As they had in years past, the three had arrived to spend the weeks preceding Christmas with Therese, her household, and the denizens of Little Moseley. This was the trio’s fourth such visit, and if their enduring enthusiasm was any guide, the village’s Christmas events continued to exert a powerful attraction, one Therese and the children’s parents—Therese’s younger daughter, Celia, and her husband, Rupert, Earl of Winslow—were happy to accommodate, deeming the time the youngsters spent interacting with and appreciating the ways of ordinary village folk to be an excellent preparation for their subsequent, more exalted roles.
In truth, other than during their visit to the village each year, the three had little contact with those outside their elevated social circle.
Therese watched as the three reached the end of the game and started to count up their points with a notable lack of their customary eager energy; it appeared that they were already bored. Accepting, as she had in years past, that she would be wise to find some quest into which she could direct their energies, she cast about for some task that might suit. In the first year they’d spent with her, there had been missing geese to find, while the second year’s task had been to hunt down a missing book of Christmas carols. Last year, they had assisted in locating the local Roman hoard. Unfortunately, this year, she found herself at a loss for a suitably distracting project that would interest and absorb them and keep them amused.
Admittedly, they were all a year older—Jamie, more correctly Lord James, was nearly eleven years old, while George had recently turned ten, and Lottie was an inquisitive eight years old. But from Therese’s memories of her own brood, an extra year only meant that, if left to their own devices, the adventures they might dream up and the resultant scrapes would simply be of a greater, potentially more disruptive magnitude.
The three were setting the last of the spillikins back in the box and Therese was still casting about for inspiration as to what to suggest next when the sound of gravel crunching under carriage wheels reached them.
All three youthful heads rose, rather like hounds alerting.
Therese looked at the window facing the front lawn. “That sounds like a carriage coming up our drive. Apparently, someone has come to call—I wonder who.”
Jamie, George, and Lottie leapt to their feet and rushed to peer out of the lead-paned window.
Therese smiled at the three and shook her head. She should tell them that it was really not acceptable for young gentlemen and ladies of their class to evince such rabid curiosity as to press their noses to the glass, but she had to admit, she was curious herself. She wasn’t expecting any visitors, and aside from the discouragement of the louring skies, it was a trifle late for any incidental callers.
“It’s a bang-up curricle with a pair of neat blacks between the shafts,” Jamie informed the room at large.
Of course, the boys’ eyes had gone first to the carriage and horses.
Predictably, it was Lottie who observed, albeit uncertainly, “Isn’t that Uncle Christopher?”
Therese blinked and sat up. “Christopher? Great heavens!” She’d had no inkling her third son might be in the area, much less that he would stop by.
She got to her feet as George confirmed, “Yes! That’s him!”
Knowing Christopher was a firm favorite with the children, Therese wasn’t surprised to see all three quit the window and, in a headlong rush, make for the door. “Wait, children!” They pulled up and looked at her inquiringly. “Give the poor man a chance to get inside and hand over his coat before you mob him.”
All three grinned at her and waited, transparently impatiently.
From beyond the door, the sounds of arrival drifted to their ears, then Crimmins opened the door, and Christopher strolled in.
To give them their due, the children glanced at Therese. She nodded, and like a pack of puppies let off the leash, they cheered and rushed Christopher, milling about him, clamoring, bouncing, and eagerly welcoming him and, in the next breath, asking why he was there.
Therese fought back a grin of her own as she watched Christopher deal with the now-rambunctious trio; his arrival had transformed them, reigniting their customary eagerness and keen interest in everything around them.
Christopher bent to talk to them, and she let her gaze travel over him. Although she never would have voiced the thought, in her eyes, he was the handsomest of her three sons, elegant and graceful in a way neither Monty nor Lionel had ever been. She took note of the cut of his coat, pristine linen, and subdued waistcoat and approved. Although her son-in-law Lord North was more senior, to her mind, it was Christopher who was destined to carry on the Osbaldestone legacy at the Foreign Office; if her husband, Gerald, had still been with them, she felt sure he would think the same.
Eventually, Christopher managed to satisfy his nephews and niece sufficiently for them to allow him to come forward and buss her cheek. “Good afternoon, Mama. You’re looking well.”
Therese reached up and patted his cheek. “Thank you, my dear.” She waved to the chaise facing her chair. “Do sit, and you may tell me and the children to what we owe the unexpected pleasure of your company.”
She resumed her seat and watched him settle on the chaise. The children immediately swarmed him, with Lottie wriggling into place on his left and George on his right. As befitted his position as eldest of the three, Jamie sat beside George.
Once the three had stopped squirming, Christopher looked at Therese. “Castlereagh and Powell are concerned that Napoleon’s agents might be taking too great an interest in me, and despite the current state of affairs on the Continent, they’ve ordered me away from my desk and out of London until they’ve convinced themselves the agents have been rounded up or been dissuaded sufficiently to leave the country.”
“Ah,” Therese said. “I see. They’re more concerned with ensuring they have your input for the negotiations that will come once the Corsican is removed.”
Christopher grinned. “Just so.”
“And how close are we to that moment?”
“Much closer than we were a few months ago.” Enthusiasm flowed into Christopher’s voice, and his eyes lit with the same sort of devotion to a subject that Therese often saw in his niece’s and nephews’ gazes. Without prompting, he went on, “Since October and the Battle of Leipzig and the surrender of Pamplona, the action has fallen very much our and our allies’ way. On the Peninsula, Wellington is currently dug in for winter in the foothills of the Pyrenees—meaning the Peninsula itself is now essentially entirely in allied hands. Courtesy of directives from above, Wellington had to split his command. He’s currently with the major force, including the majority of the Spanish and Portuguese armies, at the northwestern end of the Pyrenees, facing Soult, and he left a sizeable force at the southeastern end, facing Suchet. Word is that neither force will be able to move until sometime in January.”
Christopher barely paused to draw breath; Therese noted how avidly all three children, even Lottie, were hanging on his every word. “Meanwhile, on Napoleon’s eastern flank, after the Battle of Leipzig, the allied armies split. Von Bulow, Wintzingerode, and Bernadotte are commanding the Army of the North—they’re currently spread along the west bank of the Rhine between Wesel and Frankfurt and aim to eventually press toward Brussels and then sweep south. In the center of the line—roughly due east of Paris—Prince Blücher led the Army of Silesia to a position somewhere near Wurzburg. I believe he’s set his sights on taking Mainz and eventually Metz. Somewhere south of that, about level with Dijon, Prince Schwarzenberg is in command of the Army of Bohemia—word is he’s swung through Switzerland, which is not making the Swiss happy at all, but Napoleon is mustering his army somewhere between Reims and Troyes, and Schwarzenberg is looking to attack from the southeast while Blücher strikes head-on, as it were, from the east. While Wellington, the Spaniards, and the Portuguese hold the south and keep Soult and Suchet occupied, and Bellegarde is in position to challenge Eugene in Northern Italy, the others—von Bulow and Bernadotte, Blücher, and Schwarzenberg—plan to press on and drive Napoleon back into France and, this time, all the way to Paris.”