The Three Colonels (25 page)

Wickham blinked twice and ran out the door.

Fitzwilliam leaned against the door of the library and laughed his head off.

Sir John raged as he sipped his brandy. Roxanne—of all the people to see here tonight!

He thought of Roxanne's beauty and allurements, so wasted on him, for his thoughts kept returning to Caroline. Never did he long for her as now. He needed her laugh, her sharp, biting humor, and her sweet attentions. Why was it that he could not have what he wanted? He should never have sent Caroline away.

Just then, he noticed that Annabella Norris was in attendance. The faint hope that she might have some news of Caroline overcame his revulsion of the woman. He crossed the floor and bowed. He found her with two other former acquaintances from the old days—Lord Braxton and his latest paramour, Lady Daphne Glevering.

“Are you enjoying Brussels?” Buford asked Braxton after they exchanged the usual greetings.

“It has pleasures enough, Buford. A change of scenery is always welcome in the summer,” replied Braxton carelessly.

“We in the army are always hungry for news from home. No matter how many letters one receives, it is never enough. How did you leave London?”

“The same—blasted hot this year.”

“Yes,” simpered Annabella. “Town is so boring! I am so glad we took this opportunity to come to the Continent. It is so exciting!”

“Come, Daphne—the music's started,” said Braxton, tugging at her arm. “Another time, Buford.” The two made their way to the dance floor.

Annabella and Sir John watched them depart. Sir John was temporarily trapped—it would not be good form to abandon the lady before another of her acquaintances arrived.

Annabella asked, “Are you not dancing, sir?”

Sir John looked nonplused at her. Finding no polite reason to excuse himself, he held out his hand. “As you wish.”

“Oh, no. Do not think I am looking for a partner. I should be content to share some conversation if you would indulge me. I much prefer talking to dancing.”

Buford nodded his acquiescence, wondering what the woman was about.

“I hope I am not detaining you. Is Lady Caroline here?”

“No. She is in London.”

“How sad! Her grand adventure is over. I feel for her, poor dear—to miss such parties and lively, elevated company.” She glanced at Buford with a smile.

Buford stiffened. He supposed that she was trying to tempt him into an assignation, but the officer vowed that no matter what arts and allurements Mrs. Norris might employ, the woman would not succeed. “We thought it best that she return to England with hostilities imminent.”

Annabella looked about the room with amusement. “Really? Are the French here? Which one is Napoleon?”

“Mrs. Norris, war is not a joke.”

“Of course not, but to abandon you to your own devices while still on your honeymoon—how sad. But that is my dear Caroline; she must have her own way. I am sure she is well occupied. You must be very lonely.”

“I manage, madam.” Annabella's implication of Caroline's possible activities in London both angered and frightened Buford. Such thoughts had begun to take root in his mind, no matter how hard he fought it. He lashed out. “By the way, where is your husband?”

“In the West Indies, inspecting his plantations. So, you see, I too have been abandoned. Cold and lonely.” The unspoken offer floated in the charged air.

“How unfortunate for you. As for me, I find thoughts of home keep me warm enough at night.” He had had a bellyful of her insinuations. “If you would excuse me.”

“Sir John, you would leave me?”

Buford hissed, “Mrs. Norris, do not think that my wife and I have not talked about our former acquaintances in Town! Oh, yes, I know exactly what you are about. I was a fool to waste my time speaking to you. You are no friend to my wife and can have no knowledge of her. Your behavior is infamous. Find someone else to share your bed, madam. You disgust me.”

Annabella Norris turned purple in her outrage and dismissal. Grimly satisfied, Buford turned on his heel and went in search of another brandy.

***

Buford nursed his drink, glowering, when he was interrupted again.

“Come,
chéri
, things cannot be all that bad,” said Countess de Pontchartrain from behind his left shoulder.

Buford expected her. “Enjoying yourself, Roxanne?”

“Tremendously. Are you still angry with me?”

He turned to her. “That ball in Vienna. Why did you introduce Lady Buford to Baron von Odbart, of all people? What game were you playing? Surely you could not expect an assignation on my honeymoon.”

She chuckled. “Oh,
Jean
, you are as clever as I remember.”

“I knew you were trying to entrap my wife! But why? Surely you do not think I would divorce her, do you?”

