Nor was it easy to step into the role of a father. All that Arthur and Charles knew of him was refracted through the public adulation that had greeted his victories. So the boys had come to know him as a distant hero and were inclined to regard him with awe, finding it difficult to accept him as merely a father. Arthur tried to spend as much time with them as possible, but that summer his public life all but consumed every day, and they became an extended part of his audience, looking on from a distance.

Gradually the celebrations died down. The foreign dignitaries returned to the Continent and minds turned towards adapting the world to peace. Less than a month later Arthur and Somerset were in Brussels inspecting the British army placed under his command before he went to take up the embassy in Paris. A handful of the officers or men were veterans and the army was too small to mount any kind of intervention in France. The King of the Netherlands, though an ally, was wary of showing too much favour to the foreign troops on his soil. His newly acquired Belgian subjects were still loyal to France, and many of them had served Bonaparte faithfully during his last campaigns. So the British soldiers were denied access to the forts and towns along the border and remained in camp around Brussels.

True to his military training, Arthur ensured that his officers were aware of the need to be ready to march at short notice. He also spent several days riding across the countryside, noting its potential uses for his army. On the last day before leaving Belgium to ride to Paris, Arthur and Somerset trotted out along the road from Brussels that passed through the forest of Soignes before heading towards the border. They reined in on a low ridge overlooking the ground to the south. Behind them the woods opened out a short distance beyond the bottom of the reverse slope.

‘See there, Somerset.’ Arthur indicated the ground behind them. ‘Enough cover for a large army.’

Somerset glanced round and nodded.

‘And there, on the forward slope: a number of walled farmhouses that could easily be fortified to break up any attacks made on the ridge.’ Arthur scrutinised the landscape for a moment longer and clicked his fingers. ‘Mark this ground.’

‘Yes, your grace.’ Somerset fumbled with his saddlebag and pulled out his map case. Unfastening it, he took out the map and found the location, then folded the map and rested it on the leather case. He picked up a pencil and held it poised. ‘There it is. Mont-St-Jean, your grace.’

‘Mont-St-Jean,’ Arthur repeated quietly.‘And that village a mile or so back, what was it called?’

‘Waterloo, your grace.’

‘Very well, make a note. Good ground to fight on,’ he said approvingly. ‘Damned good ground. Should the need ever arise.’