The Three Colonels (21 page)

“Aye.”

“Fine. One last thing, McIntosh.” Tucker handed the steward a second piece of paper. “This is my written instruction to you, now that spring planting is upon us, to switch the ratio between the barley and the wheat. Is that clear, sir?” Mr. White looked hard at him.

“Aye, Mr. White.” Tucker thought he saw a smile begin to dance about the steward's mustache, but he could not be sure.

“Very good. I suppose you wish to get back to your work.”

“Aye. Good day to ye, Mr. White, Mr. Tucker.” Thus dismissed, McIntosh quit the library and Delaford Manor in far better spirits than when he entered.

The two gentlemen made their way into the parlor to join the ladies.

“Well,” asked the mistress of Delaford, “did Mr. Tucker's plan work?”

Mr. White beamed. “Perfectly, Mrs. Brandon. You shall have no further trouble from Mr. McIntosh.”

“And the crops?”

“The change shall be accomplished.”

“Thank you, Mr. White. May I offer you some tea?”

“Thank you, no. I must be off. Ladies, Mr. Tucker.” Mr. White bowed as he was escorted out by the butler.

“Well, that is that,” began Tucker as he picked up his cup of tea. “Mr. White is not a bad chap—for a Whig.”

“It may be over until Mr. McIntosh finds out who hired Mr. White,” grumbled Marianne, who was drinking coffee instead.

Tucker smiled. “Oh, I think he knows, Marianne. He seemed quite relieved, actually.”

Mary sat on the couch with Princess. “Devotion to God is a wonderful thing—as long as it does not go too far.”

“It still sits ill with me—the cheek of the man! And I had to find
another
man to solve my problem!” cried Marianne. “It is all very vexing!”

“All is well that ends well, Marianne,” said Mary.

***

Paris

The emperor was back in his palace, but he was not content. Many of his countrymen had flocked to his banner—but not all. Many of the common folk were taking a wait-and-see attitude. As for the military, his success was not universal. Most of his marshals had returned, but he had been abandoned by many in the navy.

The emperor did not have a free hand this time. The deputies actually wanted a voice in policy. He would have to keep his promises of reform, at least for a while.

All these troubles were as nothing compared to the reaction by the rest of Europe. He had sent out pledges of peace, vowing to live up to the treaties that ended the war, but the great powers rejected his overtures. Led by the hated English, they called him an outlaw and set up another Coalition to attack him.

The emperor would have to move quickly. He wanted an army of six hundred thousand to take the field, but that would take the summer to raise, and he knew he did not have that much time. He could not use conscription again, and he had to have a victory. He needed to break the Coalition first.

He began by recalling all undischarged troops and mobilized the National Guard. That would give him nearly 125,000 men. Equipment would be a challenge, but he could not wait.

He had to decide where to attack. The Austrians would not be ready for some time—and the Russians even longer. The immediate threat was from the British and Prussian armies gathering in Belgium.

That was where he had to strike. Hit one or the other before they could link up, and he would destroy them. The other Coalition partners would be shaken, which would give him time. They might actually sue for peace.

Besides, the emperor considered this English duke a bad general and the English bad troops. Given surprise and the emperor's lucky star, it would be a picnic.

He would begin at the morning
levee
.

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.