Chapter Eleven: The Letter

 On one late Spring night, a party was held at the Somerset's house. Here, several of George's friends were present, including a few highly respected officers. Helena, meanwhile, was surrounded by the company of local ladies, who conversed with her about fashions and hairstyles. 

Seeing his son and daughter with new acquaintances, Mr. Somerset smiled, hoping for a wife and husband for his son and daughter. In the past three years, he had given up hope on Basil's potential union with Helena. After all, Mr. Lee had long been dead now, and it was not like any of his children had contacted them since. While he wondered why Basil had never again reached out to his daughter, considering that they had once been so close of friends, he didn't wish to bring attention to Basil's absence from their home, knowing that it would hurt her heart. 

Matthew was a caring man. He loved both of his children. He was in tune with their feelings, knowing their minds well. He sensed that his daughter had recently been thinking of Basil Lee and pitied that the boy, the now grown man, was not with her. 

Mrs. Somerset, meanwhile, joined Helnena's presence in the drawing room where the Somerset ladies enjoyed conversations with other girls and ladies over fresh punch. 

''I love your hair, Helena,'' several adolescent girls praised, seeing her golden curls as heaven's last golden sun. 

The dialogue toward Miss Somerset was friendly and caling. Always joyful in her expressions when at parties, she was as complementing to those around her as she was to them. ''You have beautiful eyes,'' she returned to one of her cousins. 

Outside Chamberlain Estates, the conversations, nevertheless, were quite different. One officer turned to George while speaking, ''Peter is about to sail from the coast. Soon, England's best men will all be gone to war.'' 

George looked down and was embarrassed to be the only young man present who did not join in the cause for England's defense. ''Yes, I know,'' he returned. 

''You should join him. Nothing satisfies the soul of a young man more than him protecting his people.''

The words bothered George because they reflected his own sentiment. Facing the earth, his insecurity was showing before his surrounding company. 

''We are England's best,'' the same officer continued. ''You should consider being brave for England's colors.'' 

''I wish that I could go,'' George returned. ''My father has a particular fear of war. His brother died at Bunker Hill.''

''Rubbish, that is no reason to oppose war,'' one of the officers added. ''In all wars, someone dies. That's just the natural part of reality.'' 

Hearing them converse, Matthew began to pity his son's restrained heart. His son was fully grown and fully able to sail for the continent. Was it his right to stop him now?

''I encourage you to reconsider your loyalties,'' another officer spoke, intimidating George. ''Your father is not the king, and love of country should always supersede all else.'' 

Minutes later, the younger Mr. Somerset stepped away while getting a glass. He remained ignorant of the officers turning to one another with their snobbish expressions and conceited smiles. Laughing to one another, they gestured that he was not as ''glorious'' as they. 

Matthew, however, observed their reactions from a distance. He felt embarrassed for his son's sake. He was wounded seeing George tormented like this before his peers. 

''Tom,'' he said to one of his servants, ''inform my son that is needed inside.'' 

A little later, Matthew was joined by his son in one of the rooms of the house, which included an open window for the party to take place outside. 

''Father,'' George began abruptly, ''a great war resurfaces on the European continent. The French return to war, as many of us British gentlemen do nothing.''

Placing his glass down, Mr. Somerset already expected where this was going. 

''I want to join them,'' George began while stepping toward his father, as his voice became older and more powerful. 

Matthew looked afraid. In the mirror nearby, his son appeared far more older and more mature than he saw him. Nearly crying, he returned, ''Son, war is a terrible, mad experience. But I have never forbidden you of your conscience. That is why you are going, isn't it?'' 

The question was the one line that made the young man feel more uncertain again. Reserved to speak, he knew what his father was implying. Indeed, it is a far different affair to enlist for the protection of one's country than to satisfy one's vanity. 

''Son,'' Matthew added, ''there are some men in this world who will never be won no matter what medals we wear. If you are to make battle, do it for the satisfaction of your conscience, never---never, no, never, to appease what other men say about you. There are only a few years we all have to live on this earth, and not one of them is worth us trying to palliate those who demean us.'' 

George looked down. His father knew his heart better than he did. 

Mr. Somerset grabbed his son's arms with a loving grip. ''I love you, son,'' he began nearly crying. ''I know how terrible war can be. Do not live for vanity nor for pride. If we are all to die under England's colors, then we ought to die for righteousness rather than for our own ambitions. We often speak of war and peace, but every day, in itself, is war, though sometimes, it is a different war than what we last experienced. When we do not face canons and cavalry on the battlefield, it is the pressures of our society that challenge us to forsake our convictions. Here is my advice to you, however: ignore the vanities of other men and do not boldly rush into a decision either way. It takes more effort to pray and wait for God's voice than it does to make hasty moves, but one brisked move may be fatal enough to destroy our soul.'' 

His son looked down. George faced the floor, thinking of men who were dying in England. ''I confess,'' he began sadly, ''that I have thought more of war in terms of proving my heroism. If I am to draw the sword, though, it should always be for the defense of my faith, my family, and my country.'' 

''I love you, my son. Do not waste your days with the company of fools.'' 

''Father, I have long considered the state of Europe. I intend to enter the army as an officer. I ask for your blessing.'' 

The last request was the most stunning of all. Despite all else said, Mr. Somerset had been convinced that he could talk his son out of the war. This was not the case. 

George leaned over his father's desk. ''It is not just that other men should fight in my stead. I want to go to war. Please do not forbid me.'' 

