Thomas stood at the open windows at the back of the room, looking down on the hotel gardens below him as the summer light began to fade. He gave the tumbler in his hand a gentle swirl and raised the glass to his lips, enjoying the burn of the whiskey as it sailed down his throat. He took a deep breath of fresh air, let out a  sigh and stole one last admiring glance at the view before turning back to face the room.

Julia was sitting at the dressing table, leaning slightly towards the mirror whilst applying her mascara. Thomas admired the curve of her neck and the strength of her concentration as she steadily teased her long eyelashes into shape. She looked stunning and he stayed exactly where he was, enjoying the opportunity to admire her beauty. Mental snapshots of the perfect future they would enjoy together tumbled easily into his mind; the wedding next summer, settling into their own home somewhere in Hampshire, starting a family, Christmas celebrations and weekend trips to see his sisters. He forced himself to let the visions slide away, focus on the moment and try and capture exactly how what it was that he was feeling.  It was more an absence of emotions than a burst. He felt lighter than he ever had done, almost…..still. It was glorious.

His fiancée put down her mascara and turned to face him, fixing him with her wide brown eyes. She gave him a faint smile and said “I think it’s time we got going darling”.

***

Thomas collected his change from the barman, picked up the two glasses and turned back towards the ballroom, scanning the crowd and seeing if Julia was still where he had left her. They had been talking to an officer from the Blues and Royals and his wife about the soldier who had fainted in the Trooping the Colour ceremony earlier that day, speculating as to whether there would be a single day in the rest of his time with the army when the incident wasn’t alluded to by one of his fellow soldiers. They’d just made a toast in honour of the unknown soldier, ‘to perseverance’, which had prompted Thomas to head to the bar for a refill.

He spotted the officer and his wife and started to pick his way through the throng towards them. He couldn’t see Julia with them, but imagined that she had probably stepped away to powder her noise. Thomas had nearly reached them when a short, balding man with a bushy mustache stepped into his path and addressed him.

“Hello there. You’re Thomas Wolter aren’t you? I knew your father. I’m Eddy de Rothschild. I’d shake your hand but it looks as if you have your hands full.”

After delivering this somewhat assertive introduction, de Rothschild fixed with Thomas with an expectant stare, which was thankfully softened by a visage that seemed in constant danger of breaking out into a warm, mischievous grin.

Thomas dipped his head in a nod and replied “Major de Rothschild, good evening. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You met my father in Italy I understand?”

de Rothschild nodded enthusiastically. “Yes, that’s right. Our paths crossed very briefly, but we had a couple of memorable evenings together. I was in the Jewish Brigade and your father with the Marines of course. I understand you’ve followed in his footsteps. Made quite an impact at the Naval College I hear?”

“Well, I wouldn’t say that..”

“No need for the modesty Wolter. The way I heard it, you’re one of the finest tacticians to have come through that college since….well…your father probably. So then, I expect you’ve got your eye on the very top. Bigger and brighter things for you no doubt?”

Thomas issued a nervous laugh. “I don’t think so Sir. I’m not sure naked ambition is really for me. I think I’d prefer a quiet life. Perhaps return to the College as an instructor one day.”

de Rothschild fixed Thomas with another enquiring stare. “Hmmm…yes, well I expect you’re keen to settle down with that exceptionally beautiful woman I saw on your arm earlier. I better let you give that drink to her I suppose. Still, if you ever fancy moving into banking, do let me know. Good to have met you.”

“And you Major. Thank you.”

The older man glided off towards the bar as Thomas resumed his search. The officer and his wife had now disappeared as well and there was still no sign of Julia. He made his way through the collection of tables that circled the dance floor, trying to pick her out. He’d made nearly a full revolution of the ballroom when he glanced up towards the large graceful staircase that curved round the end of the room and spotted her. She was halfway up, holding on to the bannister and locked in what looked like a heated exchange with another woman. Thomas headed towards them and as he got closer, he recognised the other woman as Veryan, the wife of Jeremy Gore, who had fought with his father in Borneo. Veryan appeared to be making her point quite forcibly to Julia, who was looking increasingly upset.

As Thomas reached the bottom of the stairs Julia spotted him. Her eyes widened, her jaw dropped and she looked as if she was descending into panic. Without a single word she immediately turned around and fled up the stairs. Thomas jogged up the stairs and paused in front of Veryan. Her face gave nothing away. She looked straight at Thomas and said ‘you need to speak to her’. Thomas gave no reply and set off in search of his fiancée.

***

He caught up with her in Hyde Park, next to the statue of Achilles. Julia was no slouch, she had represented her county in athletics, but he would have been able to stop her from fleeing the hotel and running down Park Lane if it hadn’t been for the collision with the waiter. By the time he’d extricated himself from the mess, she had built a very healthy lead.

