River Of Fire by Mary Jo Putney

filled the awkward silence by saying quickly, "My father has been having trouble with this picture, Captain Wilding. He thought you might have some useful insights. It's the last of his Waterloo series. Wellington posed for it himself."
    Wilding turned to look at the painting. Because she was watching him closely, she saw the skin over his cheekbones tauten. Though she'd initially thought him cool and passionless, she was learning to recognize subtle signs of emotion.
    "Wellington ordering the general advance," the captain murmured. "Rather unnerving to see it again."
    "You saw him give the signal to attack?" she asked.
    "Yes, though I was much farther away, of course." He studied the canvas. "Sir Anthony, do you want this to be a classical, idealized portrait of a hero, or a realistic rendition of the actual battle?"
    Her father opened his mouth to reply, then closed it again. "Wellington is a great man, and I want viewers to see that greatness," he said finally. "I want this picture to live in their minds forever. Two hundred years from now, I want people to speak of Seaton's Wellington."
    "Perhaps your rendition is too classical and restrained to create that sort of power," the captain said slowly. "The duke and his horse look as neat as if they were trotting across a parade ground. Waterloo wasn't like that. After a day of fierce fighting, soldiers and their mounts were exhausted and filthy with mud and sweat and black powder. Even as far away as I was, I could see lines of strain and fatigue in the duke's face."
    "What was his expression like?" Sir Anthony asked.
    Wilding thought before answering. "The sun was low in the sky and a ray of light struck his face as he swept his hat forward. His expression can't really be described—but remember how many years he had been fighting to reach this point. In Spain, he faced overwhelming odds for years on end. Inadequate supplies, a much smaller army than the enemy. Unbreakable will has put victory within his grasp—yet he has seen many of his dearest friends die. The steel inside the man should be visible."
    "Stupid of me to draw the duke as he appeared in the studio," Sir Anthony muttered to himself. "I should have tried to imagine him as he was then." He gave the captain a quick glance. "Is there anything else I should consider."
    Wilding gestured toward the background of the painting. "The soldiers are as clearly visible as on a fine day in May. That's wrong—the battlefield was a stinging hell of black powder smoke. Sometimes it was impossible to see a hundred yards away."
    Sir Anthony's eyes narrowed in thought as he studied his painting. "I can use transparent gray glazes to get that effect. But Wellington is the key. The steel. I must show the steel."
    The captain asked Rebecca, "What pictures are in the series besides this and the cavalry charge in the dining room?"
    She went to a portfolio and removed two drawings. "The finished paintings aren't here, but these sketches are fairly accurate. This first one shows the allied regiments lined up along the ridge as far as the eye can see."
    Wilding came to look over her shoulder. She was intensely aware of the warmth of his body, mere inches behind her. This man had been through the hells of the Peninsula and Waterloo, and survived. Like Wellington, he must be pure steel within. She asked, "Where were you positioned?"
    He pointed. "About there, a little left of center. I spent most of the day skirmishing around a sand pit."
    "For me, what makes the painting is these men in the foreground." Rebecca indicated the figures of a young ensign and a grizzled sergeant who were guarding their regimental colors. Above them, the Union Jack curled and snapped in the wind, defying the French army that stood in silent ranks on the opposite side of the valley.
    "It's always the particular that moves us, not the general," the captain said reflectively. "A youth on the verge of his first battle who wonders if his courage will be equal to