by Don Jacobson
“However, Dr. Campbell was most emphatic in forbidding Johnson to do more than sit here and help me polish silver for the next several days.
“Since we are short-handed to begin with, this is a complication. However, I have decided that you, Wilson, since you have kept your regimentals in good repair, should escort Miss Bennet and the children when they take the air tomorrow and on the following days. When your livery arrives, you will honorably retire your colors.
“I will assign other tasks to you as needed until Johnson recovers. Mrs. Hastings will also discover ways to keep you occupied. I may well keep you on escort duty as you are still in field-ready condition.”
Winters glowered at Henry’s good fortune. Lucky cove…to be able ta get out when the rest ‘o us have ta slave in this furnace! ‘ope ‘e keels over like Johnny.
Annie gazed over at the blond giant crammed in at the bottom of the table.
Mayhap there is more to Mr. Wilson than big muscles. Mr. Hastings would not assign him the task of guarding the young Miss and her governess—my ladies—without believing him to be capable and quick in both mind and body.
Chapter V
September 21, 1815 the attics, Cecil House
The Colonel ordered the men of the 33rd to break their square as the Frog cavalry had quit harrying the regiment. Lieutenants screamed orders at the men to organize into their files, three deep. Sergeants chivvied them into lines of rich crimson.
The tang of spent gunpowder stung his nostrils. He looked over to the tree that shaded Wellington as he sat atop Copenhagen. The Duke, in his unadorned frock coat, appeared as a tradesman mysteriously dropped between the gloriously uniformed Fitzwilliam and Uxbridge. Messengers and young aides raced away from the trio, bearing orders up and down the British lines. The snapping sounds of the pitched battle in Hougoumont Woods continued as it had for hours.
The colonel gave the order, and the men, trained beyond thinking, began to move down the gentle slope into the swale separating the lines. The skies were grey, but, then again, in this corner of the war, they always were. The skirmishers—green-coated British riflemen and French voltigeurs in ultramarine—fell back toward their lines stopping from time-to-time to send lead toward their foe.
Thank God that Napoleon in his ‘infinite wisdom’ distrusted rifles and insisted on equipping his skirmishers with muskets. Only effective if they get within 30 or 40 yards of us. Same as our Brown Bess. However the rifle company is almost always lethal at 100 yards. And some of Sharpe’s poachers in the 95th Rifles could put a man down at 200 yards!
Bundles of man-sized rags peppered the hillside. The men of the 33rd broke rank only to step around and then closed up again. The small, sad heaps of French blue and silver interspersed with piles of British red and gold told the tale of the battle between horse-bound gentlemen. As always in modern war, if you survived, you had won.
As he looked opposite, he could not see the crapaud infantry.
Where were they?
Then a brisk breeze swept across the field. A crazed stallion, its flanks so covered in its missing master’s blood that he could not be identified by his tack as either French or English, galloped between the lines. As if by agreement, the battlefield stilled until the poor animal had charged through the British lines and disappeared into the rear.
And then he saw them…the black maws of hundreds of cannon all aimed his way. There was no French infantry. No! They waited behind the guns! Waited for thousands of metal bolts to wither British flesh.
The colonel was marching the regiment into Hell!
Napoleon’s grand battery began its barrage starting with the extreme British right and rolling fire toward the left.
No exploding shell. The French had not mastered Shrapnel’s methods. Rather 32-pound iron balls arced out of those flaming snouts to land about 20 yards in front of the advancing British. The first ricochet rocketed into the files at about waist height splattering men, gutting them, and tearing off arms, legs, and heads. Barely slowed by the passage through living flesh, the shot continued into the next regiment to the rear, opening up other holes in the British lines.
He found his voice to scream to his men to keep moving…to close ranks and fill in the gaps. Standing still lets them adjust their aim.
But, then the gods of fire and thunder turned their attention to the 33rd.
A high bounder ripped the Colonel from his saddle. Then all the majors and captains were dropped. Charlie Tomkins vanished in a red cloud.
