May ——, 1815
Buford House, London
Caroline,
Every evening I return to this small boardinghouse outside of Brussels, exhausted from my labors for the king. The food and fellowship are tolerable, but they cannot replace what I desire most in this world. Every day I look and wait, and yet no word comes.
Why do you not write? Since you went away, I have heard nothing from you.
If you are unwell, tell me so at once. Do not withhold word to protect me—my imagination is so great that nothing save your being in dire straits can be any worse. Let me share your burden.
Have I hurt you in any way? Please tell me. How else may I make amends? Please, just a few lines would salve my soul.
Your faithful husband,
JB
“I do not understand!” cried Rebecca. “This cannot be! You write constantly!” She saw that her sister’s distress had increased. Rebecca instantly realized that she must do what she could to help Caroline, lest the babe be endangered. She tossed the offending letter upon the table and pulled a chair near Caroline to take her hands in hers. “There has been some sort of misunderstanding.”
“He… he thinks I have forgotten him!” Caroline cried. “He feels so betrayed! What shall I do? What has happened to my letters?” She grew even more agitated. “Someone is stealing them! I know it! Who would do such a monstrous thing?”
“No one is stealing them.” Rebecca strove to soothe her sister. “There has been a mistake, that is all.” She picked up the letter again.
“Perhaps the French are sinking our ships on the way to Antwerp!”
“I do not think so. It would have been in the papers—did you say Antwerp?”
“Yes, that is where he is.”
Rebecca indicated the letter. “But this is from Brussels.”
“Brussels? No, he is in Antwerp. He must be!”
“My dear, look!” Rebecca pointed to a line in the letter. “And here he says that his lodgings are outside of Brussels.”
“I have been sending my letters to the wrong place!” Caroline wailed. “Oh, what have I done!?”
“Caroline! There is no time for that. The army has failed to forward the post. You must write to him as quickly as may be! The letter must leave this half hour!”
“Yes, yes, you are right.” Caroline began focusing on the problem at hand. “But, Rebecca, can one send an express to Brussels?”
“We can try, my dear.”
* * *
Delaford
Marianne sought the solitude of a long walk through the Delaford woods. She had much upon which to reflect, given the events of the day before.
Her confrontation with Willoughby had finally closed the book on that chapter of her life. She had not known how she would respond to him, had she ever come across him, and her forcefulness took her by surprise. She blushed to think how she could ever compare that man to her darling Christopher. At that moment, she doubted they were even of the same species.
John Willoughby had admired her but just for her exterior—her looks, her voice, her open manners. Christopher saw more; he loved her for who she was. He adored her body, mind, and soul. He shared everything with her, everything he loved and cared for. He trusted her opinions and sought them out.
Marianne’s improvements were not the result of a project taken on by the colonel to satisfy his vanity. By sharing his love of books and learning, her husband unintentionally ignited a passion for learning in his wife. She grew in talents and confidence, so much that, when he was called away to war, Christopher placed her in charge of Delaford Manor. He placed his unwavering trust in her abilities. If she had not already loved him, she would have fallen hard at that point.
Marianne berated herself. It had taken so long for her to realize her feelings. After her recovery, Christopher began his two-year courtship. By the time he did propose, his attentions were obvious to everyone, including his intended. She remembered wondering what took him so long to come to the point, because by that time, she had resolved to accept her great friend, and she had every expectation of marital felicity. However, when she did not feel the burning passion she had felt for Willoughby, she thought she did not love him.
Living with Christopher taught her there was more than one kind of passion, not just for the act of love but also for thinking well of another—caring about another’s comfort before one’s own and knowing that your partner in life considered your needs first as well. Yet it was not until Joy was in this world that brave, wise Marianne could admit to herself what Elinor saw on her wedding day: She was violently in love with Christopher Brandon. There were three days forever etched in Marianne’s consciousness—her wedding night, the day of Joy’s birth, and the afternoon she told her husband of her feelings for him.
Since embracing her love of her husband, she feared that she could not live without him. The last few months had proved otherwise. A thought that had been in the back of her mind flooded her awareness: She might have to do so for the rest of her life. A searing pain coursed through Marianne’s heart, but there was no panic in her mind. Should the unthinkable happen, she would grieve for her beloved for the remainder of her days, but she would not fall down and die. There was too much to live for: Joy and Delaford. They depended upon her, and she would have to be strong for them.
John Willoughby had dallied with a mere girl. Colonel Christopher Brandon had left Delaford Manor to the administration of a woman, full-grown and tested. Her soft heart might break, but her steel backbone could bear any burden.
With this resolve, the mistress of Delaford returned home to her duties.
* * *
Brussels
Colonel Brandon was at his desk concentrating on paperwork when he noticed Major Denny leaving Wellington’s office. “Is that the schedule for the southern patrols, Denny?” he asked.
Denny assured him that it was and handed over the paper for Brandon’s perusal. A quick glance told him everything.
“This is it?”
“Yes, sir,” said Denny in an emotionless voice.
“And the duke approved this?” Brandon looked at the younger man.
Denny looked over his colonel’s head at the wall behind him. “Yes, sir.”
