Diamond Soldiers

by Pinki Parks

  Several men had presented themselves over the previous year, but it was the Marquess of Collingdale whom she favoured, mainly due to his wealth, said to be some £10,000 a year, alongside his political ambitions, and not to mention his royal connection which the Dowager saw as an opportunity to further her own ends, for she was keen to secure the privileges of court both for herself and her daughters.

  But the reader must surely have realised by now that the Marquess was not an attractive man, neither physically, though of course such a fact in itself should not matter, but most certainly not in his outlook and self. He believed himself to be superior to all, and his income allowed for such an attitude to prevail. But despite his good fortunes he was terminally unlucky in that which can make even the poorest man feel the richest in the world: thus far he had failed to find a person to love or rather a person who would love him back, and thus, though his personality fell far short of being desirable he was a pitiable figure, but one who did little to help himself.

  That evening passed without much to warrant the reader’s interest, the Dowager was indeed awaiting their return and eager to hear any news they might impart, though Charlotte was grateful to her sisters for not imparting the misdemeanour outside the singing Duke’s chambers earlier that day. The Duke in question had departed for Bath with the promise that it would not be long before he and Freddie were reunited for the Boxing Day Hunt, a tradition which Charlotte later learned, was a highlight of the social calendar.

  The Duke of Langburn himself was in the library pouring over various documents and papers for the coming days and so after a light supper the ladies retired to listen to their mother play the harpsichord and to read. Charlotte found the reading matter available somewhat limited, forgetting that the concept of the novel had not yet really emerged, though she found herself smiling as she browsed through a first edition of Sense and Sensibility by Jane Austen, a volume which she knew would fetch a small fortune if transported back to her contemporary setting. At length she retired to bed where she found that Emma had stoked a fire in the grate, and turned down her bed.

  Reflecting upon the past forty-eight hours she realised what an astonishing amount had happened to her in just a short time. No longer did she feel like a 21st century woman but had entirely taken to her life as it had been presented here. Somehow, she knew that when the time was right she would go home, but clearly there was something special here for her to accomplish, or at least to witness, and the prospect of that gave her considerable comfort as she slipped between the sheets and settled down to sleep, watching the glowing coals in the fire and picturing Maria Fitzherbert, who had been everything she had imagined her to be and more.

  Chapter IV

  Charlotte awoke the next morning to the same sounds as she had done yesterday, Mary’s cheery greeting from the door, and the daylight streaming in through the window.

  ‘We have a change of weather today ma’am,’ Emma said as she pulled back the curtains.

  ‘A thick fresh snowfall and more to come I’ll warrant, as do the stable men.’

  ‘I love the snow,’ Charlotte said sitting up in bed as Emma poured hot water from the kettle into a basin and began to stoke the fire.

  ‘Oh, I hate it ma’am, it gets in your galoshes and trails all through the house, I will put an extra few logs on the fire to warm the room through before you get up.’

  ‘But you can toboggan, ski, throw snowballs,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Ski ma’am?’ Why, I doubt your dear mother would approve of you tobogganing.’

  Once again Charlotte realised she had said something without thinking it through and so quickly changing the subject she asked Emma about her love life, unaware that such a thing was not a suitable topic of conversation between a lady and a servant.

  Emma turned a deep shade of red, her cheeks blushed.

  ‘Well there is young Harry the stable lad, we’ve been stepping out for some time now.’

  ‘Are you going to get married?’ Charlotte asked.

  ‘Why I hope so ma’am, I surely do, I must wait for him to ask me first though,’ she said, laughing.

  ‘Why don’t you ask him?’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Me ma’am? Why, I couldn’t ask him now could I, that would not be the done thing.’

  ‘By the sounds of it people like me just get told who to marry,’ Charlotte said as she began to wash in the basin.

  ‘There are many fine men suitable for you ma’am,’ Emma said.

  ‘And today I have to meet one my mother favours,’

  ‘You mean the Marquess ma’am?’

  ‘The Marquess yes, I don’t even know his first name,’ Charlotte said, laughing out loud.

  Unaware that Charlotte expected nothing of her than to be a friend rather than a servant, and even more unaware that the Charlotte before her was not the same Charlotte as the one who had occupied that position just a few days before, Emma did not like to remind her that the Marquess’ name was George, named after the king at the time of his birth, nor did she like to say that personally, from observation, she found him to be a most obnoxious, rude and unpleasant character.

  ‘What time are we going there for lunch or dinner or whatever it is?’ Charlotte said, forgetting her attempts at limiting her New York twang.

  ‘Oh, er, I believe the carriage will depart here at 4 O’clock so that you are with the Marquess for 6 O’clock,’ Emma replied.

  ‘Oh good,’ Charlotte said, ‘I’ve got the day to relax then.’

  The maid left her to her preparations, and Charlotte finished dressing herself and preparing for the day. She had adapted to the difference in circumstance quite remarkably and after yesterday’s explorations she knew her way around the house with ease joining her mother and sisters for breakfast before taking a turn around the gardens, despite her mother’s chastisement that she would catch her death of cold.