“
Jean, Jean
, I was not trying to entrap your
wife
…” She let the sentence linger as she eyed him closely.

“
Me
—you were after me? You knew how I would respond!”

“Almost—you showed amazing restraint. We thought surely you would challenge the baron.”

Buford knew he almost had. “What purpose would that serve? I would have either lived or died. What difference would that make? I am not that important.”

“You are not important—but the Congress was.”

With a sinking feeling, Buford realized he had been played for a fool. Such a scandal as a duel between delegates would disrupt the Congress and hurt negotiations, particularly between England and Prussia. It had been a trap, and he almost fell into it, nearly causing immeasurable damage to his country.

“Who are you working for,
Comtesse
?” he demanded.

A haughty laugh escaped her lovely lips. “You think only those who wear a uniform are patriots, Colonel? I serve France!”

Buford's mind raced through the possibilities, but only one name remained. Only M. Talleyrand could have approved such an operation. The ambassador had been so helpful at the ball just so Buford could find his wife and the baron together. The French must have hoped, he now suspected, that the two would have been caught
in
flagrante
delicto
.

“Was this operation your idea or the ambassador's?”

“Actually, it was my husband who came up with it. He has a delightfully wicked turn of mind, do you not think? Besides, I knew you would win any duel.”

“And you just do what you are told.”

Countess de Pontchartrain stroked his face, causing him to flinch. “
Jean
, you are a dear friend, but not so dear as you think. I see the need to protect France from your so-called Big Four as surely as His Excellency does.” Her eyes grew hard. “France is alone; we cannot allow you English to divide up Europe with the Austrians, Prussians, and Russians. France will be great again!”

“Whether under a king or emperor?”

“Bonaparte—that upstart? Bah. No, Colonel, too many of my countrymen have died under that monster.” She grinned. “So, let the grand Seventh Coalition crush him for us. My kind will reclaim what is ours again when you are through.”

“The First Estate again the first among equals?”

The countess pursed her lips. “Do not mock us so. You English with your class structure are not so very different! Or are you a Republican now?”

“Do not be ridiculous.” Buford glared at her. “I can forgive you for your actions against me, but you should not have used my wife.”

The countess sighed. “
Un
mariage
d'amour
—I never would have thought it of you,
Jean
.”

“Looks can be deceiving.” Buford could not keep the bitterness out of his voice as he took another gulp of his brandy. He could feel the alcohol racing through his veins, but he cared not.

Roxanne's eyebrows went up. “Really?
Un
serpent
au
Paradis?
It happens to the best of us.” She looked around. “Ah, my escort to supper is awaiting me,
chéri. À plus tard
.”

Buford watched her depart, feeling betrayed, disgusted, and very stupid.

***

It was nearly midnight when Richard went in search of Buford. He found him speaking with Sir John Vandeleur, their commanding officer. It was a few minutes before the general begged his excuses and wandered off, allowing the two comrades to talk.

Richard frowned, for Buford seemed to be in his cups. “Buford, shall we leave now? I will get a hackney, if you like.”

Buford slapped his friend on the back. “No, no, you go without me, Fitz. I will be only a little while longer.”

“Buford, I think you should come with me.” When Buford refused him again, he would not relent until Buford grew angry.

“Blast it all, Fitzwilliam, you are not my nursemaid. Let me be!”

Richard knew there was no good in trying to convince Buford when he was so determined. “Forgive me. I shall see you at breakfast, then.”

Buford nodded, and Richard could do nothing but return to their inn.

***

The library was dark at this early hour in the morning, lit only by a solitary candle and the occasional flash of lightning from the thunderstorm raging outside. A lone figure, which had remained behind after the ball ended, sat in a chair and watched the illumination, sipping a cognac. His host had suggested that, due to the inclement weather, Colonel Buford take refuge at the castle and had ordered a room prepared for him, and Buford was waiting for his accommodations. The storm did not bother him; rather, he thought the weather mirrored his own feelings.

When he married Caroline Bingley, he knew her reputation as she knew his. He had labored to make himself a better man, and he was led to the conclusion that his wife had done the same. They were kindred souls, so he thought. During the time of their courtship and their marriage, he had grown to admire and finally love her.

