The Three Colonels

by Jack Caldwell

  The girl said nothing at first—she just stood by the desk, looking him up and down through her eyelashes.

  “I have vaited for a chance to speak to you alone. I have been patient a very long time. Your work takes up so much of your time. You must be tired.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “You are so handsome—ansehnlich—mein Liebling. I know how to make you happy. Everyone in the house is busy. No one will bother us.” Sofia smiled and began to move. “You must know I vant you. Ich liebe dich von ganzem Herzen!”

  Before he knew what was happening, Sofia had come around the side of Buford’s desk and thrown herself on his lap. With one hand, she grabbed the back of his neck as she kissed him furiously; with the other, she seized his hand and thrust it on her breast.

  “Liebe machen—”

  Buford finally recovered from his surprise. He pulled his hand free and, taking hold of Sofia by her shoulders, forced her away from him and held the girl at arm’s length. “What are you doing, woman?”

  There was a crash.

  Buford’s head snapped to the door. There stood a shocked Lady Buford, her reticule on the floor.

  “Caroline!” he cried.

  “Nutte! Dieser Mann gehört mir!” screamed the girl.

  With a sob, Caroline dashed through the door, revealing Roberts and Frau Lippermann staring into the room. Buford leapt to his feet, and with a thud, Sofia fell to the floor, her skirt up around her knees.

  Buford cared not. He moved quickly to the door and shouted a command to Roberts. “Take that whore”—he pointed to Sofia—“and toss her out this instant!” Buford left the library to the sound of Sofia’s curses.

  Up the staircase he dashed to find a wide-eyed maid outside Caroline’s room. “Abigail, I need you to go downstairs. There is some rubbish that needs tossing out.”

  She looked at her master. “Is it Sofia?” Her face broke into a savage grin as Sir John nodded. “It would be my pleasure!” With that, the maid hurried down the stairs.

  Buford tried the door only to find it locked. The only answers he received to his entreaties were heart-wrenching sobs. Finally, Buford took a step back and, with all his might, kicked the door in.

  Buford was a good student at university, but he forgot Newton’s Law, which states that for every action there is an equal reaction. The door swung open with such force from the kick that it rebounded off the wall and came back to its original position. Unfortunately, Sir John’s head was in the way, and he was struck with enough force to knock him off his feet. He lay stunned outside his wife’s door.

  “John!” cried Caroline. She flew to his side, all else forgotten. “John, John, speak to me! Oh, you are injured! Do not move, I pray! Help! Help!” she screamed through her tears. “Sir John is hurt!”

  Buford, lying on the floor, could not decide what hurt his head most—his injury or the screams in his ears.

  “Caro—”

  “Oh, my dear, do not move! Help is coming!” A moment later, Roberts arrived and helped his mistress carry the master to her bed. “Oh, you must send for a physician this instant!”

  Buford was able to take his wife’s hand. “No, my dear… not necessary… I will be fine.”

  “Sir, the person in question has been removed from the house,” reported Roberts. “Was there anything further?”

  Through his throbbing pain, Buford managed, “No, that is all.” Roberts closed the door as he left. “Caroline—” her husband began.

  With Sir John’s life no longer in danger, Caroline was free to remember her own hurt. “Oh, do not speak to me!” Her tears of fear were replaced by tears of grief. She left the bedside and sat at her dressing table, away from him.

  Colonel Buford struggled to his feet and staggered to his wife. “My love, listen to me—”

  “How could you?”

  His strength gone, Buford fell to his knees before his wife. “You must believe me,” he urged through his pain. “I have been faithful to you. I love you so.” He fell forward on her lap. “I have kept my vow.”

  Sir John’s words finally reached Caroline’s tortured mind. She looked at him wide-eyed, spent tears running down her face. “What… what did you say?”

  He looked up. “I have kept my word to you.” He winced as a shot of pain coursed through his head.

  Caroline took his face in her hands. “No, before that.”

  Buford, defenseless, laid his soul naked before his wife. “I love you, and only you, with all my heart.”