Brandon thought for a moment before rising to his feet. “Wait right here.”
He strode to Wellington’s door, and with only the briefest of knocks, he entered the commander-in-chief’s domain. He found the duke in consultation with the Quartermaster General, Colonel Sir William de Lancey, who was acting chief of staff.
“Sir,” Brandon began, “pray, forgive the intrusion, but I must speak to you.”
Colonel de Lancey’s eyebrows rose, but Wellington’s imperial visage remained impassive. “Yes, Brandon, what is it?”
He closed the door behind him. “I hold here the schedule for the southern patrols—”
“His lordship has already dealt with that, Brandon,” interrupted the chief of staff, but the duke cut him off.
“You have some question about this?”
“Sir, the number of men assigned to this duty is completely inadequate for the task. You must increase the patrols.”
Wellington pursed his lips. “I disagree. Bonaparte will do nothing for at least six weeks, if not longer. We do not need to waste men touring the Belgium frontier.”
“Sir,” said Brandon sharply, “I beg you to reconsider. Has Bonaparte ever done the expected? We know troops are massing in the north. The earlier he strikes the better for him. It would be well to err on the side of caution.”
“Colonel, are you implying that I am wrong?” asked Wellington dangerously.
Brandon swallowed. “I believe you are acting under incomplete intelligence, your lordship.” Brandon knew he was risking his career. He did not want to be sent to Belgium, but now that he was here, he would do everything in his power to assure the success of their mission, including taking the risk of being sent home in disgrace. His sense of p
rofessionalism would allow nothing less.
Wellington gazed at the colonel down his long nose—quite a feat, as the Iron Duke was still sitting. “Double the patrols. Was there anything else, Colonel?”
Brandon came to an even more rigid attention. “No, sir,” and fired off his salute.
“Return to your duties, Brandon,” ordered the duke as he turned again to a bewildered de Lancey.
A minute later Brandon handed the schedule back to Denny. “Double the patrols, as per orders I have just received from his lordship.”
Denny looked upon his senior officer with near awe before responding. “Yes, sir—thank you, sir.” He hurried out of the office.
Brandon looked about the office to see Major General Sir Hussey Vivian, commander of the 6th Cavalry Brigade, looking at him. One hand was injured and in a sling.
“Not bad, Brandon. I wonder if you have anything on the old man.”
“No, sir,” replied the colonel in embarrassment.
“Do not be so modest. It is not just any man who can get the Iron Duke to change his mind. I congratulate you.”
Brandon nodded at the compliment and returned to his work. He was still uneasy. He felt they had far too many men at Hal, but he was not willing to beard the lion in his own den twice in one day.
* * *
London
“Do not be silly, Caroline,” Rebecca said. “Do not change your plans. Of course, you should have your friends visit. You cannot disappoint them.”
“I will be poor company, I am afraid,” Caroline replied, still distressed over the letter fiasco.
Rebecca took her sister’s hand. “Sir John will receive his letter in a few days. All will be well. He would want you to be happy—especially at this time.”
Caroline considered as she caressed the very slight bulge in her midsection. She did want to see Anne de Bourgh, as well as renew her acquaintance with Marianne Brandon.
“Oh, very well.”
* * *
Delaford
Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had come up from Barton for an overnight visit, and Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars had joined Marianne in attending them. The ladies sat in the parlor, speaking of many subjects, save one—the impending war. Their conversation was broken by delivery of the mail. One letter caught Marianne’s eye, and she begged leave to open it.
“It is from Lady Buford,” she said, “and she invites me to a week’s stay in London at her relations.”
“Oh, how wonderful,” cried her mother. “Such diversions to be found! Marianne, you should go before Town grows too warm.”
Marianne was tempted, not only by the diversions London offered but also by the company. She wanted to know Caroline Buford better. However, she had responsibilities. “Nothing could be more delightful, but I should not leave Joy.”
“Nonsense, Marianne,” said Mr. Ferrars. “We should be happy to have our niece stay at the parsonage.”
“Indeed, Sister,” confirmed Elinor. “Enjoy yourself in Town.”
Marianne smiled. “Thank you. I believe I shall!”
Chapter 23
Brussels
Three colonels of cavalry strolled into the palace where expatriate British civilians were holding yet another ball. Brandon and Richard were in full-dress uniform, while Buford wore a suit of black with white stockings and his sash. Already the hall was filled with Dutch royalty, exiled Frenchmen, traveling members of the London ton, and officers from many different nations, in and out of uniform.
“Quite a crowd here tonight, eh, Buford?” offered Richard. Buford’s reply was noncommittal.
“I find it hard to believe that so many have come here from England,” observed Brandon.
“Bored, useless vultures—the lot of them,” grumbled Buford. “The ton, looking for excitement, journey across the sea to see a war. What fun! Bastards,” he added sotto voce.
“Well, I am glad you are enjoying yourself, Buford!” cried Richard.
“The two of you, be quiet! We have to pay our compliments,” warned Brandon as the group walked towards the receiving line.
Having been presented and received, the three officers entered the main ballroom—right into the path of one who was very familiar to Buford.
