The Three Colonels

by Jack Caldwell

  The men sat silently, considering what a bread riot would do to Lady Catherine’s fine garden. Richard finished his drink. “What do we do, Darcy?”

  Darcy’s expression was grim. “I can do nothing—I am still persona non grata for choosing Elizabeth over my cousin, Anne. This is your task, Richard.”

  * * *

  Newcastle

  The innkeeper of the Pig’s Snout Pub carelessly poured a measure of whisky into a glass of dubious cleanliness. “’Ere you go, Gov’nor. Cash, sir, if’n you please.”

  The newly minted army captain tossed the money onto the bar. “Keep it filled until that runs out, my good man.”

  George Wickham, Captain of Infantry in the —— Regiment of Foot, took a very small sip of the drink set before him. He had to make it last. He had only a few pounds with him, and the innkeeper was under the strictest instructions not to extend him credit. In fact, the entire town of Newcastle had been told about the Wickhams—cash money and no credit.

  Damn that Darcy! thought Wickham for the thousandth time.

  For three years, Wickham and his loving wife, the former Lydia Bennet, had rotted in cold and cheerless Northumberland. Of course, “loving” could mean many things. In Wickham’s case, it meant that, while Lydia was certainly jolly enough for a tumble more often than not, the price was high—two children already and another on the way. Wickham sighed. Within six months, there would be a third screaming child in his house—three, that is, if you did not count Mrs. Wickham.

  Wickham found that as far as all other joys that supposedly came with holy wedlock, he would enjoy very few. Lydia had inherited most of Mrs. Bennet’s characteristics, save that lady’s famous nerves. Mrs. Wickham was vain, silly, weak-minded, selfish, quarrelsome, and foolhardy with the family money. She was also an affectionate mother, but to Wickham, that did not signify. How the family kept a roof over their heads the Good Lord only knew!

  The Good Lord and Mr. Bartholomew, erstwhile manager of Smyth & Smyth, Wickham’s bank—damn that Darcy! Wickham had always depended that Darcy would somehow provide his income, and when he was forced to marry Lydia, Wickham still had hopes. Those hopes increased when, for reasons undecipherable to Wickham, Darcy married Lydia’s sister, Lizzy. Wickham could never fathom why Darcy did not marry Anne de Bourgh for her money and take Lizzy for his mistress. As part of the bargain they had struck, Darcy purchased Lt. Wickham’s commission and the cottage in which his family now lived.

  However, Darcy had something clever up his rotten Cork Street sleeve. The house was in Darcy’s name. He arranged that all of Wickham’s army pay, as well as Lydia’s dowry and the hundred pounds a year from Mr. Bennet, went straight into a trust account at Smyth & Smyth for Mrs. Wickham. Accounts managed by Mr. Bartholomew were set up at the green grocer, the butcher, the bakery, and several dry goods shops in Newcastle. Food and other necessaries were provided. Whatever was left after the month’s bills were paid was sent to Mrs. Wickham, minus twenty percent, which was retained for emergencies. Lydia, in turn, gave her husband an allowance of two pounds a month.

  To make matters worse, Darcy had been in communication with Wickham’s commanding general. All officers were warned not to gamble with Lt. Wickham or their promotions might be in jeopardy. Wickham was effectively cut out from all entertainments an officer traditionally enjoyed.

  For three years, he lived thus. Then, in remembrance of the third anniversary of Lydia and Wickham’s wedding, a promotion to captain was purchased by Darcy. Not only did this event bring additional income to the Wickham family, it finally gave the head of the household the chance to retaliate against his benefactor.

  Wickham had befriended the paymaster. When the promotion became final, Wickham arranged for four pounds a month to be withheld from transfer to Smyth & Smyth. His friend charged one part in four for the courtesy, but Wickham gladly paid the fee, and his pockets were heavier by three pounds.

  That in itself was cause to celebrate. The reason Captain Wickham was in such high spirits that night was in anticipation of his sister, Kitty’s, wedding. Not that he gave two farthings for the girl, but Lydia had received passage to attend with the children. George Wickham would be a bachelor for at least a month, if not two.

