The Waltzing Widow (7 page)
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 happen, she thought hopefully.
Her decision made. Lady Mary got into bed. She blew out the candle on her bedside table and settled herself against the soft pillows. She was tired and quickly fell asleep. But her night was not entirely restful, being disturbed by half-formed dreams of flashing bayonets and the ominous rolling of drums.
That fortnight, while all Brussels waited to hear what Bonaparte was getting up to, the Spence ladies adjusted to their new surroundings. Abigail had never been in such an exciting place, and never in her life had she met so many different people.
Brussels society was truly international in character. Though a surprisingly large number of Belgians spoke English, they heard just as much French and Flemish as well as a heavy sprinkling of German, Spanish, and Russian. There seemed to be a representative of royalty from every European country on the map in residence in the city. During a particularly long introduction of royalty at a ball, Abigail whispered to her mother, “Fancy! I had no notion that those with royal blood in their veins outnumbered their subject populations.'’ Though Lady Mary hushed her impertinent daughter, she could barely stifle a gurgling laugh as the ballroom company again dipped low like so many swaying grasses at the entrance of yet another royal personage.
Lady Mary and Abigail quickly found their feet in society, and they could count a great many cordial acquaintances among the English, many of whom recalled Lady Mary as a pretty, well-bred girl and had welcomed her back to her proper place in the
ton.
The Spence ladies had also a lesser but growing number of friends among the congenial Belgians, whom they had found as a people to be especially courteous, having an incorrigible habit of shaking hands upon meeting or departing.
The ball that evening was hosted by the du Boises, a prominent Belgian family.
Lady Mary had made the acquaintance of Madame Helen du Bois while out shopping only a week previously. Madame du Bois was an Englishwoman who had married a Belgian gentleman of consequence. Lady Mary had immediately liked the lovely and sociable Madame du Bois, and her liking was reciprocated in full. The two ladies promised to visit more formally and exchanged directions.
That same afternoon Madame du Bois had come to call, accompanied by her daughter. Mademoiselle Michele du Bois was of an age with Abigail. She had not inherited her mother's pale English loveliness, but instead was a striking brunette. Her black curls, her heavily lashed and sparkling midnight-blue eyes, her elegant hourglass figure—all served to intimidate Abigail, who felt pale and childlike by comparison. But Michele's ease of manner and complete lack of condescension quickly reassured Abigail, and within minutes the two girls had become instant friends, each having discovered a kindred spirit in the other as they talked animatedly of parties, lovely gowns, gentlemanly admiration, and romantic ideals.
Lady Mary had regarded the two girls, one head gold and one shining black, as together they looked over a book of fashion plates. The girls animatedly debated the merits of a certain lace for an evening gown, completely oblivious of the older women's more staid conversation.
Lady Mary smiled as she glanced over at her visitor. “I am glad Abigail has found someone of her own age so soon. I had feared that she would be horribly homesick for her old friends at first,” she said.
"I am also glad that the girls have hit it off so well. Michele needs someone besides myself with whom she can practice her English. I infinitely prefer that a young lady such as Abigail become her constant companion rather than one of these dashing young officers,” Madame du Bois said with a laugh.
Lady Mary laughed also and nodded. “The young gentlemen are rascals, are they not? Abigail has heard nothing but compliments since we arrived, and her head is quite turned by the constant admiration of the soldiers, whom one cannot avoid meeting everywhere."
"Indeed, one must actually take care not to trip over them,'’ Madame du Bois said, her blue eyes twinkling. “Our quiet city has become very gay since the allied armies have been stationed in the Low Countries. We have spent the winter very merrily, and in particular with the arrival of the London Guards, the cavalry, and the other English troops that have been quartered up and down the country. There is not a young lady in all of Brussels who lacks for admirers."
"It seems so very odd to me. I cannot help thinking of why all those young gentlemen are in uniform, but it seems not to be of the least importance when placed against the next ball or soiree,” Lady Mary said.
Madame du Bois shook her head in agreement. “Indeed, it is odd. Brussels is an open city, quite undefended by battlements or the like. However, my husband says the prevailing attitude of gaiety does not surprise him in the least. It is Francois's opinion that people are so positive that they may rely upon the Duke of Wellington to protect us that they cannot entertain a thought to the contrary. For myself, though, I cannot but wonder how his grace is to accomplish the thing when he is still in Vienna. I quite fail to understand it.” Her frown was dispelled when she laughed suddenly. “Francois tells me that I am not pragmatic enough, that one has only to realize that the duke is a god and a hero all rolled into one and then it becomes perfectly understandable."
Lady Mary shared her amusement. “Why, then, certainly we may all feel perfectly comfortable."
She was recalling this conversation as she watched the whirling couples on the floor. The majority of the gentlemen were resplendent in uniform, splashes of brilliant scarlet and green and gold and black that quite overshadowed the ladies’ paler gowns. Not one countenance displayed the least shade of anxiety, and on everyone's lips was the Duke of Wellington's name, evoked like a talisman against the news of Bonaparte's steady advance across France and the gathering strength of his armies.
"You do not dance, Lady Mary?"