“Bonsoir, Sir John! Pray, introduce me to your charming companions,” purred Countess Roxanne de Pontchartrain.
* * *
Captain George Wickham could hardly believe his luck. Somehow, the colonel of his regiment had not realized there was a ball that night, and poor Hewitt was scheduled to serve as Officer of the Day. Wickham was finally out from underneath the colonel’s, and by extension Darcy’s, thumb and was free as a bird. He was under no illusion that this freedom would last or that it ever would be repeated. Therefore, Wickham was determined to enjoy himself as much as possible.
Helping himself to the first glass of wine he could secure, Wickham stood in his infantry-red best, looking for opportunities for diversion—if not more. Noticing one of his fellow officers conversing with a couple of ladies, he strolled over. There he was introduced to a Mrs. Norris, and he applied his considerable charm to the lady.
He was making progress when he noticed a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. He looked to make sure, and his countenance paled. Wickham beheld one of the two men in the world he least wanted to meet at a ball, or anywhere else for that matter—and this one was not Darcy.
* * *
After being accosted by Countess de Pontchartrain, the three colonels had separated. Richard walked about, taking in the dancing, when he almost walked into Major Denny. Turning away abruptly, cutting the man, Richard was surprised to see George Wickham not twenty feet away.
Richard stood rooted to the spot, staring a hole through his nemesis. His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched as he observed the creature—he could never call Wickham a man, much less a gentleman—who had labored so to ruin Georgiana, chatting with someone else’s wife. He unconsciously reached for the sabre that was safely in his trunk back at the boardinghouse.
The corners of Richard’s mouth twitched as he saw Wickham’s face go white when he became aware of his presence. Richard began to move in the blackguard’s direction. He had no plan; his legs moved of their own accord. Before he could take more than a few steps, he felt a hand restrain him. To his shock, it was Major Denny.
“Release me, sir!” Richard demanded.
“With all due respect—no, sir. You must come away. Wickham is not worth it.”
“I should have known you would defend him!” Richard’s voice rose.
“Remember who you are and where you are, sir!”
Eyes blazing with rage, Richard looked about the room. Recalling he was in a packed ballroom with officers, diplomats, and ladies, he went still, his arms no longer twitching. His gaze returned to Denny. “Yes, you are correct.”
Denny looked past Richard. “He is gone now. You had better come with me.”
Richard was taken aback. “For what reason?”
The major looked back at him. “For a drink, sir—why else?”
“An excellent idea,” said Colonel Brandon from behind Richard.
The game room was determined to be the best location, and five minutes later the three men were sipping brandy.
“Well, a toast to Denny,” offered Brandon.
Richard snorted. “Defender of Wickham.”
Brandon gave him a withering look. “Actually, he is the rescuer of Richard Fitzwilliam’s career.”
“What do you mean?”
“Were you not going to challenge Wickham?” asked Denny.
Richard snorted. “No! Believe me, I have had plenty of opportunities to do that and chose not to. Your precious friend was safe from me.”
Brandon frowned. “Are you certain, Fitz? I saw your face. I had the same fears as Denny. What were you going to say to him?”
Richard took a drink. “Honestly, I do not know, but I must admit that I would not mind ridding the world of that useless piece o
f garbage, given half a chance. Wickham’s too much the coward to give me an excuse, more’s the pity.”
“Deuce take it, Fitz!” Brandon shouted as he slammed down his glass; by some miracle, it did not break. “The duke has made it quite clear—no duels! We need every last mother’s son out there, whether his name is Wickham or not! You would be lucky if the only thing they did was cashier you!”
Richard was incredulous. “Put me in prison for facing Wickham on a field of honor? I cannot believe it!”
“I would listen to him, sir,” said Denny quietly. “The duke is serious.”
Brandon continued his dressing-down of Richard. “We are to fight a war against the greatest threat to face England since the Armada. Get that through your thick skull. We are not here to satisfy your personal notions of honor.” He was merciless. “Save it for the French, Colonel.”
The last cut hit Richard hard, but he tried to stare down Brandon without success. The older man did not waver. Finally, Richard looked down, acknowledging defeat.
“Forgive me, Brandon, you are correct. I let that bastard rile me.”
Brandon let out a breath. “It is all right, old boy; I understand.”
Richard rolled his eyes, said, “Forgive me, but I do not think so,” and took a swig of his brandy.
Brandon simply said, “Ramsgate.”
It was amazing that neither he nor Denny were hit by Richard spitting out all of his brandy.
“How… how is it you know about that?”
Brandon explained, “Marianne is very good friends with Mrs. Darcy and Miss Darcy. My wife and your cousin compared cads some time ago.”
Richard whirled upon Denny, concerned that he had heard too much about Georgiana, but found him unsurprised at the revelation. “You, too?”
Denny looked down. “Wickham boasts when he is in his cups.”
Richard raged. “He boasted of—enough! I should have called him out years ago!”
Brandon crossed his arms. “Well, you shall have to wait a while longer, Fitz. You shall not challenge Wickham while you are both in Belgium. Do I have your word?”
The Three Colonels Page 24
