Kate asked, “What did Stephen suggest?”
Sophie recalled that the topic had made the captain visibly uncomfortable. At the moment, it was making her uncomfortable as well. “He did not say much on the subject,” she said. “Though he did mention the colonel’s given name is George.”
Angela offered, “Stephen’s second name is Marshall, as you probably know. And Wesley’s is Dalton. Both fine old family names.” She smiled sweetly from her to Wesley and back again.
Sophie swallowed. “I don’t think so, no.”
“Better not choose Marsh,” Wesley muttered.
Mr. Keith stood abruptly. “What do you say to a game of billiards, Wes. Leave this sort of talk to the ladies?”
“Excellent idea. Thank you, CK.” Wesley rose and led the way.
Sophie was grateful as well.
On the afternoon of June the 23rd, Sophie and Kate were again sitting in the white parlour together, when galloping horse hooves and scattering pea gravel drew their attention out the front windows. Young Mr. Harrison came riding in and all but leapt from the saddle, leaving the reins dangling before the groom even jogged out to take his horse.
“I thought he was in London,” Sophie murmured.
“He was.” Kate’s brow knit. “I hope nothing is wrong.”
Sophie inhaled a shaky breath. “I hope he doesn’t bring bad news.”
The two women hurried into the hall.
A moment later, the young man burst through the door, ignoring the footman’s attempt to forestall him or take his coat. Mr. Harrison brandished a copy of theLondon Gazette Extraordinary, folded so that the headline in huge capitals caught Sophie’s eye:
GLORIOUS VICTORY
“Victory!” he called. “We have triumphed over Bonaparte!”
Outside, the church bells began ringing on cue. Mr. Harrison smiled and nodded. “I rode past Papa on the way in and shouted the good news.”
Mr. Harrison breathlessly explained that he had ridden all night from London as soon as he heard the report.
Word spread throughout the house, and the family and servants gathered as though to hear a town crier.
When all had assembled, Mr. Harrison read aloud of the victory obtained by the Duke of Wellington over Bonaparte at Waterloo on the previous Sunday, the 18th of June.
Cheers arose and echoed throughout Overtree Hall.
Mr. Harrison beamed at them all, clearly enjoying his role as bearer of glad tidings.
“What a celebration in London—the Tower guns fired, trumpets sounded, church bells rung. The mail coaches dressed in laurels and flowers, ready to carry the great news to the rest of England. Thousands of us filled the streets, cheering and shaking hands. I shall never forget it.”
Around the room, God was praised and smiles exchanged. Backs were slapped and embraces shared. Only the two Mrs. Overtrees remained somber.
“What does it say of casualties?” Mrs. Overtree asked, eyes on the newspaper.
“Not much,” Mr. Harrison replied. “No doubt more particulars will follow shortly.”
And follow they did.
Every day after that, Sophie gathered with the family as they read theGazetteand other papers and discussed the latest news. Wellington had won, but at a staggering cost of human life.
Lists of the wounded and slain were printed as information reached London. The Overtrees read the lists with morbid dread, knowing they were among thousands of worried families doing the same.
Those early feelings of triumph curdled into sickening dismay, as the lists of regimental losses mounted, and now and again they recognized the name of a friend or acquaintance who had fallen.
