Charlotte arched a brow. “Very impressed? From you, that’s practically a love letter.”
Mrs. Radcliff smiled, slightly. “He said the piece was ‘blazingly intelligent’ and ‘unexpectedly bold.’ He wishes to publish it in the next issue, and has since pestered me for your acquaintance. I told him you were newly confined and might not yet be receiving visitors.”
Jane’s mouth parted in surprise, then curved with restrained delight. She looked down at George, who had resumed waving his arms as though conducting some invisible symphony. “Unless he’s afraid of the little rabbit—who, I grant, may prove formidable in his day, though he is presently benign—I’d be happy to receive him.”
Charlotte gave an approving hum. “The rabbit will have his seat in the Lords someday—assuming he learns to lift his head first.”
Mrs. Radcliff gave a small chuckle, then leaned forward. “There’s more. Mr. Colborn is publishing an anthology of young poets—some of whom you may find insufferable, but all of whom are rather earnest. He hoped you might consider offering commentary. He said your knowledge of classical texts seems unmatched and your style unusually incisive. His words, not mine.”
Jane's smile deepened, and a light flared in her expression that had been absent for weeks. “Commentary?”
“Analysis, more likely,” said Mrs. Radcliff. “You could correspond if you prefer, but he thought a few small gatherings—readings and discussions—might suit. Nothing formal. He simply wishes to bring you into his circle.”
Jane looked down at George, then at her own lap, her fingers absently tugging the edge of the baby’s blanket. “It’s not as though I’ve grown incapable of forming a thought. And the littlerabbit sleeps most of the day. If he can tolerate poets, I imagine I can too.”
Charlotte gave a delighted sound. “Excellent. He can be our mascot.”
Mrs. Radcliff smiled. “I’ll write to Mr. Colborn. If you are willing to receive him in the next few days—?”
Jane nodded. “I should like that very much.”
As George made a small noise and began to wriggle again, Jane scooped him up with practiced ease and cradled him close. His eyes fluttered shut almost instantly.
“You’ll be clever, too,” she murmured, pressing her lips to his fine hair. “You just have to listen closely.”
Charlotte scoffed. “Just don’t let him anywhere near Shelley. He’ll start reciting Queen Mab and end up leading a coup.”
Chapter 45
The first cannon fired at dawn. Rain had fallen through the night, turning the Belgian soil into a black, sucking quagmire. Muskets misfired. Horses stumbled. Men gripped cold steel and muttered prayers beneath their breath. The sky was bruised with storm clouds, and in the distance, the ridge at Mont-Saint-Jean smoldered under the force of French artillery.
William sat astride his horse at the crest of the hill, his uniform caked with wet mud, his jaw locked tight. Orders had been dispatched. Reserves moved into place. There was nothing left but to wait—and endure.
He had never seen a field like this. It wasn’t the scale—he had fought in battles twice the size. It was the feeling. Something dense in the air. Final. As if history were folding itself in half, and whatever happened here would echo for a hundred years.
A messenger galloped up. “French infantry advancing at Papelotte, my lord.”
William nodded, turning his mount. “Send the 3rd to reinforce the left. Keep the 4th in reserve.”
“Yes, sir.”
Hooves pounded. The messenger vanished. William turned to his aides, issuing orders in clipped tones. But his eyes scanned the ground beyond the ridge, where French banners glinted between rows of marching blue, and the drums rolled like thunder across the valley.
He could see it coming—the full weight of Napoleon’s line pressing upward. And behind it, the weight of history. He drew his saber.
* * *
Hours passed. Rain, smoke, blood. Men screamed. Horses fell. Mud swallowed the dead. William fought where needed—with sword or pistol—his face smeared with ash, his coat torn to the lining. Once, a round shot passed so close it tore the gilt epaulette from his shoulder. He did not flinch. He no longer felt fear. Not in the way he once had. For he carried another battlefield within him.
His heart was not here. It was in Bloomsbury. In the sound of a woman’s voice, soft and precise, lecturing on Latin poetry with a baby cradled in her arms.
Come back, the woman of his vision had whispered, as he rode away.Come back and meet your son.He would. Nothing could keep him from them. Not even death. And so he fought on.
The smoke had thickened. Somewhere to the left, the earth shook with fresh cannon fire. They were near La Haye Sainte when he saw Ashford. The 12th had charged ahead—too far, too fast—and were now bogged down in heavy fighting near the ruined farmhouse. William caught sight of George’s regiment just as the French counterattack came, led by cuirassiers with steel breastplates gleaming.
“Idiots,” William muttered, and turned his horse.
He reached them in time to see George cut a French officer down, his saber stained red to the hilt. The man was riding like a revenant—reckless, magnificent, half-dead already. His chest heaved beneath torn fabric, but his blade still moved fast.
