As the soup was removed, Lady Catherine inquired, “I pray you have found your labors profitable today, Richard. A Fitzwilliam must always live up to his responsibilities.”
“I quite agree with you, Aunt, and I have been most agreeably occupied this morning. I would like to make an appointment to speak to you about the particulars of my business—tomorrow afternoon, perhaps?”
Anne’s mother was nothing if not predictable, so the heiress was astounded when Lady Catherine cried, “There is no need to stand on ceremony, sir. Speak up! We are all family here.”
Richard looked up at his aunt’s expectant face, shrugged his shoulders, and marched off to disaster.
“As you are aware, I have been reviewing the condition of the lands that make up the estate. It will come as no surprise to you that things are not what they ought to be. Yields and income have dropped over the last few years.”
“Here, here. Have you discovered the malefactors?”
“Yes, Aunt, and I will tell you his name: Tradition.”
Lady Catherine frowned. “Tradition? What do you mean by this? Come, come. Tell me the names of the indolent creatures. I will see that the constable runs them off.”
Richard ignored her demand. “Aunt, there are a few older tenants who cannot properly work their lands. Their sons have fled to the cities for employment. There are also younger men who do not farm enough land to support their families. I will tell you of my plans for readjustment presently, but the real reason that yields are down is that the vast number of the tenants follow the traditional way of farming and do not embrace the new scientific methods.”
“What methods?”
“Well, for one, crop rotation—allowing fields to lay fallow, to rest—”
“What! Surely you do not mean that wicked practice of neglecting one field in four!”
“’Tis a proven idea. My father uses it at Matlock—”
Lady Catherine was unimpressed. “It is a license to idleness! My income cut by a quarter so that men may sit whistling in the wind! How will my rents be paid?”
“Aunt, you must understand that yields on the remaining property will increase to such an extent that you will see no drop in income—eventually.”
“Eventually?” cried Lady Catherine. “You see—you know that this method is false!”
“That is not what I meant.” Richard took a breath. “The fields are in a critical condition. It will take a season or two to set things right—for new farmers to work their new fields—”
“New fields?”
“Yes, Aunt. Mr. Smith, for example, will be pensioned off. The land he worked shall be transferred to Mr. Clarke, a man small in holdings but large in abilities.”
“Mr. Clarke! That babe? How will he pay the rent?”
“He will not—not for the first year,” Richard admitted.
“What?”
Richard quickly explained his plan. “The harvest last season was too small to pay the rent and fill the farmers’ larders. They chose to be honest men and paid their due. They have put their families at risk of hunger if not outright starvation. It is time we did right by them.” Lady Catherine was too shocked to speak, so Richard continued. “I have instructed the steward to put in place my reforms and readjustments. For those who comply, there will be a rent holiday of one year, subject to review upon this fall’s harvest.”
Anne saw the justice in Richard’s plan, but she expected her mother would prove hard to persuade. Lady Catherine did not disappoint.
“Are you saying there will be no rents this year?” Lady Catherine was finally able to squeak.
“I have reviewed your financial position. You have been frugal and have put money aside. With economy in the household and personal accounts, you will hardly notice the inconvenience, while strengthening the farming abilities of your lands. This will not go unnoticed by the people. All Hunsford will know of your generosity. By sharing their pain, you will win their hearts. Your name will be celebrated in the village square—”
“Thief!” Lady Catherine screamed. “Thief! You steal my money to give to that… that rabble! How could you do this to your family? Are you lost to all duty and honor? There is a viper in my house!”
“Mother!” cried Anne.
Richard tried to reason with her. “Madam, people will starve if we do not act.”
“What do I care for that scum?” she spat. “They live in squalor, breeding their beggars, thieves, and whores! If they starve, it is God’s judgment on them! And you wish to accommodate their sin!” She jabbed an accusatory finger in his direction and declared, “You are a traitor to your class!”
Anne was astonished by her mother’s open vindictiveness. She looked at the others seated at the table. Richard was shocked silent, and Mrs. Jenkinson was ghostly pale.
