Amanda's Story

Battles Won and Lost

When the mourning period stretched into its third week, another blow befell the family. News had reached England that the Battle of Trafalgar had been won, but Admiral Lord Nelson had been lost. Though it was a decisive victory that saved the nation from invasion, over four hundred British seamen had died. The nation mourned the admiral and waited for his body to arrive for the state funeral. The Pearces waited for news of the Swiftsure, the ship whereupon their son, Bernard, was serving as a boy marine. It seemed hopeful that he should survive; the Swiftsure had entered late into the battle and engaged the French ship of Achille to relieve their sister ship, Belleisle. Achille was then battered by broadsides until fires reached her magazine and she blew up. The explosion marked the end of the battle. Though their leader had perished from a French sniper's bullet, the unconquered navy had deterred Bonaparte's plans and a sense of safety ensued.

As the family waited for official word, worry grew and cheer began to be absent from the vicarage. Marian took to being absent as well. Rachel had looked for her all morning: she was not in the house, in the garden, or by the church.

"Amanda, have you not seen Marian?" Rachel asked, coming in to the morning room. Amanda shook her head and turned back to the window.

Amanda had sat there in the morning for the past several days. She didn't do much—sometimes she read, or stitched, but usually just looked out the window onto the garden, twisting the ring on her finger. Maman was always in the room with her, but they didn't talk.

Maman read every paper she could, finding accounts of Trafalgar and seeking any tidbit of information. When nothing new could be discovered, she turned to her correspondence and the reckoning of the household accounts. It had been rather trying to cancel all the orders for the wedding, since sending word by post took so long. Once all the dressmaker orders in Northallerton were canceled, there were just the few left that Dabney had sent ahead to London. Word had arrived that Madame Lanchester would not cancel one of the orders, seeing as silk was so difficult to get from France and the bodice had already been cut. Maman had simply asked her to lay it aside, and perhaps she'd get Rachel measured and use it for her at a later date.

Rachel shook her head as Maman went over her account book one more time. It was pointless, in her mind, to add it up again and again. Clearly Maman had overspent and now there were things that could not be un-bought. She went back through the hallway and out into the yard. She looked over the hedge to the farm, over the stone wall to the haymow, and over the gooseberry canes towards Burley Park.

No one was about. In fact, in the past week, they'd had no visitors at all. If they'd had a contagious plague, they perhaps would have had a few neighbors call out of compassion. But as it was, it seemed grief was so uncomfortable that avoidance was the way most of the village dealt with the subject. They sent cards and would visit later.

So Amanda, Rachel, and Marian spent quiet mornings waiting for letters, then pursued art or reading (but not music—Maman had a melodramatic fit and covered the pianoforte in black crepe). They spent afternoons walking or riding, encouraging Amanda to get some fresh air. In the evenings Father often read to them. They would smile tightly, say good night, and all go to bed with a heavy sigh. They hoped it would change overnight, and woke the next day to find nothing different. The same black mood clung to the occupants of the vicarage, like the crepe on the piano, muffling their ability to hear the beat of life moving on around them.

Rachel didn't blame Marian for bursting out of the confining attitude of their house. She just wished she had mentioned where she was going, or taken a servant with her. Respectable girls didn't roam alone. Now evening was drawing nigh, and she went inside to tea.