Brussels
Colonel Christopher Brandon looked about the staff room, and despite the riot of colors of the uniforms and the brightness of the medals adorning the tunics, he could not say he was overly impressed. True, there were some veterans of the Peninsula—the popular Lord Hill and the foul-mouthed Sir Thomas Picton, both extremely talented—but Christopher did not know most of the others. Young Prince Willem of Orange was certainly brave enough; he had proven that in Spain. However, was that enough for a corps command? At least the prince’s chief of staff, Rebecque, seemed to know his business. The other officers would do, but Brandon was shocked at the duke’s choice of cavalry commander—Uxbridge, of all people!
“Gentlemen,” the Duke of Wellington said after giving a report of his May 3 meeting in Tirlemont with the Prussian commander, Field Marshal Prince Gebhard von Blücher, “we believe that Bonaparte will not attempt anything until July at the earliest. By then, our troops will have linked up with Blücher and his 80,000 Prussians. Keep your eyes on the west; undoubtedly, Bonaparte will try to cut us off from the coast and our line of supply. The town of Hal is the key. Prince Fredrick and General Colville will be responsible for its protection. Are there any questions?”
“Fear not, my lord!” cried the Prince of Orange. “Let Napoleon try to invade! We shall crush him!”
Brandon rolled his eyes.
“Thank you, Your Highness,” responded Wellington, as if the young man had just given a report of the weather. “That is all, gentlemen.”
Brandon saw Major Denny leave with Canning, Gordon, Stanhope, and the other aides-de-camp, all young, spirited, and talented. He dawdled, however, until the room was nearly empty and he was able to catch Wellington’s eye.
“Yes, Brandon—something on your mind?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the colonel. “It has been years since I have last served, and… uh… I was wondering—”
Wellington gave him a hard stare. “And you were wondering why I chose a broken-down, old man like you?”
Brandon kept his face impassive though his insides roiled at the insult. “Yes, sir.”
“I am starting to wonder myself.”
“I beg your pardon, my lord.”
“Have you no eyes, Brandon?”
Christopher’s lips tightened. “There is nothing wrong with my eyesight, sir.”
“Then tell me what you saw today!” Wellington demanded.
Brandon hesitated before he spoke, trusting in the duke’s penchant for frankness. “I saw a room full of officers who are unknown to me. I have no idea how they will act under fire.”
Wellington sighed. “Very succinct, Brandon, and I agree with you.” At Brandon’s intake of breath, the duke continued, “Most of the fellows who were with us in India and Spain are now in Canada—that is, the ones who are not dead in Louisiana.”
“Indeed.” Brandon was well aware that two thousand British soldiers had fallen during the disastrous attack on New Orleans. In January, a ragtag band of locals, frontiersmen, and American regulars had held off the finest of the king’s infantry. Two generals were dead, including Major General Sir Edward Pakenham, brother-in-law to Wellington. Several regiments were shattered, including the Highlanders—and for naught. The ill-begotten war had been over for weeks—the treaty signed in December—but word could not get to Louisiana quickly enough to stop the bloodbath. “I am sorry about Pakenham, sir.”
“I am, too. I could use him. Green troops, green cavalry, green officers—that is what we have here, Colonel! An infamous army, what?”
Diplomatically, Brandon replied, “If you say so, sir.”
Wellington laughed. “Ha! There is my Brandon—always wary, always careful. I need you, Brandon. I need men I both know and trust.”
“Is that why—?” Brandon blurted before he could catch himself.
Wellington nodded. “Yes, that is why I asked for Paget, the man who cuckolded my brother.”
It was common knowledge that Henry Paget, the Earl of Uxbridge, friend and comrade-in-arms to Sir Arthur, had run off with the wife of Henry Wellesley, British ambassador to Spain, while both were still married. Brandon was aware that both had been granted divorces, and Charlotte Wellesley and Uxbridge married, but for five years, there was bad blood between the Wellesley and Paget families.
“I cannot speak to Paget’s private affairs, but I need a man who will keep those hotheaded cavalry lads in line. Uxbridge can do the job.” Wellington’s voice dropped. “As for his highness, the prince, he is second-in-command in name only. I retain control of all British troops. He should not do too much harm.”