“You will rescind your instructions at once!” Lady Catherine demanded, wagging her forefinger in the air. “Do you hear me? At once!”
Richard rose from the table. “No, Aunt, I will not.”
“Do you defy me? It is not to be borne! You will not gainsay me. I shall stop your evil!”
Anne watched Richard respond to Lady Catherine’s ravings with calm determination. “You may try, madam, but the steward will accept instructions only from me.”
“No! I see it now! You are trying to steal Rosings from me!”
“Madam!”
“Silence! I know your twisted mind! You are in league with my brother—he is behind this! But I will stand for it no more! Out! Get out of my house this instant!”
There was a terrible stillness in the dining hall as the echo of Lady Catherine’s demand faded. Without a word, a pale Richard gave his aunt a cold, polite bow and left the room.
Anne got up to follow her lover.
“Where are you going, miss?” demanded her mother.
Through her tears, Anne replied, “I care not, so long as it is away from this table. I am ashamed of you!”
With that, Anne fled the room, heedless of Lady Catherine’s demands for her return.
* * *
Ten minutes later, a grim Richard stood by the door to his bedroom, watching his valet toss all his belongings unfolded into the trunk. He hated leaving Anne, but there was nothing for it. Lady Catherine had absolutely refused to see justice in his solutions to the crisis at Rosings, and he could stand her insults and wild accusations no more. At least his departure would give Anne some peace and quiet. As for himself, he would know no peace until he met with his father and devised a plan to save Rosings and protect his Anne.
His valet’s task done, Richard opened the door to find Anne waiting without. He paused, searching for reproach in her fine eyes, but only found love and regret. Silently, the two unacknowledged lovers briefly embraced in the hall before heading downstairs, hand in hand, the valet carrying the trunk behind. Richard signaled that the valet continue to the coach, while he left Anne to go into the library.
Minutes later he emerged, a large packet of papers in his hand. Richard took Anne’s hand with his free hand, bowed farewell to Mrs. Parks, and exited the house with his beloved.
Richard halted before the coach. He handed the packet to the valet and turned to Anne.
“Richard!” she cried. “Take me with you!”
Slowly and sadly, the colonel shook his head. Taking both of Anne’s hands in his, he looked intently at her. “Anne, I wish many things right now. I wish I could speak, but now is not the time. I cannot take you with me; you must remain. But do not despair!” He paused and then continued, slowly and deliberately, “As God is my witness, I shall return for you.”
He stared at Anne until she nodded in acknowledgment.
“I do not believe you have anything to fear from your mother; her malice is reserved for me. However, should you require assistance, write to the earl, and I or another will come at once. Will you do that if the need arises? Promise me, Anne.”
Anne nodded again.
His eyes softened. “Until w
e meet again, my dear girl.”
With that, he kissed her hands and then turned them over to touch his lips softly to each of her palms. With one last, longing look into her shattered face, he leapt into the carriage and was off.
Anne stood at the foot of the steps, as still as death, watching the coach until it disappeared in the darkness.
Observing the whole scene from the parlor window behind her was Lady Catherine.
Chapter 13
Vienna
“Are you almost ready, my lady?” asked Sofia.
She will be ready when I am done, you Hessian hussy! thought Abigail, her annoyance with the Austrian interloper renewed at the sound of the girl’s heavily accented English. Abigail was personal maid to Lady Buford and by rights should have been equal in rank with the housekeeper in the hierarchy of the Buford household. However, as Frau Lippermann only spoke German, Abigail was forced to share her position with this Teutonic troublemaker. The maid did not need a translator to know that Sofia despised both Lady Buford and her.
Abigail looked at her mistress in the mirror and saw that she too was exasperated with Sofia’s superior ways. There was only one person’s opinion that counted with Abigail. “My lady, is your hair satisfactory?”
