After the Treaty of Paris was signed, the wars were believed to be over - so of course, our Regency-era predecessors did what they do best: Gave a ball.
Before we get our dancing shoes on, here's your recap
The Duchess of Richmond's Ball:
It’s June 15, 1815, and the glittering high society of Brussels is dressed to the nines, ready to revel and dance the night away. The hostess of the evening? None other than Charlotte Lennox, the Duchess of Richmond, who’s throwing what she certainly hopes will be the ball of the year - no, the century! Her husband, Charles Lennox, Duke of Richmond, is in charge of the city’s reserve forces, just in case Napoleon decides to drop by unannounced.
But the fighting's all over… right?
Elizabeth Longford called this soirée "the most famous ball in history," which is quite a title but very well-deserved. It was certainly memorable, as balls go.
The Duke of Wellington and his close staff rolled into the ball sometime between 11 p.m. and midnight. All the big shots of his army were there, with only three generals absent. According to Lady Georgiana, the Duchess’s daughter, things were looking splendid. The ballroom was decorated to impress, with rose-patterned wallpaper and all the charm of a coach-builder’s former garage. She even scored a miniature portrait of Wellington himself during dinner (talk about party favours - but beware, Wellington was more Wickham than Darcy when it came to women).
Meanwhile, Georgiana's sister, Lady Louisa, had front-row seats to the Gordon Highlanders busting out some Scottish reels for their foreign guests. It was a magnificent night - all music and dancing and flirting fun with the hottest duke in the room, until...
Not so fast, ladies:
By the time supper kicks off around 1 a.m., things were already heating up. Lieutenant Henry Webster, an aide to the Prince of Orange, shows up with a message for the Prince, who promptly hands it to Wellington.
And what does Wellington do? Cool as a cucumber, he tucks it into his pocket without even glancing at it. After all, he's sitting with sisters (yes, the duchess's daughters - told you he was a cad) and his wine is ready...
Eventually, he reads the message, which had been written at 10 p.m. Turns out, the Prussians had been forced to retreat from Fleurus by the French, who had now crossed the Sambre River. Wellington couldn't quite tell the size of the French forces from this message, but he knew it wasn’t good news. Wellington continues his conversation like he's just been informed about the weather.
After a while, Wellington instructs the Prince to get back to his headquarters right away, and after giving out a few more orders, he settles down to supper between Lady Frances Wedderburn-Webster and Lady Georgiana Lennox. But the Prince soon returns with more updates, whispering to Wellington that another dispatch has arrived from Baron Rebecque. It says the French are now moving up the main road to Brussels, practically on their doorstep at Quatre Bras.
Harshing His Grace's buzz:
Wellington again tells the Prince to get back to his HQ, but still, he stays at the table, making casual conversation for another 20 minutes. Then, as if nothing is amiss, he finally announces he's off to bed. He stands, leans over, and asks the Duke of Richmond if he has a good map handy.
The Duke of Richmond takes him into his dressing room, and with the door shut, Wellington doesn't hold back. “Napoleon has humbugged me, by God,” he says. “He’s gained a whole day’s march on me. I’ve ordered the army to gather at Quatre Bras, but we won’t hold him there. If it comes down to it, I’ll have to fight him right here.” He traces his thumb over the spot marked 'Waterloo'.
This whole conversation is barely over when the Duke of Richmond emerges to spread the news and farewell his family. And with that, it’s all hands on deck. Word spreads like wildfire, and officers scramble to pack up and rejoin their regiments, some leaving in full ballroom attire. (It's a fact that some of Wellington's officers were later found on the battlefield, still wearing evening dress.)
Lady Georgiana records that she tried helping her brother pack but later found herself back in the ballroom, where she noted with a slight eye roll that some "heartless" young ladies were still happily dancing. The Duke of Brunswick offers her a charming farewell speech, assuring her that his men shall distinguish themselves in battle after such an 'honour.' Not long after, news came to her that he and several other friends were casualties of the Battle of Quatre Bras.
Final Goodbyes:
Another guest, Katherine Arden, recalls that "Everyone was in full-blown panic mode. Friends and families were openly weeping, and it was dawning on us all that this might be the last time we’d see each other.”
She and her family didn’t stick around too long but did stay just long enough to witness Wellington, usually the very model of cool, lose his composure for a second which apparently frightened the English ladies even more than the spectre of the French army.
The irony of the Duchess’s ball - its glamour and good times marred by the shadow of an impending battle - became immortalised in the art and literature of the era. Lord Byron himself penned these lines capturing the contrast:
"Ah! then and there was hurrying to and fro,
And gathering tears, and tremblings of distress,
And cheeks all pale, which but an hour ago
Blushed at the praise of their own loveliness…”
In fiction, Thackeray couldn’t resist weaving the ball into Vanity Fair, and countless others, from Sir Walter Scott to modern-day novelists and filmmakers, have used it as a dramatic backdrop. I am, indeed, one of these 'countless others' - see below:
Extract from The Christmas Salon:
“I cannot blame you for doing as you have done, sir.”
The General shrugged. There was something else. Henry could feel it. Tension gathered in the room, like clouds before a lightning strike. Perhaps I ought to duck?
“I ought not to have sent her away,” his godfather repeated. “She deserved - deserves - better from me, from all the family. And now—” The great man’s voice shuddered to a halt.
“What is it, General?” Henry prompted.
“There are rumours that France remains unsafe.”
Henry shrugged. “Bonaparte is secure. The Republic is dead, and there are always rumours.”
Firm lips shook as the General delivered his next piece of news. “I have intelligence of advanced plans to aid Bonaparte’s escape.”
“Escape?” Henry whispered, shock seeping slowly through him. He sank into the nearest chair, feeling as weary as the General was wont to look.
“Then the wars are not over?” He couldn't care that his words sounded like a plea. He so badly did not want this news to be true.
“I had it from a fellow aboard The Inconstant. A more aptly named vessel you could not find.” The General’s barked laugh bore no resemblance to humour.
“How likely is such an event, and what might he do?”
The General shrugged. “What else? If he's successful, he'll march on Paris and we must
return to war.”
“Return to war,” Henry echoed, then shot to his feet. “If these rumours prove true, is it at all certain Paris remains open to us?”
“Nothing is certain concerning France at the moment.” His godfather’s defeated tone was so unlike the commander who’d directed battalions that Henry feared for the man’s health. If Louisa did not return to Paris, she could be anywhere, in which case...in which case, she is truly lost to me.
It didn't bear thinking about. He remained standing, staring into his empty glass. He wasn’t
one for heavy drinking, but he was sorely tempted this night.
A moment later, the General seized his arm. “Go while you can, Henry. Bring her home. Bring Louisa home. If she is caught up in this...” The General’s fists curled, but his booming voice fell to a desperate whisper. “I shan’t forgive myself if she is somehow caught up in this. Injured because of my—” He could not finish, extending his shaking hands in a plea towards Henry’s own.
“We have a direction,” Henry replied firmly, clasping his godfather’s palm. “If Louisa has
removed to Paris, I shall find her, Sir.”
More next week - because it’s almost time to take him down (you know who I mean, right?)
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