and the blue larkspur that grew again in the field of Balaclava the year after the Charge of the Light Brigade, that idiotic piece of insane bungling and suicidal heroism. She had gone back to the hospital and tried to write and tell them what it was really like, what she was doing and how it felt, the sharing and the good things, the friendships, Fanny Bolsover, laughter, courage. The dry resignation of the men when they were issued green coffee beans, and no means to roast or grind them, had evoked her admiration so deeply it made her throat ache with sudden pride. She could hear the scratching of the quill over the paper now-and the sound as she tore it up.
"Fine man," General Wadham was saying, staring into his claret glass. "One of England's heroes. Lucan and Cardigan are related-I suppose you know? Lucan married one of Lord Cardigan's sisters-what a family." He shook his head in wonder. "What duty!"
"Inspires us all," Ursula agreed with shining eyes.
"They hated each other on sight," Hester said before she had time for discretion to guard her tongue.
"I beg your pardon!" The general stared at her coldly, his rather wispy eyebrows raised. His look centered all his incredulity at her impertinence and disapproval of women who spoke when it was not required of them.
Hester was stung by it. He was exactly the sort of blind, arrogant fool who had caused such immeasurable loss on the battlefield through refusal to be informed, rigidity of thought, panic when they found they were wrong, and personal emotion which overrode truth.
"I said that Lord Lucan and Lord Cardigan hated each other from the moment they met," she repeated clearly in the total silence.
"I think you are hardly in a position to judge such a thing, madame." He regarded her with total contempt. She was less than a subaltern, less than a private, for heaven's sake-she was a woman! And she had contradicted him, at least by implication and at the dinner table.
"I was on the battlefield at the Alma, at Inkermann and at Balaclava, and at the siege of Sebastopol, sir," she answered without dropping her gaze. "Where were you?"
His face flushed scarlet. "Good manners, and regard for our hosts, forbid me from giving you the answer you deserve, madame," he said very stiffly. "Since the meal is finished, perhaps it is time the ladies wished to retire to the withdrawing room?"
Rosamond made as if to rise in obedience, and Ursula laid her napkin beside her plate, although there was still half a pear unfinished on it.
Fabia sat where she was, two spots of color in her cheeks, and very carefully and deliberately Callandra reached for a peach and began to peel it with her fruit knife and fork, a small smile on her face.
No one moved. The silence deepened.
"I believe it is going to be a hard winter," Lovel said at last. "Old Beckinsale was saying he expects to lose half his crop."
"He says that every year," Menard grunted and finished the remnant of his wine, throwing it back without savor, merely as if he would not waste it.
"A lot of people say things every year." Callandra cut away a squashy piece of fruit carefully and pushed it to the side of her plate. "It is forty years since we beat Napoleon at Waterloo, and most of us still think we have the same invincible army and we expect to win with the same tactics and the same discipline and courage that defeated half Europe and ended an empire.''
"And by God, we shall, madame!" The general slammed down his palm, making the cutlery jump. "The British soldier is the superior of any man alive!"
"I don't doubt it," Callandra agreed. "It is the British general in the field who is a hidebound and incompetent ass."
"Callandra! For God's sake!" Fabia was appalled.
Menard put his hands over his face.
"Perhaps we should have done better had you been there, General Wadham," Callandra continued unabashed, looking at him frankly. "You at least have a very considerable imagination!"
Rosamond shut her eyes and slid down in her seat. Lovel groaned.
Hester choked with laughter, a trifle hysterically, and stuffed her napkin over her mouth to stifle it.
General Wadham made a surprisingly graceful strategic retreat. He decided to accept the remark as a compliment.
"Thank you, madame," he said stiffly. "Perhaps I might have prevented the slaughter of the Light Brigade."
And with that it was left. Fabia, with a little help from Lovel, rose from