Brandon hoped the duke was right.
“Once Blücher arrives, we will have over 150,000 in the field, so I expect we should give a good account, even of Bonaparte. He may not want to attack such strength, you know, and that will give the Austrians and the Russians time to reach the French frontier from the east.” The duke paused.
“Before I left Vienna, Tsar Alexander came to me and placed his hand upon my shoulder. Do you know what he said, Brandon? ‘It is again up to you to save the world.’
“That is our task, Colonel.”
“All right, you men,” called out Captain George Wickham to his company. “Two salvos, then five rounds of volley platoon fire. Sergeants, take over.”
Wickham walked over to the shade of a nearby tree and discreetly retrieved a flask of brandy from his pocket. Taking a small sip of the fiery liquid, he surveyed his company. The sergeants were making sure that the company took up the proper four-row line—one low, three standing—that made up the square, the heart of the British method of infantry fighting. The months of training were evident; only a few men were out of place.
“All ready, sir!” called out a lieutenant.
Wickham strode to the line and took his proper place. Drawing his sabre—just as he would in battle—he pointed at the target thirty paces downfield.
“COMPANY, MAKE READY!”
A hundred muskets were cocked. Normally, the fourth line would not shoot—they served as reserves, but this was an exercise.
“TAKE AIM—STEADY!” The muskets came up pointing at the dozen hay bales that served as targets.
“FIRE!” The line disappeared in a cloud of smoke as the muskets went off as one. Hurriedly, the men reloaded. Wickham waited until most of the muskets had come back up, his watch in one hand.
“FIRE!” A hundred muskets crashed again. In the smoke, Wickham cried, “VOLLEY FIRE! VOLLEY FIRE!”
Beginning with the kneeling line, each line fired a volley in turn. The effect was a wall of constant fire, as the other lines reloaded as their comrades shot.
Finally, the fourth line fired its fifth shot, and the smoke dissipated. The haystacks were the worse for wear, an effect the army knew would boost the soldiers’ morale.
Wickham looked at his watch and shook his head. “Well shot, my lads, but too slow! Barely two volleys in a minute—should be closer to three! Sergeants, take your men for some extra drill,” he said as he dismissed the company. He was then approached by a Dutch officer who had observed the exercise.
“Your men did well, Captain,” he said.
“Thank you, Captain, they did,” Wickham replied. It was all well and good to say so to some Dutchman, but Wickham would not compliment the men to their faces; he needed to maintain discipline.
“But the waste in powder and balls!” The Dutch officer shook his head. “How can you English afford it?”
Wickham said nothing. While he had no personal experience of war, those who did claimed the live-fire exercises improved the infantrymen’s marksmanship, which had proven invaluable in the Peninsular campaign. Wickham was simply following orders.
The Dutch officer changed the subject. “Are you attending tomorrow night’s ball, Captain?” Many of London society had followed the army to Brussels, and entertainments were necessary to break the monotony.
“No, I shall not be able to make it, old boy.”
In reality, Wickham’s commanding colonel, put on his guard about Wickham by a well-timed letter received from Pemberley before embarking to the Continent, had made Captain Wickham Officer of the Day on the day of the ball. In fact, Captain Wickham was to have the honor of being Officer of the Day any day there was a ball.
Damn that Darcy!
Buford sat moodily in the public rooms of his lodgings, nursing a before-dinner glass of wine. He was feeling very sorry for himself.
A month, he railed, a month with no letter from Caroline! You would think, with all we said, all we shared… damn! Buford took another drink. Careful, man! Best not to get drunk. There might be a good reason why you have not heard from her.
The front door opened to reveal Colonel Fitzwilliam walking in, obviously after a tiresome day. “Buford, my good man, pour me a glass—quick!” Buford did so and Richard took a sip. “Ah… at least there is something to be said for this misbegotten place!”
“Rough time of it, Fitz?”
“Argh, ever seen to the unloading of a bloody horse regiment?” He paused for a moment as Buford gave him a knowing look. “Oh, yes, of course you have. Well then, how can you ask how my day went?” he cried.
Buford smiled. Richard’s antics took his mind off his troubles. “Thank you for seeing that my equipment made it over.”