  Wickham moved to a table in the corner. He looked around the pub and spotted a new barmaid. He thought her a tasty morsel. She was young—and he always fancied the young ones—pert, and well padded.

  Ripe for a tumble, she is, or my name is not George Wickham. The captain put down his glass and was about to call her over when he heard a voice he recognized.

  “George! George Wickham, as I live and breathe!”

  Wickham, startled, looked about. His eyes settled on a young major of infantry. “Denny? Is that you?”

  “Ha! Yes, it is, George! Good to see you, old man,” cried Major Archibald Denny, Wickham’s comrade from the ——shire militia.

  “Sit down, sit down! Look at you! You have come up in the world.” Wickham, presuming the barmaid was lost for the evening, focused all his attention on his old friend.

  “So have you,” said Denny. “Captain of Infantry! Are you posted to the regiment here?”

  “Yes—three years. Just got promoted.”

  “Then my arrival is well timed indeed. Allow me to offer you joy for your promotion, sir! Barkeep! A bottle, sir! What are you drinking?”

  “Whisky. ’Tis the only tolerable drink in the house.”

  “Whisky, then! And be quick about it!”

  The bottle of tolerable whisky was soon procured, and the two old brothers-in-arms drank and surveyed each other.

  Wickham broke the silence first. “A major, Denny! You have done well for yourself.”

  “Thankee, George. I was lucky. I earned a competency promotion to captain, and a death vacancy promoted me to major.”

  Wickham, refilling his glass, studied the flashings on Denny’s tunic. “You are not with the militia,” he observed.

  “No, staff officer with the General Staff in London.” Denny nursed his drink.

  Wickham, in spite of himself, was impressed. “What brings you to Newcastle?”

  “I had to consult with your general here.” He took a sip and placed his glass down as he said, “So how are you faring, George?”

  Wickham looked away. “Same as always.” He took a pull at his drink and smiled. “The new recruits cannot find their arse with both hands.”

  Denny laughed. For a while, they spoke of old times, and then Denny said, “You married Lydia Bennet, I remember. How is the family?”

  Wickham took a long swallow of his drink. “Everyone was well, the last time I saw them.” At Denny’s questioning look, Wickham added, “They are to Hertfordshire for Lydia’s sister’s wedding next month,” as he reached for the bottle.

  “Everyone? You have children now, I take it?”

  Wickham’s hand could barely contain his belch. “Yes—two girls. Two whining, screaming girls. Three if you count their mother! Ha!” He took another drink. “Lydia’s expanding again, so maybe this time a boy, eh? Drink up—let us drink to the Wickham heir!” The captain drained his glass. “I tell you, Denny, I just look at her and—boom!” He clapped his hands as he shook his head drunkenly.

  Denny barely touched his drink. “There is no need to speak like that. She is your wife. She is a good woman—”

  “Oh, she is good.” Wickham suddenly stopped and looked at his companion through an alcoholic haze. “What do ya mean by that?” he slurred. “Why ya so interested in Lydia?” Wickham lurched to his unsteady feet, slamming his glass down on the table. “Just what do ya mean by your attentions to my wife?” he roared.

  Denny blanched. “George, sit down,” he urged. “Be still, man; you are making a spectacle of yourself.” He stood to encourage the other man. “Come, sir, all is well. You know I have the greatest admiration for you and your entire family. We are friends, George! Come, have a drink.” Denny poured the last of the whisky into Wickham’s glass
and put the drink into the other man’s hand. Raising his own glass, Denny said, “Here is to you, George. To friendship!”

  Mollified, Wickham returned, “Friendship!” drained the glass, and fell backwards, oversetting his chair, completely intoxicated.

  Denny walked over to ascertain his companion’s condition. Feeling no pain tonight, but I cannot speak for his head in the morning. Denny rounded up a couple of soldiers and had Captain George Wickham carried home to sleep off his carousing in his own bed. Denny stood by the bed as the servant tucked the master in.

  George, George, George—shall you never change? he asked silently as he looked at his friend. Denny looked around the cottage. It was small but fairly neat. The maid did what she could but had little help.