  On the lawns several of the servants’ children were throwing snowballs at one another, their faces red and hands like icicles. Charlotte pictured herself joining in as one of the snowballs fell close to her feet. If she had been back in New York and in Central Park she’d have been making snow angels with Phoebe and building inappropriate snow sculptures, here though she had to behave with deportment, and so she just smiled as she watched the children play before returning to the morning room and the warmth of the fire.

  ~

  At 4 O’clock, with the snow still falling, Charlotte and her mother prepared to depart for dinner with the Marquess of Collingdale.

  ‘Now, the servants will lay out a cold collation for you two girls and we shall ensure we are not too late back,’ the Dowager said as Isabella and Ellen stood in the entrance hall waiting for their departure.

  ‘We’ll be fine mother, go on your way and do your duty with the Marquess.’

  ‘Duty does not come into it dear, it is a great honour to be invited to dine with someone who has such close connections at court.’

  ‘You have close connections too mother,’ Ellen said, as they helped their mother into the carriage.

  ‘Oh, Freddie isn’t interested in court, he’s too busy chasing around with the Duke of Hareburn on the horses,’ her mother said, ‘the Marquess has ambition.’

  ‘I don’t envy you,’ Isabella whispered to Charlotte, as she helped her into the carriage.

  ‘I heard that,’ her mother said, ‘Charlotte will have a most enjoyable evening being entertained by a gentleman with over £10,000 a year, think of what one could do with that!’

  And with that she closed the carriage door and settled herself next to Charlotte, pulling the woolen rug up over them both and tapping the roof to signal for the driver to depart.

  The Marquess resided for much of the year in London but had a house in the district a few miles away and soon the carriage was proceeding at a good pace across the parkland and on through the lanes and byways. It was dark by now and the lamps on the carriage had been lit
, illuminating the snowy scene around them.

  ‘Now Charlotte, I want this evening to go well,’ her mother said as they bounced over a particularly large pothole, ‘you will be polite to the Marquess now won’t you, he has been most gracious in inviting us, and it is you whom he wishes to make acquaintance with, not me.’

  ‘I’m sure I shall do my best,’ Charlotte replied, though secretly she intended to have some fun, just as she had done with the look a like in the bar a few nights before.

  ‘You will do more than your best,’ her mother said, ‘we must make a good impression.’

  It took almost two hours for the carriage ride, particularly as the weather remained inclement, the snow continuing to fall thickly. At length they arrived at the home of the Marquess, an imposing pile behind a large set of wrought iron gates. It felt very different to the home of the Carshaws where Charlotte had taken tea the day before with Maria Fitzherbert, its façade unlit save for a solitary light in the lower window.

  As they approached the entrance the horseman slowed the carriage, and a footman appeared from the door to welcome them.

  ‘Here we are dear,’ her mother said, ‘remember what I said.’

  Charlotte found the affair most wonderfully amusing, the story thus far was ticking all her images of the British regency and here was a simply perfect Gothic setting in which to experience another side to drama. Perhaps, she thought, it was a game show after all, the latest in virtue reality, this may not be the past at all, but the future, a ghost just waiting to pop out.

  The footman assisted her down from the carriage, and led by her mother they approached the dark, foreboding entrance.

  ‘This way madam,’ the footman said, ‘the Marquess is awaiting you in the lower library.’

  ‘Does the Marquess have an aversion to candles?’ Charlotte whispered to her mother, ‘no wonder he is so rich if he keeps his home so dark and cold.’

  ‘Shush dear,’ her mother said, nudging her at the same time.

  The Marquess was indeed awaiting them in the lower library, though it was not like the Duke’s library at Langburn which was bright and airy with windows looking over the parkland, this library was shuttered off and lit only by the fire and two stand candles which created something of an unpleasant shadowing across the walls, and ensured that the corners of the room remained inaccessible to sight.

  ‘The dowager Duchess of Langburn and Miss Charlotte Langburn, my lord,’ the footman said as he escorted them into the library.

  The Marquess appeared from a tall backed chair close to the fire, and though his greeting was warm the atmosphere of the place was enough to send a chill up Charlotte’s spine.

  ‘So glad you have made it despite the snow,’ he said and bowed low, ‘I did wonder if we would have to send a search party for you.’

  ‘Our carriage is used to such conditions,’ the dowager replied, ‘and we could not decline such a gracious invitation for a little English weather now, could we Charlotte?’

  ‘Oh no, er, of course not, a little snow never stopped anyone,’ Charlotte said.

  ‘Charlotte, you look radiant,’ the Marquess said.

  ‘There’s not a lot else radiating in here,’ Charlotte replied, squinting through the gloom at the Marquess who was silhouetted by the fire.

  ‘Oh, of course,’ he said, ‘forgive me, I prefer to keep the house a little darker than most like it, come this way and we shall dine.

  He led them through a pair of double doors, and into a dining room which was comparatively well lit, though its contents were aged and fading. It appeared that the Marquess kept a small staff, as the footman who had welcomed them at the door now acted as a server pouring water into glasses and proffering a claret which all but the Marquess declined.