“No trouble, old man. Glad to have been of service. Your wife was very keen that I should give the matter my utmost consideration.”
Buford then realized that his wife had received his letter. But that still did not explain why there had been no answer. He changed the subject.
“Brandon should be here any moment.”
“Excellent—what is for dinner?”
“Beef stew in red wine with onions and mushrooms, pommes de terre sautées, and peas.”
“Any beer to go with that?” asked Colonel Brandon as he strode to the table. “I am famished!”
“Sit down, Brandon, and welcome!” cried Fitzwilliam. “I am glad you could accept our invitation. I have not seen any trace of you since I got here. Staff work keeping you occupied?”
“Yes.” Brandon lifted his newly arrived beer. “To us, gentlemen—three colonels of His Majesty’s cavalry! To hell with glory, let us go home!”
“To home!” the others replied.
“Colonel Brandon?” asked a voice from behind.
Brandon turned to see who had addressed him. “Ah, Denny! Will you not have a seat?”
“Oh no, sir, I am just delivering a packet from headquarters.” The major handed him the papers.
“Have a seat, Major,” said Buford. He had gotten to know Denny during his short time on the staff.
Denny eyed Fitzwilliam, who had turned his face away from him. Finally, after another entreaty from Buford, Denny sat across from Fitzwilliam.
Brandon poured him a glass. “To your health.”
“Thank you, Colonel,” Denny said as he sipped his wine.
“Beau’s been keeping you busy, Denny?” Buford used another nickname for their commander-in-chief. Wellington was well known for his sartorial splendor.
“Yes, sir—the ——th Regiment just came in. I must see that—”
“The ——th Regiment from Newcastle?” Richard cut the major off.
“Yes, Colonel.” Major Denny looked warily at Fitzwilliam. “Assigned to the reserve corps.”
“I see.”
Brandon began again. “I hope you like the stew—”
“Seen Wickham lately, Denny?” demanded Richard.
“No, sir. I have not seen Captain Wickham since he disembarked at Antwerp.”
“I am surprised, Major—you being such good friends,” Richard said savagely. The other two officers looked on in bewilderment.
Denny set down his glass. “Excuse me, gentlemen, uh… I just recalled a previous engagement. Perhaps another time.” He rose to leave.
“Denny, I—” cried Buford, but he was interrupted by Brandon.
“Of course, Major. Do not let us detain you. I will see you tomorrow.” Brandon rose and pointedly shook Denny’s hand. Buford rose and did likewise. Fitzwilliam simply sat and glared at the major. Finally, Denny left the boardinghouse.
“What the devil was that about, Fitz?” demanded Buford. “Denny is a very good fellow. There is no need to treat him like that.”
“If you really knew him, you would treat him no other way, Buford,” he said as he sipped his wine. Richard Fitzwilliam was not a vindictive man. It was not usually in his nature to hold grudges. But the happy-go-lucky visage he presented to the world hid the deep feelings of devotion he held to those few he loved. He would allow no one to harm his family or his closest friends. Chief among those he would protect with his life were Anne de Bourgh and Georgiana Darcy. George Wickham’s failed seduction of Georgiana and her subsequent melancholy had affected him more than anyone knew, including himself. He would never forgive Wickham—or anyone he suspected of helping him.
Buford was preparing to respond when Brandon restrained him with a touch of his arm. “It is something personal, I take it, Fitz. We would not dream of inquiring. Let us just drop the matter and enjoy our fellowship and our meal.”
Fitzwilliam nodded but did not closely attend. He was too busy thinking over the information he had just received.
Wickham is here. How interesting! I half expected him to run. I should keep an eye out for that bastard.
Rosings Park
Anne de Bourgh sat at her writing table in her suite of rooms, penning her latest secret dispatch to Richard via their co-conspirator, Georgiana Darcy. She hummed happily as she wrote; thoughts of Richard were a welcome distraction from the situation at Rosings.
For the last month since Anne received her life-altering letter from Colonel Fitzwilliam, the household was in a state of undeclared war. Anne had categorically refused to travel with her mother to Bath or to leave her suite of rooms to greet any visitor to Rosings other than family or the Collinses.