  He thought back to Wickham’s outburst and colored. It was true he had admired Lydia Bennet three years ago, and he was sorry that she had chosen to go off with Wickham, but Denny thought himself resigned to their union long ago. Could his true feelings be so transparent?

  In vain, Denny fought the thought that came to his mind: Lydia deserves better than this.

  Chapter 8

  Austria

  It was now Lady Caroline Buford’s decided opinion that sea travel was unpleasant and unrefined. It was not so much the accommodations; even Caroline knew that warships were not designed for ladies’ travel. Their food was tolerable, for the short voyage assured that the passengers would not need to partake of the more common rations given to mariners, such as rotten mutton, weevil-infested biscuits, and suspect water. The passage across the Channel was uneventful, given calm seas. No, what Caroline did not like was that the beds aboard could not accommodate two.

  It had been quite a change for the former Miss Bingley. Prior to her marriage, she could hardly imagine sharing her bed with a man. Now she could hardly bear not to do so. She found it a great comfort to awaken with her husband’s arm holding her close, and his even breathing was pleasurable. As for the nights, she could only blush. She felt sure she enjoyed those times far more than propriety subscribed, but it did not signify, as Sir John seemed to be delighted with her.

  There was a cloud over her happiness, however, and the kindness her husband paid to her person only added to her worries. She knew Sir John had not sought a love match. He wanted a partner to manage his house and entertain his guests. The time would soon come when she would have to prove her worthiness, and she was determined that she would not disappoint.

  As for the quivering she felt in the pit of her stomach, Caroline began to suspect what it meant—what John meant to her—and that realization both excited and frightened her.

  Once on land, things progressed in a most agreeable manner. The party left Calais in two carriages: Sir John and Lady Buford in one, the maid, Abigail, and valet, Roberts, in the other with most of the luggage. The weather was cold but not oppressively so, and the blankets provided served reasonably well. It did not stop Caroline from occasionally complaining of a chill. This would provoke Sir John to join her under her blanket, and if certain liberties were permitted and enjoyed, the curtains were drawn, so no harm was done. Otherwise, the colonel sat across from his wife, either enjoying the countryside or studying the volume of papers he had brought with him.

  Caroline was astonished to learn over the course of their journey that her new husband was a bit of a linguist. Many of his papers were in languages other than English. When she inquired, Sir John admitted to being fluent in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and Dutch. It was for that ability that Wellington had asked for him. He allowed that his Russian and Swedish were only passable, and his Polish was terrible. Caroline, her French and Italian being merely adequate, could only gape.

  During the day, the party traveled through the countryside, Sir John pointing out interesting features. At the inns where they spent the evenings, Lady Buford took charge. She had the servants see to the rooms while she handled the innkeepers and ordered their meals with her passable French. Nothing was left to chance, and Caroline saw that Sir John did nothing but rest. At night, the knight and his lady would fall into bed together, sometimes for love but always to rest intertwined for the travels ahead.

  They spent little time in France; the route to Vienna was more directly through Belgium and Bavaria, and Sir John did not trust Paris overmuch. He assured his disappointed bride that they would enjoy the French capital another time. Their journey first took them to Brussels and then through the Ardennes Forest to Coblenz, where they crossed into the Saar. Caroline thought she had seen a great river before, but the sleepy Thames was nothing to the powerful Rhine.

  Bavaria and the Black Forest were all delightful. Caroline had never seen such mountains before. It brought to her mind a rather silly comment Louisa had made about mountains being “unrefined.” If the Peaks in the north of England had inspired such a remark, Caroline wondered what her sister would say upon beholding the Alps.

  The party worked their way from Frankfurt down to the Danube River. Soon they entered Austria, and within a few days, they reached the beautiful city of Vienna. Caroline’s heart was in her mouth for more than one reason. The city, on level ground with the river running through it and covered in snow, had a fairy tale air about it. At the same time, she sensed foreboding. Now Caroline’s worthiness to love her husband as she feared she did—and be loved by him as she now dreamed—would be tested.