  Caroline took a moment to comprehend what her husband admitted and then fell on his face with kisses.

  “Oww… ow… oh, my dear… please,” begged Buford.

  Caroline helped him rise from the floor and walk back to the bed. Helping him onto it, she then climbed in after him and lay by his side, taking him into her arms and putting his aching head on her breast. There they rested in silence for a time.

  Finally, she began. “What happened? Did she attack you?”

  “I suppose it could be called thus. It was certainly uninvited.”

  “When I saw the state of her dress! Oh, forgive my lack of faith in you.”

  “No, my dear, you have no need to apologize. What were you to think with the girl wrapped around my person?”

  Caroline began to chuckle. “As I look back at it, it was rather silly.”

  “Silly?” Buford rolled onto his back.

  She began to laugh heartily. “Yes, it was something out of a Shakespearean comedy.” She dissolved in laughter. “You… her… the door—”

  “Stop! It… it was not that funny.” He began to laugh with her. This continued for a time until finally, their laughter sated, Sir John caressed Caroline’s chin with his finger.

  “I meant what I said.”

  Caroline closed her eyes. Could she dare to open her heart as well? All her life she was trained never to leave herself vulnerable, open to hurt. Sir John deserved an answer, but the words caught in her throat. She had to find another way.

  “I believe I need your assistance, Husband.” She rose on one arm to look at him.

  “Anything.”

  “I need to work on my knowledge of languages, if I am ever to match yours.”

  Buford closed his eyes, frowning. “How so?”

  “Well, for example, I believe the correct phrase in French is je t’aime, is it not?” She looked down into his eyes.

  Wordlessly, Sir John searched her face. “Yes, that is correct, but I believe the formal version is je vous aime.”

  Caroline repeated, “Je vous aime. Oui.”

  Sir John swallowed. “I must say, however, that I prefer je t’adore. ’Tis used between lovers.”

  She smiled. “Je t’adore—it is far more agreeable, I must admit.” She kissed him tenderly. Sir John reached up and ran his fingers through her hair, deepening the kiss.

  Caroline moved away slightly. “My Italian is not what it should be, I confess. Ti amo I believe is right?”

  “Oh no—ti voglio is much better.”

  Caroline’s eyes widened. “Indeed? Very well then—ti voglio.” This time the kiss was passionate and long. “And, of course, Spanish is te amo.”

  Sir John liked this game. “Te amo, te adoro, te deseo.”

  “But I have no German. You must help me. Did your… friend teach you the phrase?” she said with a grin.

  “Wench! It was that baggage that was taught a lesson.”

  Her laughter rained down on him like a summer shower. “This will never do! Teach me, Husband!”

  “Let me see. Ich liebe dich is perfectly acceptable.”

  “Ich liebe dich. Do you know Russian?”

  “Ya tyebya lyublyu, I believe.”

  Caroline started to giggle. “Surely your talents know no bounds! Do you know any others?”

  “Eu adoro-te is Portuguese. The Dutch say ik hou van je. For the Irish it is ta gra agam ort or taim i’ ngra leat. Do not ask me to say it in Polish—there is no telling
how badly I would butcher it. I would probably say, ‘I like your stomach.’” Caroline was laughing now. “But the way I like best is the Welsh way.”

  “And what do the Welsh say, Johnny?”

  “They say rwy’n dy gari di.”

  Caroline’s eyes sparkled. “Yes—rwy’n dy gari di.”

  Sir John smiled back. “Rwy’n dy gari di.”

  The sounds of the lovers would continue throughout most of the evening.

  * * *

  It was the middle of the night when Caroline awoke. The knock on her door and her husband arising to answer it had broken her slumber. She opened one eye slightly to see Sir John in a robe reading a letter by the fireplace. The stiffness in his posture caught her attention. Completely awake, she sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from her naked torso.

  “John, what is it?”

  He turned to her, backlit by the fire, his expression unreadable.

