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Arthur closed his eyes for a brief moment to summon his composure. Opening them once more, he fixed Laurence with the sort of stare that had once sent junior officers scattering. On this occasion, much to his dismay, it achieved precisely nothing.

"When are you leaving?" Arthur repeated, his voice carrying all the weary resignation of a man long accustomed to his friend's nonsense,

Instead of answering, Laurence's grin only widened. Arthur's gaze drifted almost instinctively towards the chair at his left.

Empty.

The servants had already laid her breakfast, the untouched teacup still releasing delicate curls of steam into the morning air. Beside it sat a small dish of raspberry preserves Cook had taken to preparing especially for the Duchess after discovering she had declared them "the happiest tasting thing in England."

She was late, which was unusual. Yet as though his thoughts alone had summoned her, she appeared in the doorway.

“Good morning.” She sounded slightly breathless. He imagined her hurrying through the corridors, skirts gathered in one hand, apologising to whichever unfortunate footman she had nearly collided with in her haste.

"I was writing back to Cecily this morning," Eliza explained as she settled her napkin neatly across her lap. "I became so carried away that I completely forgot the time."

He heard the gentle scrape of a knife spreading an entirely unreasonable amount of preserves across warm toast.

"Isn't it wonderful? The Earl she works for will let her write to me whenever she pleases."

Arthur suspected another request for ink and writing paper would soon appear amongst the household accounts. His wife seemed capable of writing every bit as much as she talked.

Letters to Cecily.

Letters to James.

Letters to the children in Windleham every three days without fail.

He tried to let the conversation fade into the background and turn his attention back to the paper. Though his gaze moved steadily over the printed columns, he found himself rereading the same paragraph for what must have been the third time.

The latest reports from the Continent were no more reliable than those of the previous morning.

One paper confidently declared the French army to be in full retreat, another insisted Napoleon had merely withdrawn to regroup, whilst a third claimed fresh engagements were expected before the week's end. No official dispatch had yet arrived from the battlefield, leaving every editor in London to fill the silence with rumour masquerading as fact.

Arthur knew better.

Battles were rarely understood in the days immediately following them. Couriers were delayed, reports contradicted one another, and every officer's account differed depending on where he had stood when the smoke finally cleared.

Nonetheless, his eyes continued searching every line.

Old habits, he supposed.

Even after leaving the Army, he found it impossible to ignore the news. Somewhere across the Channel, men he had served beside were still waiting for orders, tending to the wounded and counting those who would not be returning home. Until official reports reached England, every former officer in the country would be doing exactly what he was doing now, searching newspapers for scraps of certainty where none yet existed.

He became aware of Laurence watching him, but Arthur refused to look across the table as he knew exactly what expression awaited him.

"That is wonderful, Your Grace," Laurence said. "And what occupies your day today?"

"I have dancing this morning, painting before luncheon, and afterwards I was thinking I might visit the nearest village," Eliza replied thoughtfully.

She paused.

"The Dowager told me I ought to expect callers."

Arthur's eyes remained upon the newspaper.

"But..." she continued more quietly, "...to the best of my knowledge, no one has called." His fingers stopped upon the page.

"So I thought perhaps I ought to visit the villagers myself." There was no resentment in her voice—only gentle bewilderment.