting her falsely
friendly, wide blue eyes, held Billie’s steady gaze.

“I am sure the major-or any soldier-must be glad of fine
food and pleasant company on occasion.”

“Oh, as to that, they are all living exceptionally well, if
Charis reports correctly. One would think it a regular holidayand the place not filled with half the alarm we’ve had here at
home! To hear her tell it, all is lively bustle and excitement!
How I do wish Papa had taken me over as well! Only then I
should not have had the company of dear Grenby… ” As
May’s blue gaze once again settled in seeming innocence upon
her, Billie determined that she had had enough and excused
herself.

Lively bustle and excitement! Living exceptionally well!
Promising to dine with Charis! And all this while she had been
losing sleep! In a decidedly aggrieved mood, Billie returned home, telling Ephie during the carriage ride back only that May
Sanders had once again had too much to say for herself.

The evening post had brought a letter in David Trent’s distinctive hand. Under Ephie’s close scrutiny, Billie shed her
pelisse and settled by the hearthside to read the missive that
had taken nearly a week to reach her.

Brussels, 25 May

Dear Miss Caswell,

I hope you will pardon my long silence. I have found
few pauses for reflection, given the pressing needs to assemble, house, feed, and otherwise supply many men in a
short period of time, much less train soldiers who have
not been under arms for the better part of a year-if ever.

Only in these past two days have I returned to Brussels
for my first visit since arriving in the Low Countries at the
end of March. At that time, viewed from the canal boat from
Ostend, the peaceful countryside would never have been
described as anticipating war. All was greening pasture,
sleeping waterways, promisingly pollarded trees, and humble farms. Given the addition of so many tens of thousands
of troops since, that atmosphere has altered considerably.

I have quarters with a farming family just outside the
town I mentioned. They have been generous, and the lady
of the house is an excellent cook. But I dare not suppose
their support. The countryside is riddled with spies and
sympathizers with Bonaparte, as many of the men fought
for the emperor’s armies in past years. I dare not be more
explicit. I ride out daily on the back roads, where the inhabitants are not as discreet as they might be-I regret
that our allied soldiers are no more so-with regard to
what they observe of Bonaparte’s movements. The local
farmers tend to forget that some of us have a passing
knowledge of the language. But few are openly hostile; if we should prove victorious this summer, the locals will of
course claim to have prayed for us all along.

I had the opportunity shortly after arrival of touring
the Belgian border with the Duke of Wellington’s party,
riding from Ostend at the Channel through Ypres and
Ghent and farther south, in an effort to ascertain the
state of allied defenses. The duke, I assure you, knows
his ground and the challenges before him; we have, as we
have always had, every confidence in his leadership. He
is an extraordinary commander.

We continue to augment infantry, but, per the above,
most of the Belgian troops cannot be relied upon. There
is also much resentment among these French-speaking
troops of last year’s treaty granting control over Belgium
to the Netherlands. Wellington is wisely mingling our
many allied nationalities in all divisions and weaving
among them differing levels of experience as well. There
is insurance in this, though I must allow that the frustrations are perhaps equal to the benefits.

Despite this preparation I continue to hope, from what
I hear from London, that war might be avoided. Perhaps
a similar hope delays Parliament, which has yet to settle
upon a “stance.” Word is out that Bonaparte has political problems at home in France. Rumor claims he might
be toppled there before he can pounce elsewhere. As we
are in no state yet to take the battle to him, we must bide
our time and observe.

Yet I cannot describe to you the unease here in Brussels. Whatever the political developments, hostilities
must be anticipated. All must prepare for them, though
we make every effort to do so with least alarm. Given the
circumstances, I might have wished the British population in the city smaller and less excitable. One distinctly
feels part of the season’s entertainments. But the duke,
bless him, seems to find the society congenial.

At camp we are content and comfortable, though I believe it has rained every day now for almost two months;
there is little to distinguish any of us in our constant
state of drenched dampness. I understand I share some
of your clouds, if not the delight of your company. My
grandmere writes that she has had that particular pleasure. I am happy to hear it; I confess, I am exceedingly
fond of her. I thank you for your kindness in indulging
her.

From what I have ascertained, I believe your brother’s
company detailed at home, which is no doubt an unalloyed disappointment for him but should be of considerable comfort to you.

Do you remember our friend, Miss Athington? I have
just had the opportunity to renew the acquaintance at a
dance given by the Prince of Orange. Miss Athington inquired as to your health; I could not assure her of it. I
would ask how you do, Miss Caswell, if I did not fear the
inquiry would impose upon you too great a burden of response.