Before Matthew could respond, he saw Helena's hair near the front of the glass, which bordered against the door to their room. He realized that she had overheard the conversation. ''Can we not speak of this matter on another night?'' he asked. ''Your sister is likely enjoying this party. I do not want hasty decisions to be made.''

''It is not that decision on my part,'' George replied. ''I have long considered my decision to leave.'' 

Helena stepped outside. Her face smiled as she realized that her brother would soon be leaving them for war. 

''I do not want this; do not do it,'' Matthew said. ''Many men have already gone off to war. How can you do this when your sister will weep over your absence?'' 

George looked determined. ''Father, Napolean will never be finished until England defeats him. Peter Devonsham and others have left. As of last month, the Austrians, the Prussians, and the Russians have invaded France. The French ''emperor,'' as he describes himself, will stop at nothing until all of Europe is. Now, Peter is leaving for the continent, along with many other men of my country. Here I am, standing behind walls of stone while feeling the privileges of an English gentleman, though not a hero. I wish I was with my English brothers, as they make war while others delight in dining and flattering themselves in elaborate ballrooms. 

Matthew sighed. This was not the outcome he hoped for. 

''Do not withhold your blessing from me, Father,'' George insisted strongly. ''It is a valiant endeavor that I live to fulfill.'' 

The father nodded. He conceded to his son's desire. Looking away, tears rolled from his eyes. ''My brother was shot down at Bunker Hill. I know that war can take even those we love from us. I just want your best. I have your best interest. Still, I have never denied any man from following his conscience---not even my own son. I wish you the best, and yes, I give you my blessing to become a soldier in England's army.'' 

The son embraced his father. Afraid of the war, George felt nearly as terrified of its evils as he was desirous to prove his manhood before his fellow British gentleman.

Far off in the fields, Helena wept over her brother, who left her. She understood his mind well, which disturbed her above all---she knew how heroic he could be and had always been. She did not want her brother to cast his life away simply for the purpose of impressing others who cared so little for his soul.  Long before the entrance of Peter Devonsham and his companions, she had always been close to George. Indeed, their affection for one another was as pure as the presence of the heavenly sun and as peaceful as the evening moon.  

Outside the house, the company of officers demonstrated their uniforms to all the ladies bypassing them. Then they turned to one another, clinked their glasses of wine, and thought of themselves as Arthur's knights. They were the Lancelots of their time, they said to themselves. The thought gave them satisfaction, adding to their established arrogance. 

Seeing them, neither Somerset sibling was impressed. Facing his sister, George felt more reservations about joining their company than he said. Helena, meanwhile, spoke, ''It is never wise to take the advice of others who have no concern for your soul. These officers only care for themselves now. They want George to join them so that he will become a fool, as they do. The more fools surrounded by their kin feel comfort that other men are not so wise as to reject their folly. George, I pray, will not succumb to their arrogance or to their hasty hearts, which desire recognition more than justice. No man has ever created a fool, yet even the wise will become fools if they surround themselves with those who neglect words of wisdom.'' 

He was about to speak, but his voice fell to silence as England's forces approached him. Turning to them, he made jest with their company as if they were his friends now. Breaking from his sight, his sister felt hurt; however, he was surrounding himself with those who had no love for his soul. Leaping from the earth, she walked off from their presence. 

The young woman returned to the bridge over the local stream. She felt incredibly sad. Helena sensed that her brother would choose to leave England for the Great War. With tears in her eyes, she felt afraid for him. Many men had already died in a decade-long war, which had no end in sight. Why did the innocent have to die to stop the power hunger of one French king, whose life was never risked in battle, as were thousands of other men? Why did the brave die for English gentlemen and politician who proudly boasted of their love of country but never risked their soul on the cold battlefield? 

Troubled by her considerations, Miss Somerset knew that no amount of progress would improve men's desire for power. In the modern age of advancement, men's hearts were as likely to be cruel as those centuries earlier. Only now, the weapons were more advanced, the armies vaster, and the transportation more accessible---making the present tactics of war even worse than those of the distant past. 

Pacing by the oaks, the young woman had never dreamed of war as her brother had, though his knowledge of the subject had kept her more aware than most of her sex of the dangers that war poses to society. Whether it be the Byzantines or the ancient Greeks, all great empires rise and then fall. Would this be the same for the French? Could Naolean build as long-lasting an empire as ancient Rome? Was he the new Julius Caesar? To her dismay, she saw no Brutus in sight. 

As she walked inside, she considered her brother's welfare. Her thoughts were dismissed, however, as she noticed a letter on the nearby table. Reaching for it, she also drew it open. 

My dear Somerset friends

It is unfortunate that we have been separated for so long. It was on this very night, ten years ago, that my father passed. I am sorry to say that our communication with one another has been lost since that time. Recently, though, I have considered writing to your persons. I certainly hope, Mr. Somerst, that you and your wife, along with your son, George, and daughter, Miss Helena, are all well. It may seem sudden and odd that I just now write to all of you. However, I have much to say---much to explain. I am afraid that poor ink and a small sheet of black words cannot suffice for talking face-to-face. A ball is to be held at home in north London. I hope to see your family there. If not, may we meet again somewhere else? 

Blessings,

Basil Lee

Helena finished reading the letter. While holding the paper tight between her hands, her bloodstream pumped twice as quickly as she thought about the potential return of Basil into her life. Facing the glass window behind her, her eyes observed peaceful moonlight while her heart was stirred by events long before. 

The night had ended on a different note than Miss Somerset would have expected. Now, George was about to leave for war, and Basil Lee had returned to their lives.