“It’s time to get ready,” Katherine joyfully announced.
But first, they made her sit at her table and take some breakfast, even though she was too excited to be hungry.
“I’ve been thinking a great deal about how to do your hair,” Katherine said, as she finally sat Susan down at her dressing table in front of the mirror.
Aunt Clarissa meanwhile laid out all of the garments Susan would wear and checked each item.
As Katherine was working on Susan’s hair, adding ribbons and fresh flowers from the estate greenhouse, Elizabeth, wearing her flower girl’s dress, burst into the room and dashed over to give Susan a hug.
“You’re going to be my official mommy today, aren’t you?”
“I thought you made that official already at Christmas,
Susan laughed.
“I did, but now it’s official, official.”
“Then I’m very pleased.”
Elizabeth squiggled up on the stool next to Susan and watched as Katherine worked on Susan’s hair and makeup. She was silent but captivated as she watched.
Clarissa guarded the door and kept curious guests away, except for Susan’s mamma, who insisted she be allowed to see her daughter before the ceremony.
“Oh, Susan,” she gushed as she saw her daughter’s face in the mirror. “How beautiful you are.” She put her hands on either side of her face in the wonder of it all.
“If I’d known you were going to be a duchess, we might have given you a more elegant name.”
“Mother, there is nothing wrong with just Susan. That is who I am, whether I am a duchess or not. I shall always be just myself.”
“And what a wonderful self that is,” Aunt Clarissa said with deep satisfaction.
When the preparation was finally done, Susan was helped into her dress and it was fastened up.
Mamma gasped at the sight. Then Aunt Clarissa took out the Belvedere necklace and placed it around her neck. The necklace hung about her slim neck and across her chest like an emblem of her excellence. Everyone was silent, awed by the person they saw reflected in the standing mirror.
Mamma came up behind Susan and put her hands on her shoulders.
“Oh, my darling child…” She was then too overcome to say anything more, and she stepped back and gazed in wonder.
Elizabeth took hold of Susan’s hand.
“Are you sad,” she asked.
“No, dear, I’m very happy.”
“Then why are you crying?”
“Because tears are the very essence of both sorrow and joy, and to tell you the truth, I am embraced by both.”
Katherine stepped up and took Susan’s arm, and patted it.
“Dear friend, it is now your moment.”
“Thank you, my dear,” Susan said.
Then Katherine said, “Now, don’t we have a wedding to attend? I’m certain there must be a groom out there somewhere.”
The End?
Extended Epilogue
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A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine
The Charge Of The Light Brigade
Alfred, Lord Tennyson
Half a league, half a league,
Half a league onward,
All in the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!
Charge for the guns!” he said.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
“Forward, the Light Brigade!”
Was there a man dismayed?
Not though the soldier knew
Someone had blundered.
Theirs not to make reply,
Theirs not to reason why,
Theirs but to do and die.
Into the valley of Death
Rode the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon in front of them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death,
Into the mouth of hell
Rode the six hundred.
Flashed all their sabres bare,
Flashed as they turned in air
Sabring the gunners there,
Charging an army, while
All the world wondered.
Plunged in the battery-smoke
Right through the line they broke;
Cossack and Russian
Reeled from the sabre stroke
Shattered and sundered.
Then they rode back, but not
Not the six hundred.
Cannon to right of them,
Cannon to left of them,
Cannon behind them
Volleyed and thundered;
Stormed at with shot and shell,
While horse and hero fell.
They that had fought so well
Came through the jaws of Death,
Back from the mouth of hell,
All that was left of them,
Left of six hundred.
When can their glory fade?
O the wild charge they made!
All the world wondered.
Honour the charge they made!
Honour the Light Brigade,
Noble six hundred!
Chapter 1
The martial sound of trumpets, flutes and drums filled the late spring air with notes of purposefulness. It was the same as every morning when the troops assembled for inspection. The sweet birdsong of the Greenfinch consisting of a combination of sweet trills and chesty follow-ups competed with that of the Redwing in the trees nearby. In time, the latter bird outdid, as its fluting song was soon taken up by its fellows, multiplying a hundredfold, until it became a pleasant rushing sound, almost like a distant waterfall. Soon bird and band warbled and tooted in unison like they belonged together.
There was hardly a cloud in the sky. The sun shone seductively over the Kentish countryside. It was a diverse and vibrant landscape riddled with networks of tiny lanes and historic hedgerows, woodlands, idyllic villages, culminating in the white cliffs of Dover to the south.
The ground where the men waited on their horses was lush and green, as only the fields in England so could. They were a fine sight, and many claimed that they were the best light cavalry unit in the whole world, fast with the sabre and fearless in battle. They were known as Prince Albert’s Own after the Prince, Queen Victoria’s consort.