Lady Catherine, for her part, refused to talk to Anne or even acknowledge Anne’s existence when they were in company together. Messages were sent in writing through Mrs. Parks, the housekeeper, who had continued to take possession of and responsibility for the post, much to Lady Catherine’s displeasure. Lady Catherine also refused to allow Anne use of any of Rosings’s carriages under threat of dismissal for any groom who might come to the aid of Miss de Bourgh. Anne was reduced to walking the gardens or woods with Charlotte Collins.
Anne had just finished her letter. Only happy subjects were mentioned; Mrs. Jenkinson had been quite insistent upon that. “A soldier only wants good news from home. It keeps his spirits up. Bad news… well, it does him no good, with him being so far away,” she had told Anne.
“Come in,” Anne called to the knock upon her door. Mrs. Parks entered with a grave expression on her face. “Good heavens, what is the matter?” Anne cried.
Mrs. Parks gave her young mistress a significant look. “It is Mrs. Jenkinson, miss.” She motioned towards the lady’s room with her head.
Anne thanked the housekeeper and walked quickly to her companion’s door. “Mrs. Jenkinson, it’s Anne,” she said as she knocked on the door.
“Come in, my dear,” answered a voice that unsuccessfully hid sobs.
Anne opened the door to behold her longtime companion sitting at her desk, holding a piece of paper in one hand and wiping tears from her face with the other. Anne rushed to her side. Taking the older woman’s hand in hers, she asked, “What pains you? Can I be of any service, any comfort?”
Mrs. Jenkinson only shook her head and handed the letter to her former charge. A glance was enough. It was a signed notice from her mother dismissing Mrs. Jenkinson from her employ at Rosings. Anne flushed with anger but not surprise; she had expected this move by Lady Catherine.
She took the older woman’s face in her hands and said, “I have told you before, Mrs. Jenkinson, you shall always have a home with me.”
“But not at Rosings—not now,” she said softly. “Where am I to go? I have no children, and my family is all gone.”
Anne’s face had gone stony. “Do not despair. Leave this to me.” She rose and turned towards the door.
Mrs. Jenkinson rose in alarm. “Oh, Anne, what are you going to do? Please, do nothing rash. I shall manage—”
Anne de Bourgh turned back to her former governess, fire in her eyes. “This has gone on for far too long. It ends today.” She then left the room.
Mrs. Jenkinson gasped, for her former charge sounded just like her mother.
Anne swept down the hallway towards the staircase. At the head of it, she intercepted Mrs. Parks.
“Where is Mother?” she barked.
“In the parlor, miss.”
Acknowledging the reply with the smallest of nods, Anne marched down the stairs and to the doors of the parlor. Without preamble, Anne opened the doors and moved resolutely towards Lady Catherine. Her mother was at her writing table, reviewing her correspondence.
“Mother,” Anne greeted Lady Catherine with an icy voice, “it has come to my attention that you have dismissed Mrs. Jenkinson. Is this indeed your intention?”
“Well, miss! You now presume to speak to me! I should thank you, I am sure. Yes, I have let your governess go. It was my impression you had no need of one,” Lady Catherine sneered. “Besides, we need to economize now that we should expect no rents this year.”
Anne ignored the jab. “Do not play games with me, Mother. You do nothing without cause. What do you want?”
“Watch your tone, miss.”
“What do you want?”
Lady Catherine glared at her. “Your obedience and your deference, Anne.”
“So—I am to go to Bath, is it?”
Anne saw her mother’s eyes gleam. “Yes, Bath. I know what is best for you. You must be with society worthy of you. It is all arranged. I have been in correspondence with a General Tilney…”
Anne watched her mother rant on in silence. Why was she doing this? What was the reason for her determination? She was almost desperate. Was it just her feelings of betrayal at the hands of her uncle?
“…and a house of your own, a great estate, that is what you are destined for, Anne! Just follow my lead—”
Anne interrupted. “Are you saying that if I do this—go with you to Bath—you will reinstate Mrs. Jenkinson?”
“Of course, my dear.”
Anne started to laugh.
“What do you find so amusing?” Lady Catherine asked in a dangerous voice.
“You, Mother! Do you believe this is the Dark Ages? You would blackmail me, your only daughter, into marriage to some rich, landed fool? You think the only price you will pay is the wages for my companion? How did you grow so corrupted?”