The ground shuddered and the noise…the noise…the roar…the sound!!!!!!!
He could see the moustaches of the French gunner quiver with anticipation as he lowered the slow match to the touchhole.
His world vanished in a belching cloud as black iron raced toward his face.
Both Annie and Sarah were jolted awake by the cries—not screams, guttural yells they were—coming from the men’s chambers beyond the locked door. As one they bounded from their shared bed, the eternal fear of servants foremost in their minds. Was the house ablaze? Would they be trapped under the eaves, unable to escape, left to choke on the black clouds and then to be consumed as the fire hollowed out the building?
They dashed out of their small cubicle and stared in the dimness that was relieved by just one flickering lamp. The noise intensified. Someone was pounding on the door separating the men and women’s quarters. Others joined them in the hallway, all of them staring at the door which vibrated on its hinges with every jolt.
Mrs. Hastings, an old blue robe wrapped around her, bustled up to the door to unlock it with the key on her chatelaine. She did not open it until the noise had quieted.
Pushing it open, a remarkable tableau was revealed. Crumpled on the floor by the jamb lay Henry Wilson, his face slowly losing the horrified grimace that had frozen it. Mr. Hastings stood above him as his breathing slowed. The other men and boys stood behind them, ranged down the other half of the hallway. All bore concerned or worried looks—all except Winters whose countenance spoke of his utter contempt for the man and his terrors.
Annie’s heart ached to see Wilson brought so low. He was unremittingly polite and gentle with everyone. She had never heard him raise his voice even when Winters tried to provoke him into a fight, something he had done more than once in the past eight weeks.
Henry would invariably respond to Annie or Sarah’s entreaties that he needed to stand up for himself, “I have had to fight my entire life. I have nothing left to prove. Besides, I outsize him, so he cannot do anything to me or make me do anything I do not wish.”
As the fit passed, Henry’s eyes cleared. He looked up at Hastings. Then he glanced through the doorway and saw Annie’s widened orbs. First chagrin and then shame at being so caught out by her tightened his gaze. Averting his vision, he seemed to fold in on himself. He never looked back in spite of the waves of comfort she tried to send his way.
Rising up, he stepped into his chamber and softly closed the door.
Breakfast in the servant’s hall was usually a quiet affair. Work shifts at Cecil House were staggered. Where the rest of the servants rose shortly after six o’clock, lady’s maids like Annie had the luxury of sleeping a bit later as they had to wait for their mistresses to retire before they themselves could take their rest. However, Annie rose early the morning after Wilson’s nightmare. She needed to speak with him.
She was worried about Henry. Seeing him so vulnerable on the floor had touched her heart. What sort of dream had broken through his strong reserve?
She found him eating a bowl of porridge sweetened with dried apples. As he slowly spooned the cereal into his mouth, his mind seemed to be miles away.
She sat across from him and opened the conversation (or so she hoped), “How are you?”
Everything stopped—his spoon, his chewing and, so it seemed, his breathing. He swallowed the mouthful he had been working. Then he replied.
“As well as c
an be expected, I suppose.” And he fell silent.
He did not look at her. But he also did not leave.
That is encouraging, I suppose. Maybe, though, he does not want to talk. I can try a different tack.
“I imagine that you are weary this morning. Perhaps you should just eat your breakfast, and I will tell you a story.
“You know that my father is butler at Larchmont House. Before Master Tom and Lady Mary resided there, the current Marquess’ younger brother was Master at Larchmont. He had been in the army, the old Marquess having purchased him a colonelcy. Papa was a first footman when the Colonel came back home.
“I guess it would have been back in the early-Eighties, you know when the American colonies rebelled? Anyway, The Colonel was with Lord Cornwallis at the Yorktown siege. The French Navy had blockaded Admiral Howe away from the Chesapeake, so the Army was trapped without any hope of escape or resupply.
