Chapter 28
Peter sat back in his saddle, surrounded by the quiet morning of the Surrey Hills.
The only noise that interrupted his heightened breathing and pounding pulse was the warbling of a few insistent birds.
It would have to do. Normally, such surroundings brought him a steadying peace. But not this morning.
Isolation. That had been his aim. He did not want Ana overhearing his cursing or outburst when he read the missive that had arrived late last night for him.
His name and address were scrawled in an unfamiliar hand, although the army’s official crest indicated the letter’s origin.
Fear squeezed Peter’s heart. This was no letter from David or Matthew, or even Captain Davies.
This would be a summons, likely back to battle.
A cruel fate it would be indeed to be recalled weeks before the birth of their baby, when Ana would need him most. She had already lost her father.
And, somehow, her mother. How would she fare if she lost Peter, and in such a needful and delicate time?
Peter knew that on his part, life in the army would never be the same again.
Not after San Sebastián—not after Ana. Instead of being an escape, a place of relief, being at camp and on the road in foreign lands would fill him with loneliness and longing.
He felt it already, just at the thought of leaving Ana and Abbeygate.
Would he really be called back, forced to end the lives of so many when the tiniest, most precious life was just beginning back at home?
Would his child even know his face, his voice?
The grip that fear had on his heart clenched ever tighter.
Peter offered up a desperate prayer and allowed his mind to spin through the comforting verses he had studied in the Bible that very morning.
If there were ever a moment to need God’s strength, it was now.
For this letter could decide his entire future—not only with the army but with his family.
Finally, he tore through the wax seal. The letter within was not signed, nor addressed specifically to him.
It must have been a mass communication sent out to officers.
Paris is secured. Napoleon has been deposed, abdicated by the French Senate.
Wellington was hailed a hero and was made the Duke of Wellington on 3 May 1814.
An armistice was signed on 23 April 1814, and a treaty is currently being constructed between France and the Sixth Coalition, including Great Britain, Prussia, Portugal, Russia, Austria, Spain, Sweden, Sardinia, and a number of German States.
This will ensure that stolen and conquered territories are returned to their respective countries, reducing the expanded borders of France.
Peter’s heart thudded irregularly in his chest. His shoulders had been wound so tightly, his chest tight, braced for pain .
. . but instead, relief flooded him. He hardly knew whether to whoop with joy or to set back immediately to tell Ana.
Instead, he slid off Warrior and planted his knees into the dewy morning earth.
Tears trickled down his face, catching in his rough whiskers.
“Thank you, God, for saving many people from continued war. Thank you for this second chance at life, at forming some sort of home and family. Thank you for Ana and our child. Thank you for peace.”
Peter rubbed trembling hands over his face, breathing deeply.
No longer would he have to prepare to face home with devastating, heartbreaking news of a recall.
Instead, he would return to Ana, renewed and reinvigorated with a passion to make everything right before her lying-in time—before the babe would arrive.
He would get to treasure the precious moment of holding his wife and his infant child.
Inevitably, an official assignment would come again, but Peter would surely be spared at least a few months in the peaceful wake of the end of such a long and disastrous war.
Finally, he longed for a respite from his duties.
He longed to be home. And it seemed God would grant him an answer to that prayer.
He hopped to his feet and mounted Warrior in a smooth, learned motion.
After snapping the reins and shifting forward in his saddle, they set off at a gallop toward Abbeygate.
The ride was not a short one, but after what seemed to be only a few moments, he was arriving at the stables, handing the reins to the stablehand, and bounding through the back entrance of Abbeygate.
“Ana!” he yelled. “Ana, where are you?”
“Peter?” Ana’s voice trembled as she descended the stairs as quickly as her cumbersome form would allow. Her brow was wrinkled in concern as she hurried toward him. He had frightened her.
“All is well, my dear. Forgive me for startling you.”
“Qué?” Ana whispered after folding herself into his arms.
“Only the most wonderful of things. Napoleon’s army has been defeated, and he is to be exiled. The Allied forces are returning home. The war is over.”
“So you not leave me?”
“I will not leave you, Ana. I will be here for you and our babe.”
Ana let out a sob, a sound that was part relief and part joy, and pressed her lips against his.
She tossed herself into his arms anew, and Peter’s knees buckled at her weight and his emotion.
They knelt on the floor, there in the hallway, making a great heap of their embracing arms and mingling tears as they thanked God profusely for hearing their prayers.