Thomas had to perform what was almost a rugby tackle to get her to stop. He wrapped both arms round her and dragged her back to a standstill as she began to cry, shaking with the force of her sobbing. He turned her and she collapsed into his embrace, burying her face into his chest. He tried to sooth her, repeating her name and stroking her hair as he kept her warm as best he could. When her crying began to ease, he thought it might be alright to question her. He tried to sound as calm as he could, keeping the fear and anger out of his voice.

“What did Veryan say to you?”

Julia lifted her head from his chest and ever so slowly began to withdraw from his embrace. Her face was streaked with mascara and she was still out of breath, but the panic had gone. She almost looked composed.

“She….she gave me an ultimatum.”

Thomas felt his pulse began to quicken, his temperature rise.

“What ultimatum?”

They were still holding hands, but no other parts of their bodies were now touching each other.

“She said that if I didn’t tell you about the man she saw me with two weeks ago, then she would have to.”

Thomas let Julia’s hands drop. They fell to her side as the distance between them began to grow.

‘I’m sorry Thomas. I’m so so sorry.”

Thomas stared at her as she continued to walk away from him, step by step. He had no words for her. His mind was completely blank and for the second time that day, he felt absolutely still. But this was the worst kind of still imaginable. Complete emptiness.

“I’ve got to go Thomas, I’m sorry.” Julia turned and began to walk into the soft summer night, towards the Serpentine. Thomas’s mouth opened and he tried to say something, but no words came out. He could only watch as she walked away from him.

When she had disappeared into the distance, Thomas turned and leant against the statue of Achilles, resting his forehead on the cool bronze for a few moments. Then he stood back upright, adjusted his tie and walked back towards the hotel.

The boy held up the figurine into the faint light of his bedroom and admired the intricate detail of the brightly coloured soldier, perched on top of his horse. The  blue tunic, tall red helmet and intricate golden aiguillettes marked the soldier out as a member of the 10^th Royal Hussars. This was the cavalry who brought terror to Napoleon’s forces at the climax of the Battle of Waterloo and this was the pride of the boy’s collection of toy soldiers.

He placed the figure back on the floor in front of him, returned to the bosom of his lead regiment and once more part of a sprawling mass of small figures that made up the boy’s careful recreation of that famous battle.  He worked on his hands and knees, making endless tiny adjustments to the positions of regiments, platoons, units and individuals. Here an advance by the Prussian forces on the right flank, there another retreat from the Emperor’s Old Guard .

It was a crucial point in the battle. Wellington’s forces had held firm against wave after wave of French bombardment and with the gains made by Blücher’s Prussian forces, it was now time to launch the counter-attack, with the Hussars at the vanguard.  It was the boy’s favourite part of the battle, one that he had played out endlessly on the carpet of his bedroom floor.

Rapid, devastating counter attack.  A tactic at the very heart of Wellington’s military philosophy and one that made him the favourite general of the boy’s father. Understand the terrain, maintain your supply lines, keep a rigid discipline and stay patient. Let your opponent wear themselves out with wave after wave of attack that flounder on your perfectly structured defensive lines. Then, when you can sense the desperation begin to take hold, you attack with speed and precision, placing your foot on the throat of the enemy and keeping it there.

These were his father’s words and the boy loved to listen to them. They had been repeated to him often, but he never tired of them, no matter if they were uttered whilst they sat hunched over a game of chess or floated across the dinner table as his mother tried in vain to change the subject of their conversation. These were the times he felt closest to his father, when he saw this distant and reserved man become alive, with a fire creeping into his ice-blue eyes as he spoke of Wellington’s genius. Sometimes, if the two of them were alone, he might even leap onto his feet and start acting out some crucial element of a military engagement, thrusting imaginary swords or raising a pretend bugle to his lips. These performances would always end with his father remembering himself and stifling a few giggles before climbing back into his more composed skin, the one that considered every movement. Before the transformation was complete, he’d often share a rare bit of physical contact with his son, a squeeze of the shoulder or a ruffle of the hair perhaps.

His father would be home soon. He was away in North Korea, with the 41 Commando unit of the Royal Marines and was stationed near Wonsan, a small city which the boy had marked with a drawing pin on his map of the world. Next week, his mother had said, and then he could show his father the artillery regiment, the latest addition to his army of lead soldiers. If he was lucky, his father might bring him back some mementos, a flag perhaps or a piece of shrapnel, something to add to the small collection of treasured items that lay on top of his wooden bureau, by the side of his bed. Not long now.

He had turned his attention to the fringes of the battle, making some small adjustments to the retreating French forces, when he heard the door of his bedroom open. He turned his head and saw his mother standing in the doorway. She was very still and she looked very pale.

She spoke in a very calm voice and held onto the doorknob tightly enough to make her knuckles turn even whiter than her face.

“Your father isn’t coming home. He was killed in a battle today. The funeral will be next week and we will talk about the arrangements tomorrow. You’re the man of the house now, Thomas and you’re going to have to grow up.”

His mother closed the door behind her as she walked out. The boy sat quietly on his knees for a time, staring at the collection on top of his bureau, which included a picture of his father in full uniform. Then he turned back to his soldiers and began to put them back into their box, one by one.