A mistake. He feared it could be, and he was right. Apparently, Caroline's devotion could not be relied upon once he was no longer in residence. They had shared passion but not true love. He had been deceived.

There was a reason that fashionable society frowned on love matches. It was because love matches rarely last. He knew the risk, but he never dreamed that her affections would not last a trip across the Channel.

Buford put down his glass and shook his head; he had felt tears coming on. No! He would not weep for her or for what might have been! He had made his bed; now he must lie in it.

“Sir John, your room is ready,” said the butler in French as he opened the door.

“
Merci
beaucoup
,” he replied as he got to his feet. With steps only slightly impaired from the alcohol he had consumed, he made his way to the bedroom. There, with no valet to attend him, he stripped off his clothes and threw himself onto the bed. As he pulled the covers over him, he hoped that he would not again dream of Caroline as he did most every night.

An hour later, he felt a soft warm body slip under the covers with him. Moist lips caressed his cheek and neck as practiced hands touched him. Groaning, half asleep, he responded to the attentions, returning the kisses and caresses.

He moaned aloud, “Caro.”

“Whatever pleases you,
chéri
.”

Buford awoke with a start early the next morning. Looking about the unfamiliar bedroom, he tried to recall where he was. He moved again and groaned in pain; his throbbing temples reminded him of the amount of alcohol he had consumed the night before, and his state of undress spoke volumes about his activities afterwards.

Buford got out of the bed and padded to the dressing room. He found it empty as expected; Roxanne had the good sense to return to her rooms during the night. He completed an abbreviated toilette and dressed in the same black suit he had worn to the ball. He knew he would not be conspicuous; many gentlemen would sleep off a great ball at the host's home.

Within a few minutes, he was on the street, walking to his boardinghouse. It was early, and there were few coaches for hire available, but there was nothing for it. The last thing he wanted to do was encounter the countess.

Fortunately, the distance was not too great and the morning not too warm. The walk might have been pleasant had not his head and conscience tormented him. Buford had been shocked to learn that the naked woman in his arms the night before was not his wife but Roxanne. By the time he was fully aware of what was happening, his resentful desires got the better of him. He told himself it was not of his doing. Roxanne had seduced him while he was unable to resist. Why not take advantage of the situation? Caroline apparently did not care; the damn woman could not be bothered to post a single line to her own husband.

Buford tried to drive Caroline out of his mind with Roxanne, but once he had finished with her, his discontent remained, now augmented with regret. He passed out trying to tell himself that he had not betrayed the woman he loved. Caroline was the betrayer; she neglected him. However, Buford could not dismiss the fact that he had broken his vow of faithfulness.

It was not long before he reached the outskirts of Brussels and his boardinghouse. His empty stomach reminded him that he had yet to have breakfast, so he hurried his steps, hoping that he was not too late. Upon entering the common room, he saw Richard sitting at a table with a huge grin on his face. Before him was a tall stack of letters, all in the same stationery, tied with a string.

“They were just delivered last night after we left for the ball, old man!” Richard said with a self-satisfied grin. “Some blunder at the port. I always suspected the people at the post cannot read!”

Buford hardly heard what his comrade said. He approached the pile carefully, as if the mass of correspondence would leap up and attack him. Sure enough, the words he most desired and ultimately feared were written on the envelopes in a fine, female hand:
Colonel
Sir
John
Buford
.

***

London

Marianne made good time to Town and was warmly greeted by Caroline and Rebecca Buford. The three ladies sat in the parlor, and the topic immediately turned to Caroline's pregnancy.

“The illness in the morning has passed, much to my relief,” Caroline reported, “but I have such cravings now! Pickles—anything pickled, and I must have it. Is that so very strange? I do not recall my sister Jane having such desires.”

Marianne laughed. “For me it was sweets.”

Rebecca said, “I cannot remember any unusual foods every time I was with child, but I did want to consume my portion of my dinner and my husband's too.”

“How many children do you have, Mrs. Buford?” asked Marianne.

“I have three, and if you are to stay in this house, I must be Rebecca to you.”

Marianne thought that a rather strange request, as the two ladies had just made each other's acquaintance. Caroline had warned her that her new family was unorthodox, and Marianne had to agree. Rebecca Buford was the most informal person she had ever met. At least it was a pleasant form of peculiarity. “Very well, please call me Marianne, Rebecca.”