  At length the soup was brought and ladled from a tureen into bowls, Charlotte had never particularly cared for soup and toyed with it a little as her mother and the Marquess made idle conversation. When the partridge came the host took it upon himself to carve the little birds and serve them onto the plates, informing Charlotte that it was a considerable skill to perform such an act, one which ladies would have little idea about.

  As her mother tittered into her napkin Charlotte felt herself becoming more annoyed. The Marquess’ conversation was not only dull, but also somewhat nauseating, as he boasted of his prowess in this or that field and dropped names from court where of course he was a favourite of the king. From her history books Charlotte recalled that George IV was in fact an appallingly bad monarch with an insatiable appetite for both women and food, his only redeemable feature being a penchant for architecture, the present Buckingham Palace in London being his lasting legacy.

  But the Marquess talked about his namesake as if he were a God, and whilst her mother hung upon his every word Charlotte found herself becoming less and less enamoured.

  If the Marquess had hoped to win her affections with a dinner of soup, partridge and a jelly alongside a catalogued explanation of his boasts and achievements then he was sorely mistaken and Melissa was determined that for as long as she was responsible for Charlotte’s welfare she would not allow her mother to push the union between the two any further than the occasional forced social engagement.

  As the evening drew on the snow had continued to fall, and unbeknownst to the party gathered for dinner in the dimly lit house, attended by a small retinue of servants the roads back to Langburn were now blocked by deep drifts. The possibility of returning safely that night had passed and at present the carriage driver came to inform the footman that there was no choice but for the Duchess and Charlotte to stay the night at the Marquess’ house.

  ‘To deep?’ the Dowager said.

  ‘Yes ma’am, too deep for the carriage to pass through.’

  ‘Well what are we to do, can it not be dug through?’

  ‘Not now ma’am, the driver informs me that you shall have to remain here until the morning, by then he can safely set out, but says he would not see the young lady nor yourself stranded in the snow at night,’ the footman said.

  ‘No of course not. Marquess we shall have to throw ourselves upon your hospitality, such an inconvenience, and so embarrassing to not be able to return on this night, whatever will my daughters think when we do not return.’

  ‘Fear not,’ the Marquess said, ‘it would be my pleasure to host you. Godfrey?’ he said addressing the footman, ‘have the housekeeper prepare two rooms for out guests.’

  Charlotte was reluctant to remain the night at the Marquess’ house, it seemed, to her now more attuned Regency mind, that it was not particularly appropriate to do so. Nevertheless, she had her mother there, and it would only be for one night so perhaps little harm would come of it. But the house was so dark and foreboding, it’s corridors unlit, save for the most rudimentary of lighting, and as the footman escorted her to the assigned chambers her sense of foreboding became all too apparent.

  The room itself was so far removed from her own at Langburn as to be positively medieval. No warm fire burned in the hearth, no birds flew amidst baroque patterns on the ceiling and the bed was far from the curtained and inviting example at home. Instead the room appeared as if it had once been attractive, but had since faded as the years had gone by under the Marquess’ care, or lack thereof. In the corner was a washstand with a bowl and jug of water, the curtains hung low and heavy from the window, and in the centre of the room the bed looked uncomfortably sparse, a sheet and blanket arranged over it.

  ‘I do hope it will be suitable ma’am,’ the footman said as he handed her a candle and bid her mother follow him to her own apartments.

  ‘I’ll see you in the morning dear, we shall leave first thing, we mustn’t impose upon the Marquess’ gracious hospitality a moment longer than we have to. Oh, they will be so worried back at Langburn, your sisters will think the carriage has overturned or something else even more dreadful.’ Her lamentations continued, as her footsteps disappeared down the co
rridor in pursuit of the footman leaving Charlotte shivering a little in the dark room.

  She closed the door and made to turn the key, but finding there was none she placed a chair up against the door. Something about the house, and the Marquess himself, made her uneasy. He had been so very eager for them to stay, it seemed even as if the arrangements had been made prior to her arrival, was there not a room closer to her mother’s available? It was all very strange.

  But Charlotte resolved to make the best of things, she’d spent plenty of summers during her college days back packing and roughing it in all manner of places, and in her time, she’d come across some pretty shady characters. Perhaps the Marquess was just a bit of a creep rather than a menace. Either way she would have none of it.

  With the chair in place in front of the door she undressed for bed and got in-between the itchy sheets, pulling the blanket up over her to try and preserve as much heat as possible. It would be a tolerable night rather than a comfortable one she decided, and settled her head down on the pillow to sleep.

  The house was, like most old houses, prone to creaks and unusual noises, the settling of wood, or the running of a mouse creating an amplified sound that could appear quite terrifying to the uninitiated. Back in New York Melissa’s apartment had a problem with the pipes, and she was forever informing visitors not to jump when unusual noises emanated from the kitchen or the bathroom. Thus, it was that she paid little attention to the various noises of this house, that is until about 2 O’clock in the morning when she had heard the distant sound of a clock somewhere in the house sounding the hour, and unable to sleep had rolled over for about the twentieth time. But then, as the hour ceased sounding she heard the distinctive sound of footsteps, very gently upon the woodwork approaching along the corridor outside her room.