Lady Sarah paled. "No one could despise them."
Emily raised her brows. "Consider them a nuisance and an embarrassment, if you prefer.
That is the same thing."
Lady Sarah bit her lip. Her husband was watching her.
He looked as tired and anxious as his round features would allow. Another bystander,
Emily thought, with a surge of fellow feeling.
Wilson said, "If they do not know they are despised, they cannot be made to feel
despicable. Do you imply, Mrs. Foster, that further visits from Sarah to the children would be
unwise?"
"Their father did not forbid her to visit them."
"Nevertheless--"
"I
shall be glad to receive Lady Sarah at any time."
"Oh, stop talking around me as if I were a post," Sarah muttered. "I shan't meddle
farther, Mrs. Foster. I promise."
Emily was content with that and presently showed her guests out. They did not ask to see
the nursery.
Lady Sarah laid the dog-eared newspaper down and took a sip of her breakfast coffee. "If
it is a great victory why does the duke write so dismal?"
"Wellington is not a man given to enthusiasm." Sir Robert had been repressing uneasiness
for the entire twenty-four hours since news had come of the victory at Water-loo, all through the
bell ringing, the
feu de joie
of the local militia, the obligatory ale with his tenants and port
with his neighbours.
So had Sarah. "Richard," she said, tentative.
"There was no word of your brother in the despatch. I'm inclined to be optimistic.
However, outside his staff and certain noblemen, the duke mentioned no one by name under the
rank of brigadier. My optimism may be founded on sand."
"Shall I write Mrs. Foster?"
"We know no more than she. Wait, Sal."
So they waited.
Richard Falk's name did not appear on the first incomplete casualty lists. That raised their
hopes, but then, except for the Guards, few names appeared for that entire wing of the
army.
It struck Wilson as odd that he should be feeling hope at all. Sarah's feeling for her
brother, compounded of guilt and nostalgia, he was beginning to comprehend. His own was
decidedly odd.
There were the novels, of course, or rather the novel. Wilson had so far only read one,
but he was susceptible to literary merit. At first he was incredulous. The man he had met so briefly
could not have writ so lighthearted and withal so charming and bizarre a romp through the
pomposities of Spanish society.
There are two kinds of satirist. One writes from loathing and indignation. The other
writes from a strong sense of absurdity and usually gives the impression of being secretly grateful to
the objects of his criticism for providing him with cause for laughter. Falk, like Henry Fielding, was
of the second sort. Although Wilson admired them less than the stricter satirists, he had often
found himself wishing he could give such authors a glass of his best run brandy. Indeed he had once
had the pleasure of doing just that for Mr. Sheridan. Wilson felt the same sense of instinctive
fellowship for the author of Don Alfonso, although his brother-in-law in the flesh inspired no such
warmth.
Now, poring over the latest close-printed casualty list, Wilson realised his anxiety was for
the writer, not the man. As he came to that perception he saw in the column of print,
Falk,
R.
He blinked.
Falk, R. lt. col., 28th Foot, missing, presumed killed.
He felt a moment
of dismay so strong he dropped the paper. Should he tell Sarah? No, he would have to be sure. He
rose and rang for his valet, who came as usual on noiseless feet.
"Pack a portmanteau for me, Kennet. I am going up to London for two days. Formal rig
won't be necessary."
His voice trailed off, and he stared vaguely at the Stubbs painting of an early Derby
winner that hung above the mantel. "Full rig, Kennet. I shall go to White's. Perhaps someone will
know something."
"Very good, sir."
"Why are you hanging about?"
"Shall I accompany you, sir?"
"No. Dash it, yes, I daresay you ought to come. Can't go about in crumpled linen."
Kennet looked scandalised that such a plan had crossed his master's mind even for a
moment.
Wilson burnt the newspaper on the study grate and told his wife only that he meant to
enquire for her brother at the Horse Guards. He wished to spare her the grisly rumours he was sure
were rife in the capital. An appeal to her maternal instincts generally succeeded where reason did
not. In the end he persuaded her to stay home with the boys.
Three days later he returned to her, and there was now no point in hiding newspapers.