Rank upon rank of cavalrymen sat on their mounts. Around them and a little further afield, groups of spectators had formed up. There were children, mainly boys, showing their parents what they wanted to be when they grew up. Their loud acclaim and childish glee was nearly outdone by the silent whispering of the many young women pointing out their favourites and detailing their dreams of marriage to the others next to them.
They were a fine sight. Prince Albert had said as much when he had arrived in England from Coburg to marry the queen. They had escorted him from Dover to London and even formed a part of their escort on their wedding day.
Their uniforms consisted of a fur busby with maroon-red bag and yellow cap lines, complete with a black and maroon horsehair hackle. This headgear was kept in place on their heads with a traditional roping attaching it to the tunic. So, should it be dislodged in battle, it would not be lost. For the visual effect, a golden brocaded band held it in place, slightly above the chin.
Their torsos were bedecked with heavily brocaded blue dolmans and pelisses. On their legs, they sported the regiment’s iconic crimson trousers with double yellow stripes down the sides. The colour was Prince Albert’s idea and adopted from the Saxe-Coburg livery. This fitted very well with the dubious regim
ental sobriquet of the Cherrypickers. A name acquired during the Peninsular War against Napoleon when they had to hide in cherry trees from the French.
“The eleventh Hussars are ready for inspection, My Lord.” The major in charge of the regiment lifted the handle of his sabre to his nose in salute. In moments, the entire brigade followed suit with a rattle of swords against scabbards.
James Brudenell, the 7th Earl of Cardigan sat on his chestnut mare, resplendent, like his men, in the company’s signature uniform. His escort and the senior officers in the unit surrounded him. The aristocrat was blessed with extraordinary good looks. He was tall, with wide shoulders, tapering to a narrow waist. Although, due to his advancing years, he was approaching sixty, everything was held in place by the most outrageously tight corset. On his head and under his busby, he sported a luxuriant mane of golden-grey hair. His sapphire-blue eyes sparkled imperiously as he looked down his beaked nose at his Cherrybums as he liked to call them.
“Very good, sir,” he replied.
“My Lord.” The Major dropped his sword from his face and placed the blade upright against his shoulder. The men of the brigade did the same.
The Earl of Cardigan began his inspection by trotting down the line of men that sat stiff and proud on their mounts. The band had struck up another tune. They currently played the regimental slow march of Coburg. Cardigan did not utter a word. He just nodded his approval at the impeccable turnout of his men. It was what he expected. He was the symbol and heart of the brigade in every way. In essence, being the commander of the eleventh Hussars was his life.
Major General, Earl of Cardigan was a licentious rake. He had met his wife, Mrs Elizabeth Tollemache Johnstone, when she was getting married to a childhood friend of the earl’s. The wooing of Elizabeth started soon afterwards. Four years later, Elizabeth’s husband started divorce proceedings and the suit was finished two years later in the year Cardigan and Elizabeth married. Throughout their marriage, he constantly had affairs until they divorced nine years later. Ultimately, he had to concur with his childhood friend: Elizabeth was “the most damned bad-tempered and extravagant bitch in the kingdom.”
“Who are you, sir?” said the earl when he reached a man at the end of the line.
“Captain Stirling Whitt Whitaker, My Lord.”
The earl eyed the young gentleman in his early thirties. He immediately disliked him. He was too good-looking and far too slight of build. His frame almost became one with the saddle. The joining of beast and man was fluid, as if they amalgamated into a centaur. Cardigan immediately recognized a fellow horseman in the confident dark-haired young man. He willed him with the force of his eyes to look away, but he didn’t. Instead, a piercing emerald-green countered his blue.
“Do you know who I am, sir?” snapped the earl.
“But of course, My Lord. You are Major General James Brudenell, the 7th Earl of Cardigan. You studied at Oxford, but you left after three years, preferring to go on a grand tour and start a political career after that. If I am not mistaken, My Lord, you joined the eighth King’s Royal Irish Hussars…”
Cardigan raised a gloved hand. “That is quite enough, sir. I do not propose, you recount my life in any further detail, what is what. It’s no damn business of anyone – what is what – I am Lord Cardigan and your superior officer. That is all you need to know about me.”
The earl swivelled on his saddle to look at the colonel sitting on his horse next to him. “Why was I not told that this man would be attending morning parade? This is an outrage.” Seeing his subordinate dithering with a response, he roared again. “You bloody well don’t know who this gentleman is or where he came from?” The other man with a fluffy blond beard gulped.
“I have been gazetted to the eleventh, My Lord. I have just returned from India by way of Aden and Egypt. I served in the governor’s guard in Bombay,” said Stirling, starting to dislike his arrogant commander.