“How dare you—”
“Silence, Mother! Your schemes are not to be borne! Let us have a right understanding between us, madam. I will never go to Bath with you. The day Mrs. Jenkinson leaves this house is the day I do. You have a choice before you—suffer my companion or lose both of us.”
“Where would you go, child?” shouted Lady Catherine. “To the streets, I suppose?”
“No, to my uncle,” Anne said, as if explaining to a child.
The result was unexpected; Lady Catherine went pale. “N… no, that will not be necessary!” She halted and worked to get control of her emotions. “I had not realized how… how attached you have become to your companion. Far be it from me to cause you any pain. Please let Mrs. Jenkinson know that her services shall be welcomed here for as long as you wish.”
She paused and then, incredibly, began to beg. “Do not turn your back upon me, dear Anne. I could not bear it. I do know what is proper for you, but we shall not speak of it now. Let us consider each other’s view and talk again another day. Come, give your mother a kiss.”
Anne looked wide-eyed at her mother. As she bent to kiss Lady Catherine’s cheek, she could only wonder if her mother had finally gone mad.
“Thank you, my dear. Shall I see you for dinner, then?” Lady Catherine turned back to her letters.
Anne only wanted to leave the room at that instant to sort her own raging thoughts. “Yes, Mother—until then.” Anne left the room with as much composure as she could muster.
Within a few minutes, she was sitting in Mrs. Jenkinson’s room again. Her friend was overjoyed at news of her reprieve.
“Oh, thank you, my dear. That was such a brave thing for you to do. But I do not wish to be a source of disagreement between you and your mother,” the older lady said. “But it is so strange! That her ladyship would give in so quickly! I do not see the cause of it.”
“Neither do I, but I think I may know someone who does.”
London
Caroline was finishing her weekly letter to her husband. She wrote of family doings, news from society, and the latest events caused by her changing physique. Three months along now, her morning sickness had finally stopped—that was the good news. The strange cravings for odd foods puzzled Caroline intensely. She was assured by all her female relations that it was perfectly normal, but it still made no sense to her. She wrote of it anyway, thinking Sir John would find her predicament amusing.
Caroline had received no other letters from her husband after the one in late April. She told herself not to worry; he was undoubtedly busy with all the things that soldiers do—whatever that might be. He had warned her, after all. Besides, it was her duty to write—to brighten his day and lighten his cares. Caroline was surprised at the contentment she felt at giving rather than taking.
It had been decided that Caroline would remain in London for the duration of her confinement. She had no wish to go to a Welsh physician she did not know for this first child of hers. Also, London was closer to Belgium; surely her letters would get there faster.
Godspeed you to Antwerp, she thought as she kissed the letter.
Brussels
“Good ride, gentlemen!” cried Colonel Fitzwilliam to his regiment as he dismounted. “Enjoy your evening. We shall ride tomorrow at nine.”
Richard gave the reins to a private, patted his horse, and began walking into his guesthouse. He had not gone but a few yards before he beheld Major General Sir John Vandeleur and the Earl of Uxbridge, his commanding officers, arriving on horseback. Coming to attention, Richard fired off a salute.
“Your regiment looks very good, Fitzwilliam,” Uxbridge congratulated him as he lazily returned the gesture.
“They will do, sir.” Fitzwilliam knew it had been some time since they last saw action in Spain.
“Veterans—wish we had more, eh, your lordship?” said Vandeleur.
“The heavies will do their job, never fear,” replied Uxbridge. “Carry on, Fitzwilliam.”
“Good work, Colonel. I will inspect your regiment the day after tomorrow,” said Vandeleur as he and Uxbridge rode away. Richard continued his walk towards the guesthouse. There he found Buford waiting in the dining room.
“How was today, Buford?” Richard asked as he took his seat.
“No troubles—the regiment is a bit rusty, but they are coming along. You?”
“The same. Oh, thank you,” Richard told the innkeeper, who had just handed him a letter.
“Go ahead, open your letter,” said Buford as casually as he could.
Richard slipped Georgiana’s letter into his coat pocket. “No, I will just read this later,” he said with a cat-got-the-cream grin.
Buford sipped his wine to hide his agitation. Why does Caroline not write?