“General Knox had those American guns adjusted so that nobody could move around in the streets without drawing fire. Then they began shelling the houses to deny the troops shelter. By the end, our boys had eaten most of the draft animals and were beginning on the cavalry mounts. No hay for the poor creatures anyway. From what Papa told me, the Colonel could not describe the horrors of the siege without beginning to shake.
“Then there were the Colonel’s night terrors. He would go to bed as if everything was normal and right as rain. Then, after about two or three hours, the dreams would begin. The poor man would start thrashing around and crying out. Early on the dreams were so bad that old Mr. Hughes, the butler, took to stationing a footman in the Colonel’s bedchamber, just to prevent him from hurting himself or from dashing out onto the balcony and falling.
“Papa told me that he spent nearly three years with the Colonel one-night-on and one-night-off before he was promoted to under-butler. Mr. Hastings succeeded him on bed watch.
“Finally, the Colonel was worn to nothing but a nub. The only thing that helped him was to ride the fields around Larchmont. I know you have not yet seen Warwickshire, but the area is beautiful. The Cotswolds reach into the county. You get up in there—well, that is where the Colonel could find some peace.
“He always would ride with the head groom, Tom Shrimpton. They would be gone for hours. Seems that the old Marquess had given Shrimpton leave to tend to the Colonel. That was it. Tom did nothing else. I remember old Tom from when I was a little girl. He was wiry and tough as 12-year mutton.
“And he had fought the French back in the earlier war, with General Braddock and Colonel Washington around Fort Duquesne.
“Papa told me that he once asked old Tom what he and the Colonel did when they would ride out. According to Papa, all he said was ‘we talk.’
“After about six months of riding, the Colonel began to sleep through the night more often than not. Another six months and the worst of the terrors stopped. Shortly after that, the Colonel married a fine lady from Derbyshire, one of the Fitzwilliams who are seated at Matlock. That’s why you see General Fitzwilliam around here from time-to-time. He is some sort of cousin.
“But, the lesson here is that Tom Shrimpton had been through what the Colonel had been through. And, being able to talk with someone who knew what war was all about, not some puffed up parade ground soldier, helped Colonel Cecil heal.”
Wilson had slowly chewed his way through the remainder of his breakfast as Annie had talked. He now was staring intently at her, his eyes soft and hard at the same time, a gaze that confused her. She quickly drank her tea that had grown cold in its cup. But, she was not yet finished.
She rushed ahead, “All I wanted to say was that I would be happy to listen to you, but I think you would profit from talking about your dreams with another soldier. That is all.”
With that, she jumped up and hurried away leaving Henry to watch her retreating back with a wonderful feeling growing in his breast. Then he pushed his heart back into its box.
Chapter VI
October 18, 1815, Cecil House
Grosvenor Square was alight with torches set to illuminate the walks and stairs leading to Cecil House. A line of guests snaked out the front door and down the Carrera marble stairs. Carriages filled the street and stretched out of sight around the block. Liveried footmen from Cecil, Cranborne and Salisbury Houses handed brilliantly costumed ladies from their conveyances. Many neighbors, especially some of the younger couples of the ton, chose to make the brief walk from their own townhomes while enjoying the moderate temperatures illuminated by a true Harvest Moon.
The lot had fallen this year to Lady Mary to host the entire Cecil clan’s traditional Harvest Masque. The staff at Cecil House had been set to cleaning for an entire week before the gala event. Every stick of furniture had to be moved, cleaned, waxed and re-positioned. Carpets were rolled up and stored away in the attics. Parlors were repurposed into card rooms. Decorations had to be made and hung. Hothouses emptied their floral offerings into the ball and dining rooms.
The great Cecil china collection was reassembled in one location for the 150 invited couples to use as they broke from dancing during the supper set. Under-butlers and first footmen polished silver until their arms ached. Every cloth was pounded and scrubbed with caustic before stubborn wrinkles were punished under blazing irons wielded by stout-armed laundry maids. The cooks at all three Salisbury kitchens spent days making giant copper vats of salmagundi salad, white soup by the gallon, trays of collar’d beef, raised pies by the dozen, a score of shining galantines, tubs of trifle and, for the sweet lovers, mounds of rout cakes and marzipan.[xv] No expense was spared by one of the most aristocratic families in all of Britain. But, where some of the ton’s less secure members would have done so to display their sophistication, the Cecils did it because that was what they did.
