‘Lucy,’ said Powerscourt later that evening, lying full length on the sofa, ‘I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.’
‘Nonsense, Francis,’ she replied with a gallant smile, ‘you’ll be fine. You’ve done this sort of thing before. You’ve got Johnny with you.’
‘I didn’t know you when I was in India, Lucy.’ Powerscourt remembered suddenly that her first husband had also gone off to war. He never came back. He sensed that Lucy must have been thinking the same thought.
‘Promise me one thing, my love.’ Lady Lucy knelt on the floor and flung her arms round her husband’s neck. Powerscourt thought there were tears in her eyes. He held her very tight.
‘There, Lucy, there. Please don’t cry.’
‘Just one thing, Francis.’ She was whispering very close to his ear, her hand stroking his face. ‘Please come back.’
The eight forty-five from Waterloo to Portsmouth harbour was preparing to depart. There were few coaches on the train and fewer passengers. Powerscourt thought they might have the whole train to themselves. He was leaning out of the carriage, holding Lady Lucy’s hands in his. ‘Lucy,’ he said, ‘I love you very much. I shall always love you.’
Whistles were blown. A great cloud of smoke belched out into the morning air from the engine up ahead.
‘I love you very much, Francis. Come back safely. Please come back safely.’
The train had begun to move. Lady Lucy walked along with it, past a couple of porters.
‘Semper Fidelis, Francis.’ The train gathered speed. She had to let go of his hands.
‘Semper Fidelis, Lucy,’ said Powerscourt, waving frantically as Lady Lucy’s small figure began to disappear in the smoke. He could see her no longer. Lady Lucy waited until the train disappeared round a corner, heading off down the great tracks stretching out towards the south. She waited a little longer until nothing, not even the rising smoke, was visible.
She left the station and went back to her house and her children.
Sir Frederick Lambert, President of the Royal Academy, was waiting in his sitting room to dictate a new last will and testament to his lawyer.
Imogen Foxe and Orlando Blane were still asleep under the tender care of Mrs Warry at Powerscourt’s house in Northamptonshire.
Alice de Courcy and her daughters Julia and Sarah were standing on the quayside in the northern Corsican port of Calvi, eagerly awaiting the boat that would take them to Nice. From there they would return to England by train.
William Alaric Piper was preparing to open his gallery in Old Bond Street for another day’s business.
Mr William P. McCracken, the American millionaire, was one day out of Southampton, sailing back to New York.
There were but a few days to go before the last Christmas of the century. Colonel Francis Powerscourt and Major Johnny Fitzgerald were going to war.