The Three Colonels

by Jack Caldwell

  Buford got out of the bed and padded to the dressing room. He found it empty as expected; Roxanne had the good sense to return to her rooms during the night. He completed an abbreviated toilette and dressed in the same black suit he had worn to the ball. He knew he would not be conspicuous; many gentlemen would sleep off a great ball at the host’s home.

  Within a few minutes, he was on the street, walking to his boardinghouse. It was early, and there were few coaches for hire available, but there was nothing for it. The last thing he wanted to do was encounter the countess.

  Fortunately, the distance was not too great and the morning not too warm. The walk might have been pleasant had not his head and conscience tormented him. Buford had been shocked to learn that the naked woman in his arms the night before was not his wife but Roxanne. By the time he was fully aware of what was happening, his resentful desires got the better of him. He told himself it was not of his doing. Roxanne had seduced him while he was unable to resist. Why not take advantage of the situation? Caroline apparently did not care; the damn woman could not be bothered to post a single line to her own husband.

  Buford tried to drive Caroline out of his mind with Roxanne, but once he had finished with her, his discontent remained, now augmented with regret. He passed out trying to tell himself that he had not betrayed the woman he loved. Caroline was the betrayer; she neglected him. However, Buford could not dismiss the fact that he had broken his vow of faithfulness.

  It was not long before he reached the outskirts of Brussels and his boardinghouse. His empty stomach reminded him that he had yet to have breakfast, so he hurried his steps, hoping that he was not too late. Upon entering the common room, he saw Richard sitting at a table with a huge grin on his face. Before him was a tall stack of letters, all in the same stationery, tied with a string.

  “They were just delivered last night after we left for the ball, old man!” Richard said with a self-satisfied grin. “Some blunder at the port. I always suspected the people at the post cannot read!”

  Buford hardly heard what his comrade said. He approached the pile carefully, as if the mass of correspondence would leap up and attack him. Sure enough, the words he most desired and ultimately feared were written on the envelopes in a fine, female hand: Colonel Sir John Buford.

  * * *

  London

  Marianne made good time to Town and was warmly greeted by Caroline and Rebecca Buford. The three ladies sat in the parlor, and the topic immediately turned to Caroline’s pregnancy.

  “The illness in the morning has passed, much to my relief,” Caroline reported, “but I have such cravings now! Pickles—anything pickled, and I must have it. Is that so very strange? I do not recall my sister Jane having such desires.”

  Marianne laughed. “For me it was sweets.”

  Rebecca said, “I cannot remember any unusual foods every time I was with child, but I did want to consume my portion of my dinner and my husband’s too.”

  “How many children do you have, Mrs. Buford?” asked Marianne.

  “I have three, and if you are to stay in this house, I must be Rebecca to you.”

  Marianne thought that a rather strange request, as the two ladies had just made each other’s acquaintance. Caroline had warned her that her new family was unorthodox, and Marianne had to agree. Rebecca Buford was the most informal person she had ever met. At least it was a pleasant form of peculiarity. “Very well, please call me Marianne, Rebecca.”

  Caroline smiled at the interaction. It was amusing to watch others react to her relations.

  “Well, if you would excuse me, I must prepare for our visit,” announced Rebecca.

  “Really?” inquired Marianne to both ladies. “Are we going somewhere?”

  “Oh, I am sorry, I forgot to tell you. We dine at the Matlocks’ today. Miss de Bourgh invited us.”

  “Good!” cried Marianne. “I long to see Anne again.”

  “I am looking forward to it,” Caroline replied, anticipating how diverting the earl’s response to the unorthodox Bufords might prove.

  * * *

  Brussels

  Buford wandered the afternoon streets of the Dutch capital in despair. As he walked up grand boulevards and down small lanes, the magnificent historic buildings and small modern shops passed by his eyes without recognition.

  In the last four and twenty hours, he had read and re-read each of Caroline’s letters at least three times. His guilt and remorse battled with his delight at the news of Caroline’s pregnancy, but after reading the initial news, Buford’s self-disgust grew.

  Weekly! She had been writing to him weekly while he had closed himself up in his rooms feeling ill-used. He was not worthy of her love and devotion! Damn the army! Why could they not forward the letters before now—before Thursday—before that deuced ball? Roxanne had seduced him, the whore, but he could have—should have—resisted her. How could he be so weak?

  His thoughts flew in a thousand directions, mainly focused on recriminations against the army, postal clerks, and Roxanne—but eventually his reproaches returned to the one most at fault—himself. He had failed his wife, his unborn child, his uniform, and his own promise to himself. He hated Roxanne de Pontchartrain, but he hated himself more.

  Just past the Grand-Place, along the Rue au Beurre, Buford came across a small Catholic church. Something made him stop before the ancient structure. The name above the door proclaimed it to be in honor of St. Nicholas. He stared at the door for a long time, trying to decide before opening it and walking inside.

  It was early afternoon, well before Vigil Mass, so the sanctuary was empty, dark, and unwelcoming. The only light was from a few candles burning before the statue of the Virgin Mother. The structure was unusual. The three aisles of the nave were built at an angle to the chancel. Buford looked up and spied a cannonball, of all things, embedded high up in the third pillar on the left of the nave. Obviously, the parishioners had kept the gruesome memento of some long-ago bombardment as a badge of honor.

