In this passage from Chaos Come Again, my hero does not feel worthy of his wife’s love, so begins to wonder if he has it.

Lion and Fox rode ahead of the column of troopers, driven mostly by Lion’s eagerness to return to Dorothea. According to Fox, Dorothea had been keeping herself busy in his absence. Fox was inclined to be annoyed that she had employed a couple of the camp followers to cook for them and do their laundry. Lion wished he had thought of it. Amelia was wife to a major now, and should not still be doing the work of a servant.

“She has been wandering all over the camp, making a nuisance of herself with the families,” Fox told him. “You’ll have to have a word with her, Lion.”

Lion would reserve judgement until he had talked to his wife. Which would be within the hour, for that odd shaped rock ahead marked the turn to their camp.

He resisted the urge to spur his horse on. It was too early. “I’ll talk to her,” he told Fox. And listen, too. Fox had an odd kick in his gallop when it came to socialising between the classes.

Fox fell silent for a while, and they’d passed Almeida and had the camp within sight when he rode up beside Lion again. “Dorothea and Cassiday have been getting on well,” he commented. “Nothing for you to worry about, Lion, I’m sure. Even if she has spent more time with our good major than she has with you.”

Lion repressed a sigh. Fox had been making remarks like this ever since he arrived back in Portugal. It was just Fox’s way, but Lion was finding it annoying. “I know I have nothing to worry about,” Lion told him. “My wife loves me, and I trust her.”

“Oh, good,” Fox said. “I am sure you are right to do so.”

Lion shook off a slight disquiet to wave to the camp’s sentries, who had been watching them approach. “Welcome back, Colonel,” said one of them.

“Thank you,” Lion said. “Glad to see you’re alert.”

“Always, sir,” the other man assured him. “Are we on the move, then?”

“Soon, trooper,” Lion assured him. “Soon.”

Within a week, or so Wellington intended. They were ready, rested, and well supplied. “Next year,” he predicted, “our winter quarters will be in Spain, or even France!”

Both soldiers grinned at that. “France, I say, sir,” the first one said.

Lion returned the grin and sent his horse forward again. The farmhouse was just behind the second line of sentries, on the edge of the camp. Lion dismounted outside and tossed his reins to Blythe, who had been trailing Lion and Fox, and had caught up when the two men paused to talk to the sentries.

Fox was close behind him as he opened the door, walking in to hear Michael say, “I hope you can persuade Lion to forgive me, Dorothea. I know I should have handled it better.”

It was the three of them: Dorothea, Michael and Amelia. At least she is not alone with Michael, Lion thought, and then was ashamed he had let Fox’s nonsense influence him.

Amelia saw them first and stood, with an exclamation of delight. “Major Foxton! And Colonel O’Toole, too. Dorothea, your husband is here.”

Dorothea already knew. She had turned towards him, beaming, her hands held out. He took them and pulled her towards him, kissing her in a passionate claiming that was, he acknowledged in his innermost heart, at least in part a demonstration—telling Michael and anyone else who needed to know that Dorothea was his. You are being ridiculous, Lion. The woman loves you.

Perhaps when he had her in his arms, joined to her in the most intimate of ways, his disquiet would settle. “Come,” he said. He led her to their bedchamber and shut the door.