Chapter 8 #3
“I can’t think that Peter or Robin would want to see Bryson banished,” I said.
“They have tried on three occasions to secure a backstop for the succession, and so far, those efforts are unavailing, however dear the results. Mrs. Carstairs has declared a hiatus to procreative activities, and thus Bryson’s return ought to figure among their earnest prayers. ”
Avis was growing loud, advocating a massed herd of horses, while Lark continued to line the mounted forces up by twos. Her movements were precise and patient beyond her years.
“Robin told you that she was finished having children?” Hyperia asked.
“She strongly implied that efforts to secure the succession by filling the vicarage nursery were at an end. Her husband appears to esteem her, and they are purported to be a love match. To me, that adds up to wishing either Bryson or Algernon into the arms of the nearest unwed Delaplane with all possible haste.”
“Children,” Hyperia said, loudly enough to turn three little heads. “Squabbling among the allies will see Napoleon win the day. We cannot have that, can we?”
“Her horses are wrong,” Lark said very distinctly. “The horses have to be right.”
“Uncle Julian was at Waterloo,” Leander bellowed. “He can tell us how to set up the Greys.”
Leander’s gaze begged me to demonstrate avuncular expertise. Lark regarded me with dubious caution, and Avis looked ready to foment rebellion among the cavalry.
Hyperia’s eyes danced.
“It depends,” I said, “on where we are in the order of battle. While awaiting orders, the Greys might be milling about in no particular formation. The battle raged for most of the day. Early in the charge, the Greys were in two lines, per regulations. When they broke through the enemy’s defense, they fell into some disarray.
” Terrible, deadly disarray as they galloped farther and farther into danger.
“Any of those arrangements,” I went on, “will be accurate at some point in the proceedings. I’d recommend you set the lines up in proper order, because the Greys would want to be remembered at their most splendid.”
The Greys were remembered for gallantry, also for getting themselves slaughtered nearly to a man behind enemy lines. Wellington’s frustration with the cavalry had no more telling evidence than the behavior of the Scots Greys at Waterloo.
And that, despite many a veteran declaring that the charge of the Scots Greys was the critical point at which victory for the Allies became possible.
Play resumed with the general officers lining up the horses in preparation for the famous—or infamous—charge.
“You acquit Peter of suspicion,” Hyperia said quietly. “I am not as quick to strike him from the rolls.”
“Why not?”
“If the talk is correct, he was a curate until recently, and while Robin brought fine settlements to the union, those settlements are secured in trusts and legal restrictions. The family was living mostly on Peter’s salary.”
“True, as far as I know. Go on.”
The Greys were in fine form, and attentions turned to Blücher’s reinforcements and how far from the hostilities they ought to be placed.
“A man who loves his wife does not burden her with three children in six years when the family has very limited means and no guarantee of improved circumstances. Peter’s behavior as a husband was reckless.”
“Six years? I thought Robin and Peter were in their fifth year of wedded bliss.”
“Avis was a six-months baby, according to Lady Clo.”
Meaning the besotted couple had anticipated their vows, which was nothing unusual at any level of society. “Might Robin have colluded in what you characterize as recklessness? My mother claims my sister Ginny resulted from a mere exchange of fond marital glances.”
I should have known better than to attempt an injection of levity. Childbearing was a sore point with Hyperia, and I could not fault her for that. Bringing new life into the world so frequently cost the mother her own life or health.
Hyperia brushed me with a sidewise glower. “Yes, in theory Robin might have made no protest when the latest conception occurred, but, Jules, she is married to a vicar, his helpmeet and dependent upon him for her very bread. How seriously do you think he’d take her protestations?”
A helpmeet apparently figured below an apprentice swineherd in Hyperia’s domestic order of precedence.
“If Peter loves his wife and doesn’t want to see his children half orphaned, he’d heed Robin’s demurrals.” I would certainly heed yours. Rather than voice that assurance, which would open a pit of awkwardness deeper than the Channel at high tide, I forced myself to consider Hyperia’s perspective.
“You are saying,” I went on, “Peter the Villainous Vicar, who wants his progeny inheriting the title, either now or in some generation to come, would be highly motivated to keep Bryson at his gamekeeping post in Surrey. The abundance of said progeny attests to Peter’s ambitions.
Eventually, Robin might relent on the current dictum, or otherwise again find herself with child, and a boy might result. ”
“Precisely.” Hyperia twitched her skirts. “And yet, to be fair, Peter strikes me as a perfectly agreeable man who has every respect for his wife. Appearances can be deceptive, though Robin doesn’t seem to bear her husband any ill will, even in private.”
Ah. So Hyperia had been on reconnaissance. “Well done, Miss West, and I agree. Mrs. Carstairs seems exhausted, as young mothers are exhausted, and weary in spirit, but not furious.”
Hyperia, by contrast, could present with a burning ire toward the risks of motherhood, or toward a Society that lauded men willing to sacrifice their lives in battle over some patch of foreign ground, while ignoring the greater number of women who sacrificed their lives in childbed.
She was right to take umbrage at the injustice, but her remedy—to personally eschew the near occasion of conception—redounded on her future husband somewhat uncomfortably.
Another tangle.
The door opened before I could turn the conversation to less fraught matters.
Mrs. Robin Carstairs stood in the doorway, a swaddled bundle cradled against her shoulder. “How is the battle progressing?”
“Peacefully thus far,” I said, rising to close the door. “Who is this?”
“That’s Derry,” Avis caroled. “She wears nappies, and Mama nurses her.”
“Aderyn,” Lark murmured, perfecting the spacing at the end of the line of Greys.
Welsh for bird, or something avian. My Scottish Gaelic was better than my Welsh.
“She’s wearing clean nappies,” Mrs. Carstairs said, passing me the bundle.
I accepted, knowing to support the child’s head and keep a firm hold otherwise. Nieces and nephews had done their parts to educate me. The infant was comfortingly sturdy.
“Greetings, Miss Derry. I understand you are teething of late. My condolences to you and to your parents.”
“She already has four teeth,” Avis said. “She’s going to get a lot more.” Avis grinned, showing two rows of white teeth.
I resumed my place on the window seat next to Hyperia. The lady in my arms had enormous blue eyes, a gummy smile, and fat cheeks. A gorgeous, solid little personage.
“She will grab your nose,” Lark said, surveying her cavalry. “She always grabs Papa’s nose.”
“Grabbing noses is stupid.” Avis graced us with that opinion just as Derry made a swipe at my proboscis.
She caught her quarry in a firm grip.
“I am taken prisoner by a delightful little jailer. I have no wish to escape.”
She let me go, and we played Catch His Lordship’s Nose until Miss Derry yawned hugely, sighed, and consented to be carried around the playroom while I gently patted her back.
Mrs. Carstairs asked for an explanation of the deployed forces and was besieged with juvenile lectures on infantry, artillery, cavalry, and bears.
My companion was falling asleep, so I dared not cease my peregrinations, but when I looked to Hyperia in hopes she might take a relief lap, I found my darling near tears.
Her eyes shone suspiciously, and before I could ask what had upset her, she quit the nursery and left me holding the baby.