Caroline smiled at the interaction. It was amusing to watch others react to her relations.

“Well, if you would excuse me, I must prepare for our visit,” announced Rebecca.

“Really?” inquired Marianne to both ladies. “Are we going somewhere?”

“Oh, I am sorry, I forgot to tell you. We dine at the Matlocks' today. Miss de Bourgh invited us.”

“Good!” cried Marianne. “I long to see Anne again.”

“I am looking forward to it,” Caroline replied, anticipating how diverting the earl's response to the unorthodox Bufords might prove.

***

Brussels

Buford wandered the afternoon streets of the Dutch capital in despair. As he walked up grand boulevards and down small lanes, the magnificent historic buildings and small modern shops passed by his eyes without recognition.

In the last four and twenty hours, he had read and re-read each of Caroline's letters at least three times. His guilt and remorse battled with his delight at the news of Caroline's pregnancy, but after reading the initial news, Buford's self-disgust grew.

Weekly! She had been writing to him weekly while he had closed himself up in his rooms feeling ill-used. He was not worthy of her love and devotion! Damn the army! Why could they not forward the letters before now—before Thursday—before that deuced ball? Roxanne had seduced him, the whore, but he could have—should have—resisted her. How could he be so weak?

His thoughts flew in a thousand directions, mainly focused on recriminations against the army, postal clerks, and Roxanne—but eventually his reproaches returned to the one most at fault—himself. He had failed his wife, his unborn child, his uniform, and his own promise to himself. He hated Roxanne de Pontchartrain, but he hated himself more.

Just past the
Grand-Place
, along the
Rue
au
Beurre
, Buford came across a small Catholic church. Something made him stop before the ancient structure. The name above the door proclaimed it to be in honor of St. Nicholas. He stared at the door for a long time, trying to decide before opening it and walking inside.

It was early afternoon, well before Vigil Mass, so the sanctuary was empty, dark, and unwelcoming. The only light was from a few candles burning before the statue of the Virgin Mother. The structure was unusual. The three aisles of the nave were built at an angle to the chancel. Buford looked up and spied a cannonball, of all things, embedded high up in the third pillar on the left of the nave. Obviously, the parishioners had kept the gruesome memento of some long-ago bombardment as a badge of honor.

While he was looking at the odd ornament, a priest entered the sanctuary and genuflected before the large crucifix above the altar. As he turned, he noticed the British officer standing in the middle of the church and cautiously approached Buford.

“Good afternoon, my son,” he said in English. “I am Father Amadie. May I help you?”

“
Bon
après-midi, Père
,” Buford responded in French. “Your English is very good.”

“
Merci
, Colonel. What brings you to the Church of St. Nicholas?”

“I do not know. I should not be here. Certainly, I am keeping you from your work.”

Father Amadie, no admirer of the tyrant or of the revolution that he represented—the revolution that had sent so many of his brothers to the guillotine—warmed to the young defender of his country. “Forgive me, but I can tell you are troubled. Please, share your worries with me.”

“Surely I am keeping you from your duties.”

“I am only preparing to hear Confession.”

A sudden idea came to Buford. “Father, would it be possible? Would you hear my confession?”

Father Amadie frowned. “My son, are you Catholic?”

Buford shook his head. “I am no Papist. I mean, no, I am not Catholic.”

“Do you understand what you ask of me?”

“Father, my mother was a French Catholic. My aunt was of your faith, and she would take me to Mass when I was young. I know your sacraments; I know what they mean.”

“Then you know that I cannot give you absolution,” Father Amadie explained gently.

“I know, but… but my heart is heavy with regret. It would be a comfort. Please, I know I ask much of you.”

The priest reflected for a moment. He knew he should ask the English Protestant to leave, for to his bishop, the soldier was no better than a heretic. He knew countless Catholics had died at the hands of the Church of England during the Reformation and that Catholics still did not have full rights in Britain.

Father Amadie believed in God and His Holy Church with all his heart, yet he knew that both sides had engaged in religious warfare. The Inquisition in Germany was matched by the Inquisition in Spain. Catholics and Protestants had heaped unspeakable acts upon one another in the name of salvation. Did being right justify such behavior?