She met him at the front entry.
"Mrs. Foster sent to tell me Richard has been wounded. Did you know that when you
left?"
He kissed her. Her cheek was stiff to his touch. "I read 'missing, presumed killed.' I
wanted to be sure."
"You might have told me. He's my brother."
"My dear, I wanted to spare you the uncertainty."
She gave him a disbelieving stare, but wifeliness overcame her and she caused the servants
to take his driving coat. She even sent for refreshment.
When he had settled into his favourite chair and taken his first sip of sherry, however, she
leapt to the attack. "I must go to Richard at once."
"You cannot, Sarah. At such a time, Brussels is no place for a lady."
"Then you must go. Find Richard and bring him here."
He took a swallow of sherry, rinsing the dust from his throat. Over the rim of the glass he
searched his wife's face. She looked her full age. For a moment pity made him helpless to
speak.
"You must, Robin." This time she was pleading.
"I shall go to him, of course, Sarah, as soon as may be. I have already directed my man of
business to make enquiries. These financial types have connexions in Antwerp."
"If you delay he may die before you reach him."
"He may be dead already, my dear," Wilson said gently. "The word was, 'gravely
wounded.'"
"Then go at once."
"Very well, in the morning. But bringing your brother here is out of the question. He
will be far too ill to move."
"Then you shall stay with him until the doctors say he may be moved. For God's
sake,
Robert."
Wilson rose. Sarah rarely used his full Christian name, preferring Robin. He preferred
Robin, too. He paced to the long window and stood looking out. The sun was setting in a pastel
glow. "We cannot bring him here, Sally."
"We can and we will."
Wilson did not turn. "Shall you tell your sons that he is their uncle?"
"Yes,"
Sarah said, fierce.
Wilson turned, brows raised. "Have you changed your loyalties? What of your
mother?"
"I don't believe
Maman
would wish me to leave Richard in the care of
strangers."
That was too much like fustian for Wilson. "It's late in the day for the dowager to
succumb to maternal concern she does not feel. You forget I've spoken with her of her by-blow.
Your brother has served in the army more than half his life. I daresay he has been hit before and
must certainly have been in the care of strangers."
"You are hateful, Robert."
"I hope not." He went to her and stood looking down at her. "I find your baseborn
brother rather more interesting than your legitimate brothers, Sarah, and I am certainly ready to
serve him. It is the dowager who would not inconvenience herself for him. If you cause Richard
Falk to be brought here openly, as your brother, there will inevitably be gossip and the gossip will
light on her grace's head. She is fond of our sons. Will she be happy when they look at her askance?
Will
you
be happy?"
Sarah's jaw set.
Wilson sighed. "Very well. It may take me a month."
Sarah began to cry. "Oh, Robin, you are so good to me."
"I know it, madam." He smoothed her hair. "I can't think why. You'd best prepare your
mother. No. We can't bring him here."
Sarah peered at him from behind the flimsy lace handkerchief with which she had been
touching her eyes. "Newsham?"
"Yes." Wilson sat with disgusted energy on the chair nearest her. "What a stupid tangle.
Well, I'll go to Brussels and see what may be done. I wish the dowager may be brought to
acknowledge her guilt unequivocally. Do you try to persuade her this time, Sarah. Then we may
whistle at Newsham and have the colonel--he is now a lieutenant colonel. Did you know
that?"
Sarah nodded and blew her nose.
"Then we may have the colonel to visit whenever we and he wish it." Absurd to be
thinking of the social amenities. The man was, in all probability, already dead.
Perhaps Sarah read his thought, for her gloom did not lift. "I'll try, but I don't think it will
do any good. She is adamant."
Wilson sighed. He, too, thought it improbable that the dowager would soften. She could
be very stubborn indeed.
* * * *
Emily had taken her new gig out early because of the heat. Even so, a billow of dust
followed her from farm to cottage to farm like a tame ghost. The weather had been relentlessly
beautiful since the week before Water-loo. Nature ought to weep.
Emily was beginning to deal with the probability of Richard Falk's death. The numbness
had not yet worn off, but she knew from past experience what would happen when it did wear off.
