“You will pardon me,” he said. “I will not be long,” and he walked across the lawn towards the house. The hedge-rows were trimmed, and the walks had been swept of snow; there was a murmur of noise and life, louder as he came to the house, until standing in the formal gardens he might look in through the glass at the candle-lit ballroom, full of people, standing and sitting and lying, on pallets and on camp-beds: cottagers he recognized, others from the village.
“Here now, what are you about? You may come to the front, if you’re wanting something,” someone said to Laurence, making him start: a young gardener, scowling and holding a rake as though he would do something with it.
“I am William Laurence,” he said. “Is Lady Allendale here?”
She came out to him, wrapped in a cloak against the chilclass="underline" wool only, and not her furs. “Will, my dear,” she said, “are you well? Have you come alone—”
“We are encamped in the park, to hunt only,” Laurence said. “We leave again as soon as the dragons are fed: are you well? And my father?”
“As well as anyone could expect, with all this upheaval,” she said. “He knows a little of what has happened: he knows you are with the Corps again,” she added, anxiously.
He said nothing; there was nothing to be proud of, in the service he was giving. “I am glad to find you unmolested,” he said after a moment; strangely reluctant. “We came over the village—I hope Lord and Lady Galman are well.”
Lady Allendale, too, hesitated. “Yes, they stay with us.”
He paused again, and reaching into his coat brought out the ring, in the small envelope of paper he had folded around it. “I wish that I had not—I am sorry to bear ill-tidings,” he said. “Mr. Woolvey was killed, in London—I have kept it to send to Edith, when that might be possible. If her parents might—”
“Yes, we had word,” she said, low and unhappy, and took it from him; she curled her hand around the envelope, and her face looked drawn.
“He died well,” Laurence said, “if that can be said; he died bravely, at least, in service to the Crown.”
She nodded, and they stood silently; a little snow yet was falling, white flecks upon her dark cloak. “Tell me,” he said, finally.
“An officer came, and gave us the Emperor’s compliments, and assurances that we would never be harmed,” she said. “None of the raiding parties have come here; even lately, when they are pillaging everywhere—”
“Yes,” Laurence said, stopping her. “I understand,” and understood also his own dread; of course. Bonaparte had managed to pay him for his treason, after all.
“We can shelter a great many more,” she said quietly, after a moment. “Our stores, also, are untouched, if there are any you would like to send to us.”
“If you can send a cart to Wollaton,” he said, “they were struck this morning, and have wounded.”
“Yes, of course,” she said. “Can you not stay the night?”
With an effort, he kept himself from recoiling, and only touched his hat. “I must beg your pardon; we have some hours yet to fly tonight,” he said, and bowed, and turned; the lights of the house glittered on the snow as he walked away.
TEMERAIRE HAD GOT THREE DEER, despite their springiness, and felt rather pleased with the world until Laurence came back from the house, pale, and refused his share of dinner. “I am very happy the house is not burnt up,” Temeraire said to him anxiously, as they made ready to get under way, wondering if something else perhaps had happened, if there were some damage which he could not see.
Laurence paused, and looked over his shoulder. Temeraire looked, too, and thought the house looked very like a jewel itself; the pale yellow stone glowed with light, warm and inviting, coming out of so many windows in so interesting a variety of shapes; all the dozens of intricate towers and ornaments in perfect order.
“I will never come here again,” Laurence said, and pulled himself up the harness. “Let us be away.”
It was all of a piece; Laurence was not himself at all, and Temeraire was increasingly certain they would never make matters right this way. They had taken no prizes whatsoever all their long weeks of raiding: the French soldiers had nothing but the food they had stolen, not even a cannon or a flag to be proud of, and if ever any more suitable battle offered, Laurence would insist on their flying away at once, to hide.
What battles they did have were over very quickly. Perscitia had devised a method of tearing up tall yew-trees, with bushy tops and smooth long trunks, and dragging their crowns along the ground during a diving rush. It was most convenient: the soldiers could simply be swept away by the dozens, and the branches sheltered one from the musket-fire; so there was no risk at all. The chief difficulty was to keep the men from scattering, and it felt rather unpleasant and odd to be chasing anyone so very small who would just as soon have run away; even if, as Messoria explained, they would only regroup and go stealing again. It was not the sort of fighting Temeraire had looked for, even though everyone else seemed to approve.
“Where is the rest of the army, I should damn well like to know! But at least you fellows are showing the Frogs what-for,” one stout elderly gentleman said, thumping his stick on the floor for emphasis. They had stopped a raiding party outside a village in Derbyshire, and the children were brought out to see them all. A few of the older boys, very bold, came running up to touch them; one put his hand on Temeraire’s foreleg, and then stared up large-eyed when Temeraire peered down at him in interest and said, “Hello.”
The child ran away very quickly. “Chinese children are braver,” Temeraire said to Laurence, “but I am glad that these are getting a little better, and coming to see us. I suppose it is because we are being heroic?” he added, interrogatively; he was hopeful that if this was not very interesting fighting, at least it was the sort which Government would like.
“Their parents had done better to keep them locked away,” Laurence said, without much emotion. “Will you look over the maps with me?”
So it certainly made Laurence no happier, although Temeraire did not perfectly understand why Laurence should insist on their fighting so, if he did not approve it himself. Since they had seen Wollaton Hall, however, he seemed all the more fixed upon his course.
“I fear it is the unhealthy climate and the diet of this country,” Gong Su said. “No-one could be well, eating in such an unbalanced way.”
“But we do not have much choice what we eat, while we are at war, and I cannot do anything about the climate,” Temeraire said.
“Too bad,” Demane said, rather indistinctly; he was not enjoying his first British winter, and snuffling almost continuously into his sleeve. Sipho was not suffering, or rather not in the same manner: he was regularly bundled into every spare piece of clothing which Demane could find, and now wearing three shirts, a knitted waist, two coats, a boat-cloak, a hood, and a hat crammed down upon it all, could scarcely move from where he had been put down near the fire.
Roland was sitting with her arms curled about her knees. “It is not right,” she said. “I don’t mean, we oughtn’t to be stopping them, but we ought to be letting them surrender when they see us, and taking them prisoner; although, I don’t know what we should do with them. I wish Mother were here,” she added, desolately.
Many of the other captains were also dissatisfied; the very next day Temeraire overheard Granby speaking with Laurence, in low voices, and then Laurence said, “Captain Granby, I hope you know that you may transfer to another station, at any time you wish: I would not keep anyone at this task against his will.”