Amadie had joined the Church to serve God and the people—and serve he would. Besides, what his bishop did not know would not hurt him.

“Come with me, my son.” He gestured to a side wall of the church where a small door was flanked by two curtains. The priest opened the door and sat in his familiar chair, where he heard so much of the pain of this world. By the time he slid open the window, the English colonel had already taken his position on the kneeler.

Buford bowed his head. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

***

Buford returned to his room to write a letter.

My dearest Caroline,

I take up pen to write to you, deeply mortified at the pain my unjust and unworthy letter must have caused you. Destroy it at once, I beg you, my dear wife! If I could reach across the seas, I would snatch up that evil document and consign it to hell! What a wretch you have married!

Too good, too excellent wife, how could I write such lines to you? Before me are the results of your most faithful labors. I feel unworthy to touch them. But read them I must, for thoughts of you are in my every sleeping hour—and waking hour, too.

I know you wish news of me, your most undeserving husband. I am well in body but ill in spirit. If I were a selfish man, I would beg you to fly to my arms and comfort me. But I cannot—I will not. I am happy you are safe in England, and I am pleased to know you have found a home with my most excellent family. Your letters are a godsend to my soul.

My equipment safely arrived. Thank you for your kind attention to that. The men, all veterans, were ill-prepared for battle when they disembarked, but constant drill has sharpened them like the edges of their sabres. They will be ready for whatever Providence brings.

My love, you write that our family is increasing. What happy news! That God would so smile upon us! I wish I could be there to share this time with you, my dearest one. You write that your belly is growing; nothing in this world sounds so beautiful! Know that I send kisses to that wonderful roundness, that evidence of our love, and its mother too. You say you wish it to be a boy. I would be as proud as a prince to have a son by you, but I cannot help but wish that it be a lovely girl instead with her mother's looks. That way I might have two Carolines to spoil.

I think your idea to remain in London is a good one, for nowhere else in the kingdom boasts better physicians. I beg you to take care of yourself—but who am I to tell you your duty? You have proven yourself to me a hundredfold.

I must admit something to you, dear Caroline. When I first met you, while I was pleased with your outward appearance, I was only looking for a mistress for my house. I never thought I would fall in love with my future wife. But God in heaven is merciful and has given me a great gift—the sweetest, wisest, kindest, loveliest woman any man could ever wish for.

I love you, Caroline. I love your loving soul. I love your excellent mind, so wise and sharp. I love your form and figure. Oh, how my dreams of you keep me up at night! I love your eyes—so full of expression. And I love your lips—for your sharp, amusing words and for your sweet kisses.

I do not deserve you, my wife. You should have married better than I. I know my faults, and I will strive for the rest of my days to improve myself, to make myself worthy of calling you my beloved wife and lover and mother of my child.

Adieu, my dearest love. I shall write again as soon as time permits. I shall sign this as you have done so consistently,

Rwy'n dy gari di,

JOHN

Letter finished, Buford needed it to arrive in England as quickly as may be.

***

“You want me to do
what
?” cried Major Denny.

“Come, man, I am not asking you to do anything illegal,” pleaded Buford. “A small thing—what is that between friends?”

Denny looked at the colonel. “You want me to enclose a personal letter in the official pouch to London, and you call it a small thing? Forgive me, Colonel, but I would like to know what you would refer to as a great favor!”

“You can do it, can you not? You have a friend on the staff who will either post it or deliver it?” Buford begged.

Denny thought. “Yes, Castlebaum would do it, especially if there was something in it for him. It will cost you a half-crown, sir.”

“Done and done, sir!” cried Buford as he shook the man's hand. “Here is the money. I call it a bargain!”

***

Colonel Fitzwilliam watched his men practice, and it did not make him happy.

“What do you call that, gentlemen?” he bellowed. “You ride in that lackadaisical manner against the French, and they will cut you to pieces. Show some spirit! Do the drill again!”

Four at a time, the forty riders of the third squadron took off down the training course, while the other nine squadrons watched. The course laid was a fifty-yard dash to a straw bundle, then halting at a post wrapped in cotton and burlap, then a final gallop past another post, this one uncovered. All the time the troopers were to slash at the targets with their swords. Most did the drill correctly, if cautiously. None did it quickly.