In sequence, fury, a burst of grief, and long months of misery afterwards. Prickles of anger shot
through the dull fog of her disbelief. It was doubly unkind of fate to deal her such a blow when she
had finally come to terms with her muddled feelings. She did indeed love the author of Doña
Inez. He was probably dead. A dead letter. Emily's mouth twisted at the sourness of the
irony.
"Halloo!"
Emily reined back for a haywain that lumbered into the lane from an adjacent field.
"Good day t'ye, Miz Foster. Champion haying weather." Her lips formed a smile for Mr.
Proudy, one of her major tenants. He had his third son with him. The boy had grown half a foot in
the past year and gangled at her from the slippery top of the piled hay. The wagon lurched. Willie
Proudy grinned down at her and grabbed at his pitchfork to keep from sliding off.
Her team switched restlessly as the revenant dust settled upon them, but she held them
back until the Proudy wain turned off. She tasted grit. A fine buff powder sifted down on the
shoulders of her habit. Still she waited until she had the lane to herself again. She did not need to be
gaped and grinned at.
The hay was early. Her father thought they might make an extra crop. Perhaps she ought
to feed another milch cow through the winter this year. Eustachio was not a big eater. There ought
to be enough hay to feed another cow. Mrs. Harry would be glad of the milk for cheeses. Emily
clucked and eased the ribbons, and the patient bays stepped along the lane.
Wild roses flared in bloom in the hedgerows. The air was thick with dust and the scent of
roses. On her left hand her father's cornfields, each stalk of wheat heavy with promising grain,
swelled up as far as the old apple orchard. Off to her right she could see a generous swath of her
own demesne, rye and blue wheat, lucerne on the rich bottom. The tidy fields were tidily squared
by hedges and ditches under the gunmetal sky.
Everything in good order, she told herself, as the gig passed into a small stand of oak. The
shade was welcome after the blinding sunlight. She should sell some timber this year. Of course the
price would fall with the war over. Abruptly she pulled over on the verge and yanked a square of
linen from the pocket of her skirt. She had been crying again without knowing it. Leaking tears like
an old cistern. She scrubbed at her eyes.
The battle had taken her by surprise. She hadn't been thinking of battles, her mind on the
Duke of Newsham and Lady Sarah and byzantine plots.
Fiction,
she thought, furious,
mopping her face.
Phantasy.
All the while the familiar bugaboo, Bonaparte, had been
moving his flesh and blood legions in for the kill. She ought to have expected it. For three years
now she had expected it. She'd been used to the idea. Damnation to Lady Sarah Wilson for
distracting her from reality. It wasn't fair.
The horses were gorging themselves on a toothsome clump of cow parsley. A horsefly,
discouraged by the
flickflick
of their undocked tails, decided to sample Emily's damp face.
She swatted at it violently. One of the bays looked back at her.
"Oh, the devil.
Giddap."
She flapped the reins and the obedient team left off
munching.
This will not do, Emily,
her sensible self told her in accents reminiscent of Aunt
Fan. The horses plodded slowly up the long hill home.
You are a mature woman with
responsibilities. Life--children, horses, cows, vegetable marrows, roses--must go on, and you are in charge of this
particular slice of life. "Duty calleth, stern daughter of the voice of God." That was Mr. Wordsworth, wasn't it?
He was always right, Wordsworth.
By the time she turned into the approach to Wellfield House, Emily was in tolerable
command of her emotions once more. The sight of Lady Sarah's barouche drawn up before the
front door jolted her heart, but her pulse steadied. At the stables, she gave the groom her reins,
stepped down calmly, and walked back to the house to face the verdict.
She took the side door that led through the kitchen, stopping to bathe her hot face under
the scullery pump.
Mrs. Harry greeted her cheerily, rattled pots on the range, went on with her work. In the
hall Emily laid her gloves and bonnet on the narrow table and smoothed her hair. Her face stared
somberly back at her. She looked flushed and tired, but her eyes weren't noticeably swollen. She
brushed the dust from her habit with great care.