  While he was looking at the odd ornament, a priest entered the sanctuary and genuflected before the large crucifix above the altar. As he turned, he noticed the British officer standing in the middle of the church and cautiously approached Buford.

  “Good afternoon, my son,” he said in English. “I am Father Amadie. May I help you?”

  “Bon après-midi, Père,” Buford responded in French. “Your English is very good.”

  “Merci, Colonel. What brings you to the Church of St. Nicholas?”

  “I do not know. I should not be here. Certainly, I am keeping you from your work.”

  Father Amadie, no admirer of the tyrant or of the revolution that he represented—the revolution that had sent so many of his brothers to the guillotine—warmed to the young defender of his country. “Forgive me, but I can tell you are troubled. Please, share your worries with me.”

  “Surely I am keeping you from your duties.”

  “I am only preparing to hear Confession.”

  A sudden idea came to Buford. “Father, would it be possible? Would you hear my confession?”

  Father Amadie frowned. “My son, are you Catholic?”

  Buford shook his head. “I am no Papist. I mean, no, I am not Catholic.”

  “Do you understand what you ask of me?”

  “Father, my mother was a French Catholic. My aunt was of your faith, and she would take me to Mass when I was young. I know your sacraments; I know what they mean.”

  “Then you know that I cannot give you absolution,” Father Amadie explained gently.

  “I know, but… but my heart is heavy with regret. It would be a comfort. Please, I know I ask much of you.”

  The priest reflected for a moment. He knew he should ask the English Protestant to leave, for to his bishop, the soldier was no better than a heretic. He knew countless Catholics had died at the hands of the Church of England during the Reformation and that Catholics still did not have full rights in Britain.

 
Father Amadie believed in God and His Holy Church with all his heart, yet he knew that both sides had engaged in religious warfare. The Inquisition in Germany was matched by the Inquisition in Spain. Catholics and Protestants had heaped unspeakable acts upon one another in the name of salvation. Did being right justify such behavior?

  Amadie had joined the Church to serve God and the people—and serve he would. Besides, what his bishop did not know would not hurt him.

  “Come with me, my son.” He gestured to a side wall of the church where a small door was flanked by two curtains. The priest opened the door and sat in his familiar chair, where he heard so much of the pain of this world. By the time he slid open the window, the English colonel had already taken his position on the kneeler.

  Buford bowed his head. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned.”

  * * *

  Buford returned to his room to write a letter.

  My dearest Caroline,

  I take up pen to write to you, deeply mortified at the pain my unjust and unworthy letter must have caused you. Destroy it at once, I beg you, my dear wife! If I could reach across the seas, I would snatch up that evil document and consign it to hell! What a wretch you have married!

  Too good, too excellent wife, how could I write such lines to you? Before me are the results of your most faithful labors. I feel unworthy to touch them. But read them I must, for thoughts of you are in my every sleeping hour—and waking hour, too.

  I know you wish news of me, your most undeserving husband. I am well in body but ill in spirit. If I were a selfish man, I would beg you to fly to my arms and comfort me. But I cannot—I will not. I am happy you are safe in England, and I am pleased to know you have found a home with my most excellent family. Your letters are a godsend to my soul.

  My equipment safely arrived. Thank you for your kind attention to that. The men, all veterans, were ill-prepared for battle when they disembarked, but constant drill has sharpened them like the edges of their sabres. They will be ready for whatever Providence brings.

  My love, you write that our family is increasing. What happy news! That God would so smile upon us! I wish I could be there to share this time with you, my dearest one. You write that your belly is growing; nothing in this world sounds so beautiful! Know that I send kisses to that wonderful roundness, that evidence of our love, and its mother too. You say you wish it to be a boy. I would be as proud as a prince to have a son by you, but I cannot help but wish that it be a lovely girl instead with her mother’s looks. That way I might have two Carolines to spoil.

  I think your idea to remain in London is a good one, for nowhere else in the kingdom boasts better physicians. I beg you to take care of yourself—but who am I to tell you your duty? You have proven yourself to me a hundredfold.

  I must admit something to you, dear Caroline. When I first met you, while I was pleased with your outward appearance, I was only looking for a mistress for my house. I never thought I would fall in love with my future wife. But God in heaven is merciful and has given me a great gift—the sweetest, wisest, kindest, loveliest woman any man could ever wish for.

  I love you, Caroline. I love your loving soul. I love your excellent mind, so wise and sharp. I love your form and figure. Oh, how my dreams of you keep me up at night! I love your eyes—so full of expression. And I love your lips—for your sharp, amusing words and for your sweet kisses.

  I do not deserve you, my wife. You should have married better than I. I know my faults, and I will strive for the rest of my days to improve myself, to make myself worthy of calling you my beloved wife and lover and mother of my child.

  Adieu, my dearest love. I shall write again as soon as time permits. I shall sign this as you have done so consistently,

  Rwy’n dy gari di,

  JOHN

  Letter finished, Buford needed it to arrive in England as quickly as may be.

