"Come back soon," Amy added. "Molly and I haven't gotten the trick of drawing perspective yet. We need more lessons."

"I'll do my best, but now I must go. Take care." He touched his forehead in a salute and turned back to his company.

Catherine and the others withdrew to one side and watched as order emerged from what had seemed hopeless confusion. Soon Picton's troops were striding away, the heavy tramp of boots reverberating through the park.

The division included the Highland regiments that had entertained the Duchess of Richmond's guests. The soldiers marched so smoothly that the plumes on their bonnets scarcely stirred. The bagpipes that had seemed exotic in the ballroom had a fierce lightness as they sang the kilt-clad Scots to war.

Following in the division's wake, the three women retraced their steps to the Rue de la Reine, picking their way around mounds of equipment and lines of heavily laden baggage animals. As the city emptied of troops, the citizens of Brussels returned to their beds. By the time they reached home, fatigue had drained away Catherine's nervous energy. Perhaps now, she thought wearily, they would all be able to rest.

But sleep eluded her. She rose heavy-eyed in midmorning. In Spain, she had usually been close enough to the action to have some idea what was happening. Here there was no news, and it made the day one of the longest of her life.

Sensing the tension, the children were quarrelsome. The servants gathered in knots to talk in hushed whispers, and one of the Belgian maids asked for her wages so she could return to her family in a village north of the city.

As Catherine and Anne ate a late luncheon, the distant rumble of cannons rolled ominously across the countryside. Battle had been joined. They stared at each other, not daring to speak, before silently returning to their bowls of soup.

When they could bear the inactivity no longer, they went up onto the city ramparts, taking all three children and Anne's pretty young Scottish nursemaid. Hundreds of others were gathered on the walls, staring to the south. Rumors were flying, but of solid news there was none.

At ten o'clock that night, a sharp rap on the door brought Catherine and Anne at a run. Anne swung the door open and found her husband's dust-covered batman, Will Ferris, standing on the steps. She went white. "Oh, my God! Is Charles-"

"No, ma'am!" he said swiftly. "Just the opposite. The master sent me to say that he and Captain Melbourne are fine."

As Catherine ushered Ferris toward the kitchen, he continued, "There's been a nasty fight against Marshal Ney at Quatre-Bras, but the cavalry didn't arrive until the very end, so we were hardly touched. They say the duke was almost captured by a party of French lancers. Had to leap a ditch full of Gordon Highlanders to save himself." Ferris shook his head. "The Highland regiments were cut to pieces, poor devils."

Catherine laid out cold meats and ale, thinking sorrowfully of the gay young Scots who had danced the night before. How many still lived? "What was the outcome of the battle?"

Ferris shrugged cynically. "I don't know if either side won, but at least we didn't lose. They say Napoleon himself went after the Prussian army. Blucher had more men, so if he and his lads did well, the French may be retreating by now."

"I hope you're right," Anne said fervently. "What about the Rifle Brigade? And Colonel Kenyon's regiment?"

"The Rifles were in the thick of it, but Captain Wilding came to no harm." Ferris paused for a swig of ale. "Nor did the 105th-they were held in reserve and never got into the fight."

Probably that was because of the regiment's inexperience-Catherine hoped the 105th would continue to be used as reserves rather than frontline troops. Perhaps Michael and his men would find that disappointing, but she would not.

After eating, the batman excused himself to visit Elspeth McLeod, Anne's young Scottish nursemaid. The two were courting. He spent half an hour with his sweetheart, then saddled up again for the long ride back to the army.

Catherine's spirits were heavy when she went to bed. It would be wonderful to believe that the French had been broken, but in her heart, she knew the worst was still to come.

The proof of the previous day's battle came the next morning, when Molly looked out an upper window and called excitedly, "Mama, there are wounded soldiers in he street!"

Her cry brought most of the household running. From he vantage point of the upper window, they could see into tie Rue de Namur. Injured men who had walked through the night were beginning to stumble into the city through le Namur Gate.

White-lipped, Catherine said, "I'll get my medical kit."

