Written in My Heart by Caroline Linden

Chapter One
    Reports of the great victory reached London on Wednesday, when Major Percy laid a trio of captured French eagles at the Prince Regent’s feet. The official dispatch appeared in the London Gazette as an Extraordinary edition on Thursday. Ned Tompkins, the banker’s clerk, brought copies with him from London the next day. On Saturday the whole village of Caxby-on-Avon gathered to hear it read aloud, to many huzzahs for the triumph near the town of Waterloo, in Belgium. Services on Sunday were celebratory, in joy at Napoleon’s resounding defeat, but solemn, as if knowing the joy must soon be overshadowed by the news of who had fallen in the battle.
    On Monday morning Jane Barton arrived at Mrs. Lynch’s dressmaking shop early. She let herself in with a word of greeting to her employer and went up the stairs to the workroom, Puck trotting at her heels as usual. She hung up her shawl and bonnet, and moved her chair from its prime position by the sunny back windows to a place near the front window overlooking the street. Puck stood by the hearth for a moment, his head cocked, then came to sniff the floor near the moved chair.
    Mrs. Lynch noticed at once. She stopped short when she came up the stairs with the work for the day, but she said nothing, just brought the sketches for the riding habit Mrs. Bellows had ordered the previous day over to the wide worktable. Tamsin, the other seamstress, came up a few minutes later, and aside from an indrawn breath, also made no comment. Millie, the young apprentice, wasn’t so tactful when she bounded up the stairs.
    “Jane,” she exclaimed. “What happened to your chair?”
    Jane kept her voice calm even as her cheeks heated. “Nothing. I merely moved it.”
    “To the front? The light is dreadful there.”
    “It’s not that bad,” said Tamsin. “Will this jacket have the gold braid, Mrs. Lynch?”
    “It’s horrible by the front windows,” Millie persisted. “Puck, you agree with me, don’t you?” She leaned down to offer her fingers to the bulldog, who came trotting over to lick them.
    “Does he agree with me that you’re late today, Millicent Parker?” Mrs. Lynch fixed a stern eye on her. “Jane may set her chair anywhere she likes. And you may get on with your duties—you’d best be smart about it, too, if you want to be home for your dinner.”
    Millie gave Puck one more pat on the head and heaved a gusty sigh. “Yes, Mrs. Lynch.” She hung up her bonnet and began setting out the spools of thread and other supplies Jane and Tamsin would need.
    “We must have this completed by Thursday.” Mrs. Lynch returned to the habit. “But Lady Finch will be after me about her daughter’s trousseau, so Jane will do the cutting this morning, then you, Tamsin, can do the stitching. Mind you don’t cut it too narrow; Mrs. Bellows likes her pudding, and we’ll be letting it out before the end of the summer, mark my words. Millie can help with the skirt.”
    “Oh, may I?” Millie peered around Mrs. Lynch’s elbow, her thin face alight with interest. “Is it to be out of that bolt of blue wool?”
    “Indeed. Go fetch it, if you can’t restrain yourself.” Millie scampered off, clattering down the stairs. Puck followed her, his stubby tail wagging happily.
    Mrs. Lynch paused a moment beside Jane as Tamsin went to fetch the pattern measures. “Have you heard anything—anything at all? Perhaps Mr. Campbell….”
    Jane shook her head. She concentrated on fastening her pin cushion around her left wrist.
    “Well, it’s much too soon,” said her employer comfortingly. “It’s not even been a week, and I daresay the army has a great many things to do besides forward the post.”
    Jane smiled, trying not to think that one of the things the army was busy doing was compiling casualty lists. For the hundredth time since news of the great battle reached Caxby, she said a quick prayer that Ethan Campbell’s name would not be on any of those lists. She didn’t