Annie stood behind a seated Miss Bennet making a few final adjustments to the governess’ hair. They had decided to pile her long blonde tresses atop her head in an effort to imitate the style of thirty years before. The two young women had prowled through trunks of old clothes up in the attic to discover a glorious blue and white silk gown that, according to Miss Bennet, “…screamed Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire.” This dress fit Miss Bennet with almost no need for alteration. They also turned up a matching reticule, gloves and satin slippers. The final result pleased both women.
Young Margaret Cecil, all of seven-years-old, was almost beside herself with excitement. Her Mama had allowed her to stay up past her usual bedtime of half seven to watch her favorite lady (well, Mama came first, of course!) get ready for the ball. Miss Bennet was so beautiful! And Annie had transformed her into a princess with the hair and the gown and everything! Mama and Papa will not recognize Miss Bennet.
Miss Bennet stood and flowed over to the pier glass which dominated the corner of her bedchamber. She turned one-way and then the other, regarding her reflection with a little frown. Then a huge smile broke across her face, reaching all the way up past her brilliant china blue eyes.
“Annie, I do not know how you did it, but you have turned Kitty Bennet into a Duchess. Where have you been all my life? My sisters and I would prepare and decorate each other for the assemblies in Meryton, but we never, ever achieved such an effect. Lud, I believe I could sneak into Carlton House looking like this and the guards would not even blink!” she enthused.
Annie gently blushed and lowered her head. Comfortable in her relationship with her lady, she replied, “I had the perfect canvas, Miss Bennet. Your skin is flawless and your hair so healthy it will hold any style with a minimum of pins.
“You will have a wonderful evening. And once I get Miss Margaret ready for bed, I will be downstairs in case you need me for anything.”
Margaret gurgled, “Oh, Miss Bennet, I have only seen a gown like that in Grandmama’s portrait in the gallery. And your hair looks just the same.”
Kitty turned to Margaret and replied, “That is because Annie and I went into the gallery an
d viewed your Grandmother Cecil’s likeness so we could see the style of the times. I imagine some day your granddaughter will look to your portrait to prepare herself for her first Harvest Masquerade.”
Margaret looked at the two women standing in the center of the room. In her innocence she said, “Well, maybe, but only if Annie will be there to prepare her hair. And then I would sit with you and watch her dance.”
The utter impossibility of that did not penetrate the child’s mind, so sure was she in wanting her Miss Bennet and Annie there to comfort and prepare a young lady two generations in the future. A small cloud swept across Miss Bennet’s face as she remembered how fleeting life was, her beloved Papa in his grave these four years past. Annie saw it, though, and offered a gentle diversion by draping a sapphire shawl over the governess’ shoulders. Kitty acknowledged her kindness by reaching up and quickly patting the maid’s hand.
She then turned back to the little girl sitting on the bed.
With mock severity, she addressed the energetic bundle of ribbons and curls, “All right Miss Cecil. We are going to go to the top of the Great Staircase so that you may see your Grandparents, Aunt and Uncle and Mama and Papa greet their guests. But no outbursts.
“Then, after no more than five minutes, you will have to accompany Annie back to your chambers where she will ready you for bed. She has agreed to one story and then it will be bedtime. You will probably be able to hear the music when the orchestra begins.
“Am I understood?”
Annie marveled at the change in the child in the four months since Miss Bennet had joined the household. Margaret had blossomed under Miss Bennet’s tutelage. Gone were tantrums that had been endured by parents and staff alike. For whatever reason, Lady Emily’s friend was just what little Miss Cecil required.
Margaret bobbed her head, and the three left the room.
