While Arthur was the darling of the social world, his domestic situation troubled him. Within weeks of his return Kitty’s shortcomings, overlooked in the first flush of pleasure at being reunited, came back to the fore. Though earnest and eager to play her part as the wife of the nation’s hero, Kitty lacked the sophistication, and indeed the beauty, of many of the women Arthur encountered in society. It pricked his heart to make such unfair comparisons. Her short-sightedness condemned her to squint or stare blankly at balls and dinners, and she quickly fell victim to the suspicion that she was being spoken about or mocked by those she could not clearly see. She would fall quiet, retreating into the safety of silence, while the world paid court to her husband.
Nor was it easy to step into the role of a father. All that Arthur and Charles knew of him was refracted through the public adulation that had greeted his victories. So the boys had come to know him as a distant hero and were inclined to regard him with awe, finding it difficult to accept him as merely a father. Arthur tried to spend as much time with them as possible, but that summer his public life all but consumed every day, and they became an extended part of his audience, looking on from a distance.
Gradually the celebrations died down. The foreign dignitaries returned to the Continent and minds turned towards adapting the world to peace. Less than a month later Arthur and Somerset were in Brussels inspecting the British army placed under his command before he went to take up the embassy in Paris. A handful of the officers or men were veterans and the army was too small to mount any kind of intervention in France. The King of the Netherlands, though an ally, was wary of showing too much favour to the foreign troops on his soil. His newly acquired Belgian subjects were still loyal to France, and many of them had served Bonaparte faithfully during his last campaigns. So the British soldiers were denied access to the forts and towns along the border and remained in camp around Brussels.
True to his military training, Arthur ensured that his officers were aware of the need to be ready to march at short notice. He also spent several days riding across the countryside, noting its potential uses for his army. On the last day before leaving Belgium to ride to Paris, Arthur and Somerset trotted out along the road from Brussels that passed through the forest of Soignes before heading towards the border. They reined in on a low ridge overlooking the ground to the south. Behind them the woods opened out a short distance beyond the bottom of the reverse slope.
‘See there, Somerset.’ Arthur indicated the ground behind them. ‘Enough cover for a large army.’
Somerset glanced round and nodded.
‘And there, on the forward slope: a number of walled farmhouses that could easily be fortified to break up any attacks made on the ridge.’ Arthur scrutinised the landscape for a moment longer and clicked his fingers. ‘Mark this ground.’
‘Yes, your grace.’ Somerset fumbled with his saddlebag and pulled out his map case. Unfastening it, he took out the map and found the location, then folded the map and rested it on the leather case. He picked up a pencil and held it poised. ‘There it is. Mont-St-Jean, your grace.’
‘Mont-St-Jean,’ Arthur repeated quietly.‘And that village a mile or so back, what was it called?’
‘Waterloo, your grace.’
‘Very well, make a note. Good ground to fight on,’ he said approvingly. ‘Damned good ground. Should the need ever arise.’
He urged his horse forward, and Somerset hurriedly packed his materials away before spurring his horse after his commander as he clopped down the road. On either side fields of wheat grew chest high, and a light breeze caused the heads of the crops to sway in a gently shimmering ripple. For a moment Arthur felt his spirits lift as he put his concerns aside and gazed out across the peaceful countryside.
Chapter 53
Paris, November 1814
A fine drizzle filled the air as the men of the King’s bodyguard paraded in the great courtyard of the Tuileries. Arthur was standing beside the Duke of Angoulкme reviewing the soldiers as they marched past the platform. Many of them sported the whiskers that had been the fashion of the former Imperial Guard, and there was something in their eyes that chilled Arthur even more than the cold weather of late autumn.
‘How many of these men are veterans of the Old Guard?’ he asked quietly.
The French aristocrat smiled. ‘We inducted more than half of them.’
‘You compelled them?’
‘It was not necessary. They were pleased enough to have the chance to continue wearing a uniform. It was that, or return to the streets and go hungry.’
‘And you trust them?’
‘Why not? They would be nothing without the new regime. Their Emperor is gone, the war is over. They have had to adjust, along with the rest of the people.’
Arthur watched the next company march past before he replied. ‘I hope you are right.’
‘Of course I am. The Corsican Tyrant is no longer a danger to Europe. I understand that he is busying himself on Elba with improving the lot of his new subjects. But then I am sure you are better informed of his activities than I am.’
‘Our resident sends regular reports of Bonaparte’s activities,’ Arthur admitted. As part of the treaty which had provided for the French Emperor’s exile the British government had appointed a resident on Elba, Colonel Campbell, to keep a close watch on Bonaparte and keep track of those who visited him on the island, mostly former admirers and those curious to see the great man in his gilded cage. As a matter of course his former commanders were barred from speaking to him, but there was no preventing third parties from carrying messages.
‘What does your resident say in his reports?’
‘That Bonaparte reads the newspapers avidly, and is engrossed in writing his memoirs, and that he abides by the terms of the treaty. He presents no threat to the peace of Europe, as you say.’
‘Perhaps,’ the French aristocrat mused. ‘All the same, it was a shame that he was not put to death. Then we might have finally quashed Bonapartist sentiment in France.’
‘If he had been put to death, I fear the streets of Paris would have run with blood as his supporters and yours tore each other’s throats out.’
The Duke of Angoulкme glanced coldly at Arthur.‘Sometimes blood is the price of peace and security.’
‘And sometimes it does not have to be,’ Arthur replied firmly. ‘More than enough blood has already been shed.’
The Frenchman turned back to watch the soldiers with a dismissive grunt. After a moment Arthur reached up and adjusted his stock to keep as much of the drizzle from his neck as possible.
While the review continued his mind turned to the wider situation in Paris. He had taken up his position as ambassador nearly three months earlier, and at first he had been gratified by his reception into Paris society. The British government had purchased the mansion of Pauline Bonaparte to serve as an embassy and the accommodation was as comfortable as anything Arthur could have wished for; it had pleased Kitty too when she joined him in October. Since his arrival Arthur had been welcomed into the Parisian salons, and Madame de Staлl had proved a useful ally in assisting him to promote his government’s case for the abolition of the French slave trade. He had even met many of the marshals and generals who had once served Bonaparte and was pleased by the cordial, and often friendly, mood which had accompanied their discussions of their experiences during the recently ended war.