  “Bonaparte has escaped from Elba.”

  * * *

  Grenoble

  The men of the 5th Regiment stood nervously across the road to Grenoble. Before them were over a thousand people, many of them armed. Their orders were to arrest the tyrant who dared leave his exile on Elba. The officers moved about the soldiers, reminding them of their duty to the king.

  Suddenly, a man approached on horseback. He wore a simple military greatcoat and a cocked hat with a tricolor cockerel at the peak. He stopped and observed the forces before him. He then dismounted and approached the soldiers alone, on foot. When the man was within earshot of the men, he threw open his coat, the Legion of Honor clearly visible.

  “Soldiers of the Fifth, you recognize me! If any man would shoot his emperor, he may do so now!”

  Following a brief silence, the soldiers and officers erupted into shouts of “Vive L’Empereur!”

  The emperor basked in the adulation for a few moments before returning to his horse. He had been called many things in his lifetime: genius, monster, lawgiver, tyrant, Defender of the Revolution, Destroyer of Mankind, but no one doubted his personal courage or underestimated his knowledge of men’s hearts. Today he had reminded the world of those talents.

  The soldiers sent to stop the tyrant instead joined the ranks behind the emperor to march on Paris.

  Chapter 15

  Matlock Manor

  “And then Aunt Catherine ordered me out of the house.” Colonel Fitzwilliam took a large swig of his father’s port and looked around at each of the other men in the study, searching their faces for any hint of censure. His cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was his usual impenetrable self, keeping his opinions hidden behind his oft-used mask of indifference. His brother, Viscount Andrew Fitzwilliam, stared intently into his own glass of port, and his father, Lord Matlock, looked deeply disturbed.

  “Well, you could not expect me to remain after that performance, could you? I packed up my belongings, gathered the documents there—” he pointed to the opened packet on the desk—“and left for my lodgings in London. The rest you know. What would you have me do? Father?” Richard turned to his cousin. “Darcy—come, man, support me!”

  “You did no wrong, Richard,” Darcy replied.

  “Could you have done better?”

  Darcy hesitated.

  “You see?” Richard cried. “You do think I failed!”

  “Richard, that is quite enough!” Lord Matlock’s voice boomed across the room, his tone indicating disappointment in Richard’s childish display. After all these years, his son should have known that Darcy would always believe that he would do better in everything. “You did the best you could, son. ’Tis not your fault but Catherine’s. I do wish you had not left Anne there, though.”

  Richard colored, which was not lost on his brother. “Richard, is there something you have not told us?” asked Lord Andrew.

  “No! It would have been improper had she come away with me. I could not jeopardize Anne’s reputation.”

  “Balderdash! A woman riding to her family’s townhouse with her cousin and companion? Do not be ridiculous! You are leaving something out.” He eyed his brother. “Good Lord, you are smitten with our fair cousin!”

  Richard did not answer.

  “Richard,” demanded his father, “is this true?”

  Richard shook his head. “We are not engaged. I have not compromised her, and I have made no promises—”

  “Out with it! Do you wish to marry the girl?”

  Richard sighed. “Yes, sir.”

  Andrew snorted. “Fool! You will be a poor man if you do. Auntie Cathy will cut her off without a penny.”

  “No, she will not,” declared Lord Matlock.

  Richard was uncomfortable with this discussion. “That is neither here nor there. Anne and I are not engaged. Whether or not we do become so in the future is not relevant now. We are talking about Rosings. If we do not save the place, the questions as to inheritance for Anne will be irrelevant.”

  Darcy turned from his usual place near the mantle. “Richard is correct. Rosings is the reason we are all called here today. We must discuss Richard’s actions. Do you have any concerns over Richard’s orders to the steward?”

  The earl picked up one of the papers on the desk and closely studied it. Richard was suddenly struck by how elderly his father now appeared. For the first time in his life, Richard contemplated a world without Hugh Fitzwilliam, Earl of Matlock. The concept frightened him.