“I am delighted. Thank you, Abby. The necklace, please, and then we are away.” Caroline was nervous but steeled herself not to direct her anxiety to Abigail. Sofia, however, was another matter.
Abigail stood back to admire her mistress. The deep crimson dress, dyed to match Sir John’s sash, showed her pale complexion to good effect, and the feathers in her hair were smaller than usual. “You look lovely, my lady, if I may say so.”
Caroline smiled slightly at the maid’s compliment. “Thank you, Abby.” The two of them had developed a friendship of sorts in the last weeks, brought together by their mutual loathing of Sofia. “Come, Sofia; we must not keep Sir John waiting.”
The Austrian maid mumbled something in German; to Caroline’s ears, it sounded slightly insulting. If only she could speak German, she would put the impertinent baggage in her place!
Caroline discovered Sir John in the parlor, splendid in his full-dress, blue Dragoon uniform, sabre at his side, cape rakishly thrown over one shoulder. Caroline tried to remember to breathe as a chill went down her back. The look in Sir John’s piercing blue eyes screamed that he wanted Caroline in their bed—now. For her part, Caroline was very agreeable to the unspoken suggestion. All the irritation she had felt over her husband’s inattention to her domestic difficulties vanished for the time being. The two looked at each other with pure desire until Roberts cleared his throat.
“Uh… sir, my lady, it is time to leave.”
The Embassy Ball, hosted by Lady Beatrice, would begin within the hour, and Lady Buford was to assist the hostess. Without a word, Sir John offered his wife his arm, and they sailed out to the waiting coach with Sofia trailing behind.
Sofia babbled in the coach as the party moved through the late afternoon streets of Vienna. “It is vise for you to take me along vith you, Sir John. I know my vay around Vienna very vell as I vas raised here.”
Caroline barely heard the girl; she was too concerned over her duties that evening. Soon, the carriage drew before the Schönbrunn Palace, and the Buford party made their way inside.
“Sofia,” Lady Buford said after they entered the building, “report to Lady Beatrice’s secretary. She will assign you your duties.” She did not notice that Sofia had mumbled something under her breath.
Caroline and Sir John continued into the main ballroom, where they were greeted by the duke and his cousin as well as the other members of the British delegation.
Caroline’s tension had eased somewhat, for the other ladies of the delegation had, on the whole, proved to be pleasant and gracious. There were at least two with whom Caroline was desirous of becoming better acquainted, and they seemed to welcome the newcomer into their sphere. The ladies went off to see to the final preparations in good spirits.
Within an hour, the ballroom was filled with the height of Viennese society. Never had Caroline seen such finery and jewels, having never been presented at court. Not that it would have mattered; European fashion made the London scene look dowdy by comparison. She and Sir John were making the rounds when she heard someone calling her husband.
“Colonel Buford! What a wonderful surprise!” A beautiful young woman of medium height approached them. She wore a silver gown with a shocking décolletage, her blue sash of rank tucked beneath her ample bosom. She drew close to the colonel and, in a very familiar way, touched his red sash. “What is this?” she asked with a faint French accent. “Are you now Sir John? Have you been elevated?”
“Yes, Countess, as have you.”
“Ah, but you earned your knighthood by your labors for your king, n’est-ce pas? I have done so by the usual method afforded to women.” She finally turned to Caroline. “Will you introduce me to your companion?”
Buford ground his teeth. He knew Roxanne could see their wedding rings. “Countess, I present to you my wife, Lady Buford. Lady Buford, Countess de Pontchartrain-Villières. Her husband, the Count de Pontchartrain, is a member of the French delegation.”
“Countess.” Caroline curtsied.
“Charmed. So, you are married, Sir John? But how could you not with such a lovely creature.” She nodded at Caroline. “I had not heard; is it a recent event?”
“Our wedding was in January, Countess,” Caroline answered.
“And a honeymoon in Vienna! What could be more delightful! Sir John, you must not keep this charming lady to yourself. You simply must excuse us. Come with me, Lady Buford.” The countess gave each of them a smile, took Caroline’s arm, and walked off with her.