"They'll want water." Anne looked down at her children, who were pressed against her skirts. "Molly, it was very clever of you to see the soldiers. Jamie, may I borrow your wagon so I can take out buckets of water?" He nodded bravely.

Elspeth said, "I'll come, too, ma'am. I have six brothers,I know something of fixing injuries." The other servants also volunteered to do what they could.

Anne ordered her children to stay in the house with the cook. Older and more determined, Amy did not bother to ask if she could help; she simply accompanied Anne with the little water wagon. Catherine considered telling her to go home, but decided against it. Her daughter was no stranger to painful sights.

By the time their party reached the Rue de Namur, the street had turned into an impromptu hospital. Besides the walking wounded, wagonloads of injured men were rumbling through the gate. Citizens of Brussels and foreigners poured from their homes to work side by side to alleviate the suffering in any way they could. Some helped wounded men to their billets while others provided blankets, straw, and parasols to shield men from the hot sun. Catherine saw a nun and a girl who looked like a streetwalker aiding a Belgian boy who had collapsed against the railings of a house. The pharmacies freely gave away supplies.

Catherine's Peninsular experience stood her in good stead as she cleaned and dressed less serious wounds. After the horrible suspense of the previous day, it was a relief to be able to do something. Since Amy was a reliable dispenser of water, Anne fetched a notebook and took last message and mementos from dying men who wanted word sent to their families.

Catherine was picking fragments of fabric and gold lace from a gory, mangled arm when a familiar Scottish voice said, "Trust you to be in the middle of this, lassie."

She looked up to see the prematurely white hair and blood-stained shirt of her surgeon friend, Ian Kinlock. "And trust you to come all the way from London for the chance to see more carnage," she said unsteadily. "Thank heaven you're here, Ian. This sergeant needs more than I can do."

Kinlock knelt beside her and examined the wound. "You're in luck, Sergeant. There are two balls in your arm, but no bones are broken, so amputation isn't necessary. Catherine, hold him while I take the balls out." He pulled instruments from his bag.

Catherine braced the injured right arm. The sergeant gave one anguished gasp and sweat covered his face, but he scarcely moved during the long minutes it took to locate and extract the balls. When the probing was over, Catherine sponged the sergeant's face with cool water while Ian bandaged the wound.

"It's grateful I am to you both," the sergeant said with a rich Irish brogue. He pushed himself to a sitting position with his good arm. "If you'll help me up, sir, I'll be on my way."

"You'll do, Sergeant," Ian said as he complied with the request. "Are you going to the hospital tent over by the gate?"

The Irishman shook his head. "I've a billet where they'll take care of me. Don't understand a word they say, but they treat me like a prince." Before the sergeant had taken ten steps, an elderly priest came to help him to his destination.

Noticing that it had darkened, Catherine glanced up to see heavy clouds covering the sky. The wind was rising and lightning flickered on the horizon. "Lord, a thunderstorm is coming. That's all we need."

"And coming fast. A good thing the hospital tents are up." Ian repacked his instruments. "That will give these poor fellows some shelter."

Catherine looked around and found that the street was almost empty. The first wave of wounded had been tended or moved under cover. Anne had left half an hour earlier, gray with fatigue.

The lightning crackled much closer, illuminating the street with garish brilliance. As Catherine stared numbly at the fat raindrops splashing onto her stained skirt, the surgeon asked, "How long have you been working out here?"

"I don't know." She wiped water from her brow. "Hours."

"Go home," he ordered. "You can come to the hospital tent when you've had some rest."

"Will you be working there?"

"Aye." He smiled wryly. "Sleeping there, too, I expect."

"Stay with Anne and me." Catherine pointed out her house. "We have ample space, and you'll rest better than in the tent."

"I'll take you up on that, most gratefully."

Lightning blazed across the sky, followed immediately by a deafening roll of thunder. As the rain intensified to a torrent, Catherine grabbed her medical kit and went to collect Amy.

Her daughter loved storms, and now she was staring aptly at the sky. "Wellington weather, Mama," she said,raising her voice above the thunder. "There's going to be a battle."

"Very likely." Catherine took Amy's hand. "But now let's go inside before we drown!"