  * * *

  Caroline walked the rooms of their apartments in Vienna. Large French windows lined one wall, facing the street. The furniture was made of oak with colorful fabrics, unlike the dark Chippendale style favored in England. The rooms were comfortable and well appointed.

  That would never do. How was Lady Buford to prove her worth if she did not leave her mark? It was all very vexing.

  “Well?” asked her husband. “Does the place meet with your approval?”

  Caroline said nothing, occupied with her dilemma. Finally, she pointed to a couch.

  “I believe that settee should be over there and those chairs around it.” Roberts and a footman complied with her instructions. Caroline contemplated the arrangement, walked over to a vase on the mantle, and moved it to a table near the pianoforte. “There,” she said. “That is better. These rooms will do tolerably.”

  Sir John merely laughed. “Wait until spring, my dear, and you will be able to fill the place with orange tulips.”

  “Sir John,” said his wife with just the right touch of condescension, “you may know about maneuvers and strategies and other military matters, but it is obvious you know little about decorating!”

  “I bow to your superior knowledge, my lady. Allow me to introduce you to your staff.”

  Sir John gestured to three women standing by, two of a certain age and one a young blonde beauty.

  “Helga is the cook and Frau Lippermann is the housekeeper. Roberts will serve as butler, as well as my valet. Sofia will join Abigail as your personal maid.” Sofia was the blonde.

  Caroline nodded to each in turn, her eyes narrowing as she beheld the lovely Sofia. In a low voice, she said to her husband, “So many for such a small household? I have no need of a second maid. Abigail is sufficient.”

  “Ah, but you do need another personal maid. Sofia knows German, English, and French. The other ladies speak only their native tongue.”

  Caroline’s lips tightened. “Of course. Thank you for your foresight, sir,” she said, trying but failing to hide completely her aggravation at having to rely on the girl because she had no knowledge of German. Caroline was not happy; Sofia was too attractive by half.

  Raising her nose, Caroline ordered, “Sofia, please inform Frau Lippermann and Helga that I look forward to our time together here in Vienna. They may return to their duties.”

  “I vill. Thank you, my lady,” Sofia replied in heavily accented English, before speaking to the others in German. They nodded to their new mistress and left for the kitchen.

  “If you will pardon me, sir, I will accompan
y my maids to my room to supervise the unpacking.” Caroline gave her husband a small curtsy before leaving the room.

  Sir John was puzzled. What was wrong? What had provoked her?

  * * *

  Buford exited his carriage in front of Ballhausplatz 2, close by the Hofburg Imperial Palace. A four-story, rectangular building, it was the seat of the Austrian Minister of State, Prince von Metternich, and where much of the work of the Congress was done.

  Buford wore civilian clothes—a fine navy blue with his sash of red. He handed his topcoat, hat, and gloves to the footman and entered the vestibule. Quickly ascertaining the location of the British offices, he went up the stairs to the second floor. Halfway down the hall, he saw two men—one tall and one of medium build—conversing in French.

  To respect their privacy, Buford stopped a few yards away. The taller man turned in his direction and noticed the colonel.

  “Buford!” Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, called out. “Excuse me, sir,” Wellington said to his companion in English, “but I would like to introduce this gentleman. Come here, Colonel!”

  Buford drew closer to the pair. “Your Excellency, may I present Colonel Sir John Buford of the British Army. Colonel, this is His Excellency Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord, head of the French delegation.”

  “Your servant, sir.” Talleyrand! Buford thought as he bowed.

  “Colonel, I understand you are lately married,” said the foreign minister in perfect English. “Please accept my congratulations. I hope your wife did not find the journey tiresome.”

  Buford replied in French, “Not at all—merci, Excellency. She is even now calling upon Lady Beatrice.” Buford tried to keep hidden his discomfort. How much do you know, you devil? Apparently, the French Secret Service changed its allegiance as quickly as you did.

  The ambassador was notorious for changing sides: first, Louis XVI, then the Revolution, then against Robespierre, then for Napoleon, and later against the same man. Now he served as minister for Louis XVIII.