Sir John could only look on with a shade of concern on his face.
Caroline could not like the Countess de Pontchartrain. Her familiarity with Sir John set her teeth on edge. She wondered at her pointed attentions, but she tried to submerge her doubts. The countess was French, she reasoned, and the French have strange ways. Besides, Caroline was a veteran of the games of the London ton, so surely she could handle a French vixen. Still, she found herself striving valiantly not to feel completely underdressed next to the countess.
For the next few minutes, Caroline was introduced to several other grand ladies and was quizzed politely about herself. Finally, Countess de Pontchartrain pointed out a handsome gentleman standing a little ways from them, wearing a black suit with a red-and-white sash.
“Have you been introduced to that gentleman, Lady Buford?” When answered in the negative, the Countess called the man over. “Baron, allow me to introduce Lady Buford of Wales. Lady Buford, this is Baron Wolfgang von Odbart of Prussia.”
A roar of laughter rolled across the room, and the countess glanced away. “Oh! I must leave you now; my husband calls, I think. The baron is capable of ensuring your entertainment, Lady Buford. À bientôt.” The countess then left the two together.
The dashing baron turned to Caroline. “Are you available for a set, Lady Buford?”
“The second set is available, sir.”
“Wunderbar. Bis dann—until then, my lady.” He clicked his heels, bowed, and left her.
Soon, other august noblemen were introduced to Lady Buford, and it was not long before her dance card was filled, two sets reserved for her husband. Caroline tried her best not to appear as intimidated as she felt, but it was a relief when Sir John came to claim the opening set with her. Sir John was an excellent dancer, and Caroline was able to lose herself in the movements of the dance, watching her husband.
Soon the dance was over and Sir John surrendered his happy bride to her new friends. She was in conversation with the ladies when the baron reappeared.
“Lady Buford? It is time for our set,” he informed her as he held out his arm.
Caroline accepted the gesture and allowed herself to be glided to the dance floor. She did not see the looks of concern on the other ladies’
faces.
* * *
Buford stood by himself, taking in the crowd and enjoying the dancers, when the Countess de Pontchartrain approached him.
“I finally have you to myself, Jean,” she said in French.
His contentment evaporated, the colonel responded in the same language. “What can you mean, Comtesse?”
The lady laughed lightly. “Jean, have I not always been Roxanne to you? Surely, you have not forgotten.”
Fighting his feelings, Buford remained gallant. “Of course not. But those days have passed, milady.”
“Surely, you do not refer to our… recent acquisitions?” The countess looked upon him with dancing eyes. “Have you met my husband, chéri? Non?” She glanced over her shoulder and smiled. “Well, he is over there, across the room.”
Buford looked to the gentleman she indicated. He beheld a rather dandified older man wearing not only a wig but also what looked suspiciously like rouge on his cheeks. The look was a bit excessive, even for a French noble.
“You spy him, oui? Well, observe the man to his left. Watch!”
Buford saw a young footman, who could not be older than one-and-twenty, crossing over to the comte with a glass of wine. His clothes were very fine and fit like a glove. Count de Pontchartrain accepted the wine, taking the glass with a slight caress of the young man’s hand. It was very brief, and only one who had been observing very closely would have caught it.
The countess chuckled. “Yes, Pierre is a particular favorite. What say you?”
Despite his deep revulsion, Buford could not help himself. “A ballet dancer’s breeches should fit so well.” They were so tight as to be almost indecent.
“Ah, how did you know? My husband pays better than ballet de l’Académie impériale de musique.” She laughed. “Of course, we know he is also a spy for the government, sent to keep an eye on us—an amusing game.”
In a very low voice, Buford demanded, “Why do you tell me these things, Roxanne?”
“We have an understanding, he and I, as pertains to les affaires d’amour. We are discreet. I do not embarrass him, and he does not embarrass me. I have no reason to complain. Have you a similar agreement in your house, chéri?”
The Three Colonels Page 13