“Don’t you speak to me of India, sir! The place is full of black rogues. Do you consider yourself one of them?” Cardigan straightened his frame some more, if that were even possible.
“Captain Whitt Whitaker is the third son of the Duke of Kenbridge, My Lord,” intervened the colonel.
“Don’t you interrupt me, Winters. I am more than capable of discerning who this man is and what he is doing in my regiment. It appears that he is a penniless scoundrel that would have done better serving the church.” He did not look at the colonel. Instead he kept his piercing gaze on the captain. “May I ask why you are not attired in the correct manner? This is not a gathering for a leisurely morning ride in Hyde Park, sir.”
For the first time that morning, Stirling became aware of his black overcoat, breeches and top hat. “I have not been issued with the uniform yet, My Lord. As I said, I just arrived by ship in London a few days ago, and I was told to join my regiment as soon as possible.”
Cardigan grunted some inaudible words that sounded like insults. “Very bad form, if you ask me. Look around you, young man, and tell me what you see.”
Stirling turned his head to the left. He spent a few moments thinking of the best way to respond. “I see the finest horsemen in the realm, My Lord.”
“Quite right. At least the man is not an imbecile.” The remark invited some mirth from the men closest to him. “Now, let me tell you something…” Cardigan frowned as he tried to remember the man’s name.
“Captain Whitt Whitaker, My Lord.”
“Don’t you interrupt me when I am talking to you.” He puffed out his chest, straining the golden buttons on his tunic. “I will have you know that I keep my Cherrybums light and sprightly. You, sir, look like a man dressed in a sack of potatoes…I will not have it.”
Stirling chuckled. “Yes, I did lose a little weight in India. The food’s not as abundant and as good as it is here, My Lord.”
“Are you implying that we are obese, sir?”
“No, My Lord. I apologize if…”
“Thought not. Ten thousand a year I spend out of my own pocket to feed and clothe the men of the 11th. A master cutler sharpens their swords and I personally make sure that their garments are tightly stitched and cut to a shadow.” Cardigan snorted loudly. “I always say, if my men can’t fornicate, they can’t fight.”
Raucous laughter broke out. “Here’s to the earl,” shouted the men.
Cardigan basked in the acclaim until it died down. “Now, you listen here. If you ever appear at an inspection dressed inappropriately again, I will have you flogged until your back is raw. Do I make myself abundantly clear?”
“Abundantly, My Lord.”
“Good, then let’s see what you Indians are capable of, shall we.” Cardigan turned to his second in command. “Give the order to fetch Inferno. I’d like to see how this man handles a horse. You there, Caruthers. Would you be so kind as to show this gentleman how it is done?”
“It would be my pleasure, My Lord.” The assigned man heeled his mount forward until it came to a rest a few paces in front of the assembled men and steeds. He waited patiently for one of the grooms to appear with a black stallion in tow. It was a magnificent beast with a coat that glistened in the sunlight like an obsidian rock. It pulled and resisted the groom’s attempts at coaxing it forward. His hooves scuffed the turf, digging out divots from the perfect green of the grass that spread out like a silk carpet. The horse’s nostrils flared red and its ears swivelled this way and that.
“Caruthers, do the honours please,” ordered Cardigan.
The cavalryman dismounted and led his mount forward, handing the reigns to the groom. The stallion became more agitated in the presence of the other animal. Caruthers took the other horse’s reigns and pulled violently, forcing the stallion onto its hind legs. It whinnied in protest at the rough handling.
Caruthers did not stop pulling. With one swift move, he flung himself onto the saddle. It took him a while to calm the animal. When it finally settled, he urged it into a canter with his heels and riding crop, whip
ping harshly. And just as quickly as it started, it came to an abrupt end. The stallion bucked hard and reared, hurling the hussar off his back.
The assembled men burst out laughing. Cardigan’s face went a bright red. He looked at the dishevelled man on the ground with disdain. Without being prompted, Stirling dismounted and walked up to the towering black behemoth. He cooed endearments as he approached the horse. He came at a tangent so as not to irritate the proud beast any more than necessary.
“Steady, steady…easy boy…woo…easy boy.” When he reached Inferno, he placed his hand on his muzzle, stroking it gently. With his other hand, he patted the animal’s neck. Stirling continued doing this for a while until he was confident that he had quietened the horse sufficiently.
Quick as a sprite, he mounted. “Easy does it, boy.” He patted its neck again. “Gently now…gently…there, woo.” Inferno responded to his touch and soft words and began to trot. “Walk on, walk on…there. Now, let’s go for something a little more exciting.” Stirling heeled the flanks, spurring the stallion into a canter.
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