  “Are these figures accurate? The harvest was this bad?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And all of the tenants are paid up in full?”

  “Some were late, but yes, all are paid up now.”

  Lord Matlock handed the paper to Darcy, who scanned it for a moment. “Good Lord,” Darcy muttered and gave the form to Lord Andrew. “I believe Richard was correct to order the rent holiday.”

  “I only wonder why it was not done two years ago,” Andrew mumbled after a moment. Richard turned to his brother in surprise. “What? Do you not think I can add figures in my head?” said an irritated Andrew at the colonel’s wonderment.

  Andrew had changed, thought Richard. Viscount Andrew Fitzwilliam was the eldest son of an earl, and for most of his life acted so. Assured at an early age that he would inherit a title and a grand estate, Andrew went through life demanding respect he had yet to earn. When younger, he showed little concern for those beneath him and little deference for those above. The Fitzwilliams were taught to be self-reliant, but Andrew reacted badly to his lessons, believing his opinions were all that mattered. His self-confidence in his judgment and abilities became over-confidence.

  Now Richard beheld his brother with new respect. Since taking over the day-to-day management of Matlock, Lord Andrew had shown not only greater responsibility but a bit of decency as well. Perhaps the viscountess had been a good influence after all.

  “Father,” asked Richard, “do you approve?”

  “Yes, you did the right thing—the only thing, rather. I do not like setting the precedent—damned inconvenient—but there is nothing for it. I am sorry you had to endure your aunt’s wrath. You did not deserve such treatment, I assure you.”

  “Will it be enough, do you think?”

  “You did all that could be expected. Darcy?”

  “I agree. The holiday, along with a good harvest, will make things right again.”

  “It is not like the old girl will be too pinched.” Andrew was studying the personal financial documents. “She has certainly put enough aside.”

  “Richard, what you have done may well be the saving of Rosings.”

  “Yes, sir,” Richard answered his father. “Assuming Aunt Catherine does not undo everything I have done.”

  “She cannot,” declared his lordship and Darcy in unison.

  Richard frowned. “Why not? I have been meaning to ask you. Why are Mrs. Parks and the steward employed by you, Father? Why it is that Aunt Catherine cannot countermand my instructions? It is her land.”

  “We have been given
authority—” began Darcy.

  “Hold, Darcy,” interrupted the earl. “It is more than that. I am afraid that you and Richard have not been told the whole story. It is my fault; I apologize.” The others in the room were taken aback at this admission. The earl never apologized for anything. “In short, Lady Catherine cannot countermand any instruction you give as my representative, Richard. She has not the authority.”

  “But Rosings belongs to her,” cried Lord Andrew.

  “No, Lady Catherine does not own Rosings.”

  Astonishment filled the study. “What?” cried Richard. “Why… then who does?”

  “Legally, Anne does.”

  “Sir Lewis left Rosings to Anne?” sputtered the colonel.

  “Yes, he did.”

  “Why on earth did you not tell us?” cried Darcy.

  Lord Matlock sighed. “Fill your glasses. ’Tis a long tale and better told over good port.”

  After the glasses were filled and cigars lit, the earl continued. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must start at the beginning. My father was a man ahead of his time when it came to the education of his children. I, of course, received all that was expected of a gentleman and more, but my father also saw to my sisters’ education. The best tutors and instructors were found; nothing was lacking. Father was particular that his daughters master mathematics as well as languages and the arts.”

  He turned to Darcy. “Your mother, Anne, was an excellent student. George Darcy often told me that he had married more than a wife; he married the best helpmate and advisor he had ever had. I do not think he ever recovered from losing her.”

  Darcy bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  “Catherine, on the other hand, was a poor student. Nothing wrong with her head, you understand. Sometimes we all thought of Cathy as—potentially—the most gifted of all of us, but she never seemed to apply herself. She always seemed distracted… agitated. Oh, how Father and Mother labored to get Cathy to mind, but nothing worked. The only study that seemed to hold her attention was that of current society and manners. She was a severe disappointment to my father.