  * * *

  “You want me to do what?” cried Major Denny.

  “Come, man, I am not asking you to do anything illegal,” pleaded Buford. “A small thing—what is that between friends?”

  Denny looked at the colonel. “You want me to enclose a personal letter in the official pouch to London, and you call it a small thing? Forgive me, Colonel, but I would like to know what you would refer to as a great favor!”

  “You can do it, can you not? You have a friend on the staff who will either post it or deliver it?” Buford begged.

  Denny thought. “Yes, Castlebaum would do it, especially if there was something in it for him. It will cost you a half-crown, sir.”

  “Done and done, sir!” cried Buford as he shook the man’s hand. “Here is the money. I call it a bargain!”

  * * *

  Colonel Fitzwilliam watched his men practice, and it did not make him happy.

  “What do you call that, gentlemen?” he bellowed. “You ride in that lackadaisical manner against the French, and they will cut you to pieces. Show some spirit! Do the drill again!”

  Four at a time, the forty riders of the third squadron took off down the training course, while the other nine squadrons watched. The course laid was a fifty-yard dash to a straw bundle, then halting at a post wrapped in cotton and burlap, then a final gallop past another post, this one uncovered. All the time the troopers were to slash at the targets with their swords. Most did the drill correctly, if cautiously. None did it quickly.

  “Hell’s fire! Must I do everything myself?” Fitzwilliam cried. “Stand clear!” He drew his sabre and readied his mount. With a drive of his spurs, the horse shot forward.

  “ARRRGGHH!” he screamed as he headed down the left-hand side of the course, leaning over the horse’s neck and pointing the sword forward. At full speed, he cut at the haystack with all his might, straw flying everywhere. Pulling back at the reins, he expertly pivoted and dashed to the second target. His mount danced about the post as Richard slashed at it repeatedly. Then in a blink, he was off again, his blade this time held at an angle to his body. It made a satisfying thunk as it struck the last post. Reaching the end of the course at top speed, he halted in a cloud of dust.

  “Time!” he called.

  His aide checked his pocket watch and informed the rapt audience that the colonel had bested their top performance by ten seconds.

  “There!” Richard called out, breathing heavily. “If an old man can do that, you can certainly do better. Do the drill again, and a pint of ale to any man who bests my time by twenty seconds!”

  A cheer went up from the troopers. “I will be drinking your beer soon, Red Fitz!” cried one unnamed rider as he took off down the course.

  Richard could not help grinning at the use of the nickname by which his men referred to him, usually when he was out of earshot. By the time the exercise was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam was poorer by a gallon and a half.

  Happy to have found something to motivate his men, he turned to his aide. “A barrel of Belgium beer to the squadron with the best average time.” The aide grinned and left to deliver the message.

  Richard was satisfied. His troopers would be ready.

  * * *

  London

  While Caroline performed at the pianoforte, Marianne hid her disquiet as she had tea with Anne, Mrs. Albertine Buford, and Rebecca. Marianne knew that Caroline was unhappy, for while she played with great skill and technique, there was a want of feeling. Her friend was mechanically going through the motions.

  Caroline finished and turned to her guest. “Do you play today, Marianne?”

  “I thought you were my friend,” Marianne exclaimed.

  Caroline was taken aback. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Marianne smiled at Mrs. Buford and Rebecca. “She would have me, with my meager talents, follow such a lovely performance. For shame! I shall be thought as the most rank beginner in comparison, I am sure.”

  For the first time that day, Caroline allowed a smile to adorn her face. “Meager talents, indeed! Come, Marianne, you leave tomorrow. I would love
to hear you play once more.”

  The guest sighed dramatically. “Oh, very well, if you insist.” Privately, Marianne was very pleased with her efforts to lighten Caroline’s mood. She sat before the instrument and started into a light country air while Caroline took a seat next to Anne.

  Anne looked at Marianne and sighed. “If only I had learned to play.” She turned to the group. “You know, my mother always said if I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient if my health had allowed me to apply. She is confident that I would have performed delightfully,” she said with a straight face.

  Caroline’s face had turned the brightest red as she screwed up her mouth, holding back the laugh that threatened to erupt. She had heard that comment countless times from Lady Catherine de Bourgh—in fact, every time she played before the old biddy. The other Mrs. Bufords could only look on in puzzlement as first Caroline then Anne began to giggle, but the ladies could resist no longer and the sounds of laughter began to drown out Marianne’s performance.

  Mrs. Brandon stopped her piece and turned. “I say, what is so funny?” she demanded with all injured eloquence. With that, she started to play again, which only redoubled the two ladies’ mirth.

  “Dear,” asked Mother Buford to Rebecca, “do you know what they are about?”

  “No, but it seems to have a proper effect.” They, too, had noticed Caroline’s melancholy, but unlike the other ladies, they knew the reason.

  The ladies sat back to enjoy the concert when it was again interrupted. This time the offender was Roberts, the acting assistant butler.

  “Lady Buford, there is an army officer to see you.”

  Silence descended upon the room. The five ladies knew that the visit of an officer was often to deliver the worst sort of news.