Startled, she turned her head to find the Earl of Kenmare standing beside her chair. He was smiling, and the effect on her was as devastating as it had been the first time they had met, as she was too well aware. She could not recall ever having met a more attractive gentleman, she thought, and she immediately felt a stab of guilt toward her late husband's memory. She set aside the odd feelings to be contemplated later, and responded to the earl's quizzical greeting with a friendly smile that lent warmth to her wide gray eyes. “No, I do not, my lord. I am become too staid for such frivolity,” she said with a light laugh as she gave him her hand in greeting.
"Nonsense, my lady. I shall not allow you to pronounce such a sad judgment upon yourself,'’ Lord Kenmare said. He bowed to her. “Pray do me the honor in the next set, ma'am,'’ he said.
With some surprise he regarded the attractive color that rose in Lady Mary's face. She spoke in some confusion. “Really, really, I should not. I do thank you, my lord, but I—"
Recognizing how idiotic she sounded. Lady Mary broke off, laughing at herself. “I have not behaved in such a shatterbrained fashion for years. Do forgive me, my lord! I am not used to such flattering attention. When one joins the dowagers, one does not waltz, you see."
The earl's interest in Lady Mary was sharpened by a notch or two. He had not met many self-effacing ladies, and certainly none who met his eyes with such frankness of gaze. “I believe it is I who must beg forgiveness for placing you in an awkward position. It was certainly never my intention to embarrass you or to press you against your wishes. May I sit with you a few moments and perhaps redeem myself in your eyes?” He gestured at the empty chair beside her.
"Of course, my lord,” Lady Mary said, bowing her head in acquiescence. The earl seated himself. Almost instantly she became acutely aware of his nearness when the masculine, clean scent of sandalwood wafted about her. She discovered that her usual self-possession had unaccountably deserted her. She could not imagine what was wrong with her. She hoped that she was not coming down with a fever, for she felt first warm, then cold, then warm again. Her eyes returned to the dancers because her mind had gone completely blank for want of something to say.
Lord Kenmare had followed her gaze, and he thought that he knew what so completely absorbed her attention. “Your daughter is very lovely. I do not think that I have ever seen her without an accompanying crowd of admirers, yet she appears to handle the attention quite modestly,” he remarked.
Lady Mary turned toward him, all her inhibitions forgotten in her enthusiasm for her daughter's accomplishment in taking so easily to high society. “She
is
doing well for a first Season, isn't she? I had hoped that she would, though because of her naiveté, I had wondered whether I should bring her out this Season or wait another year.” She gave a rueful laugh as her gaze turned once more to the sight of her daughter going gracefully down a country set. “However, I was at a distinct disadvantage in deciding against her come-out this Season, since Abigail is aware that at sixteen I was wedded and already a mother."
Lord Kenmare glanced at the lady beside him, trying to imagine a young girl much like Abigail Spence with a babe in her arms. He found it impossible. With disapprobation he eyed the matron's turban that Lady Mary wore. Lady Mary Spence hardly appeared old enough to be an aunt, let alone the mother of two grown children. On the thought, he said, “I believe that I have recently met your son, Lady Mary. Is he Ensign William Spence? A steady-looking lad with a winning smile that quite appeals to the opposite sex, or so my sister informed me."
Lady Mary laughed. Mischief gleamed in her eyes, and the resemblance to the young gentleman that the earl had remarked on was unmistakable. “That is William, certainly. He is the very likeness of his father, with all his sire's charm. It was that selfsame smile that first attracted me to William and Abigail's father. Roger would have been proud to see them both now.” It occurred to her that she must be boring the earl with her prosing. “I do apologize, my lord! I did not mean to drone on about my children, as wonderful as I do think them. Tell me, what do you think of Bonaparte's advances? I hear everywhere that there is not the least cause for worry, and yet I cannot but wonder. The Duke of Wellington is still in Vienna, and though I am certain that we may have every confidence in the Prince of Orange as our acting commander-in-chief, he is young and perhaps rather ... excitable."
"You are observant, my lady. The prince's experience is slight and his natural confidence leads him to conclude that he can meet Bonaparte on that gentleman's own terms. I understand that General Sir Edward Barnes, the adjutant general, and Sir Hudson Lowe, our quartermaster, have their hands busy in keeping the prince's enthusiasm from running away with him.
"But hopefully, his grace the Duke of Wellington will arrive in good time to place a firm guiding rein on his young protégé. Otherwise we may be in for something of a wild ride,” Lord Kenmare said, only half in jest.
Lady Mary looked at him gravely. “Then it is your considered opinion that we will soon be at war again, my lord?"
The earl hesitated for the space of a second. “It is, my lady. As an intimate of the Duke of Brunswick, I am in a position to hear much that is not of general knowledge."
"I am not thrilled to hear my own private fears confirmed, as you may imagine,” Lady Mary said quietly.
Lord Kenmare nodded. “Yes, I understand. I myself have several friends who shall be in the thick of it. It is difficult to bear the impotent knowledge that someone dear to you may soon be in deadly peril. However, I do not think that Ensign Spence would thank you if you could suddenly whisk him away when all of his friends and acquaintances were to remain for the fight."
Lady Mary laughed at the vision that he had conjured up for her of William's appalled indignation. “Indeed not, my lord! William would sooner have himself cut up into ribbons than miss an opportunity to prove himself on the battleground."
"As I feel certain he shall do,” Lord Kenmare said with a smile.