He went around the parade ground a few times. The entire battalion watched on in fascinated silence. Inferno was known as the nastiest and most untamed of all of the mounts in the regiment. Usually, Caruthers was able to ride him, but that depended on the animal’s temperament. Stirling directed the horse back to the waiting men and earl. He dismounted next to a chastened Caruthers and handed him the reigns.
“Xenophon’s words should be painted onto every stable end: ‘horses are taught not by harshness, but by gentleness.’ Of course, for classical officers like Caruthers here, the inscription should be written in Greek.”
The men who could hear the exchange howled their hilarity. Stirling walked off and remounted his white stallion, Cloud. He sat stiffly in the saddle and waited for the earl’s tirade.
Like a champagne cork exploding from a bottle, Cardigan shouted, “Caruthers!”
“Sir…My Lord.” The trooper spun around and jogged up to Cardigan where he stood to attention before his superior officer.
“I will not have one of my officers shown up by an Indian reg. He made a monkey of you, sir.” With a snort, Cardigan spurred his horse and cantered away, as the men hurled further insults at the humiliated soldier. The invectives directed at Caruthers lasted until the last of the men passing his position in pursuit of their commander disappeared. Caruthers gave Stirling one final withering glower before he mounted his horse and followed his comrades.
As they dispersed and headed for the stables, a man trotted over on his horse from the other side of the field. “Stirling, my old friend. It is so good to see you and here of all places.”
“By Jove, Royce. It is you, it is you.” Stirling rode up to his old childhood friend. “You did write to me that you served in the 11th. I’d nearly forgotten because you scribble an awful lot in your letters.”
Royce laughed. “Yes, there’s always so much to say.” They dismounted and embraced. “Did you get my last letter?”
“Yes, I did. It reached me when I was about to board ship in Calais,” said Stirling.
“Then you know that I am to be married this weekend to the most delightful lady.” Royce beamed with pride. “Do say that you are coming to the wedding, Stirling.”
Stirling furrowed his brow. “Dear friend, I am afraid I cannot. I have been summoned to attend to my father.”
Royce was crestfallen. “Can’t you postpone? Even if it is only for the church service.”
Stirling sighed when he saw the pleading expression on his friend’s face. “Oh, alright. Only for a short while then. But if it costs me my commission in the 11th Hussars, I will have your head. I need my father who has to convince that fool Cardigan that I have the stuff to be a part of his brigade.”
“But you do. You’re the best damn horseman in England, if not the whole of Europe. And besides, the earl will be attending the wedding. You might be able to change his mind about you.”
Stirling chuckled. “You are too kind, Royce. But I am afraid after my recent little performance I will need a little extra clout than a little chat with the likes of him. Cardigan will never refuse the word of a duke connected to the queen. Even if I am only the third son.” Stirling patted his friend on the back. “Come on, let’s go for a drink and you can tell me all about this lovely girl of yours.”
Royce’s face lit up. “Yes, she is lovely. I only hope that I will be alive long enough to be the husband she deserves. There’s talk of war, you know.”
“Yes, I know. Poor little Turkey…but don’t look so glum. War is the stuff, Royce.”
“That is why you must come to the wedding. It may well be the last time we get to celebrate anything for a while. You did mean it when you said you’d come, Stirling?”
“Yes, but I can’t stay long…”
“All I ask is that my dear friend is in attendance when I marry the woman I love. Now, come on, let’s go for that drink. I know a delightful little pub close to the barracks,” said Royce before his friend could change his mind or add any more limitations.
Despite the cheerful birdsong that still continued unabatedly, something very heavy hung in the air like a foul rumour. The cacophony of war would soon turn toy soldiers into men. Lives would be changed forever and the destiny of two men would be forged by steel and blood.
Chapter 2
“I’m so happy for you, Elizabeth. This is going to be the best day of your life,” said Clementine to her sister. She did not quite believe what she said. It was just what was expected of her under the circumstances.
Her sister’s husband-to-be was a decent enough sort – a dashing hussar in one of the most prestigious regiments in the land. Yet, somehow, Clementine wanted more for herself than just that. It was fine that her sister followed the path that was set out for her, but Clementine would be damned if she did the same.
“It’s so thrilling, I can’t believe I’m getting married today,” said Elizabeth in a chirrupy voice. She hopped from one leg to the other. The sisters giggled girlishly. Clementine ran her hands over her sister’s dress, fluffing it up wherever necessary.
Clementine studied Elizabeth closely with her silver-grey eyes that exuded great intelligence but most of all purpose. The skin on her cordate face was as smooth as a peach’s and radiated health and youthful abundance. It had the hue of the inside of a china teacup, pearl-white, like ivory.
She was only twenty-one years old and, as her mother so often liked to remind her, well overdue for a suitable match of her own. But Clementine wanted more from life than just a husband. She was unlike the typical Victorian girl that knew no other ambition in life than to marry and marry well.
That was her father’s fault. Being the eldest of two girls, he had more or less raised her like a boy. She could shoot like a man and ride a horse like a man. The last skill was something they had kept a secret. In polite society, it just wouldn’t do to have a lady sitting astride of a horse with her legs dangling down its flanks. But none of that mattered really. The thing that defined Clementine was her education. Her father, the Earl of Leighton, had spent countless hours versing her in history, mathematics, Greek, Latin and French. Clementine was more than able to hold her own in any discourse with the superiorly educated men of the time.
Clementine looked at her sister who was still preoccupied with her clothing. She looked so radiant in her off-white wedding gown that had a fitted bodice emphasising the smallness of her waist. Her full skirt fell down her legs in a maelstrom of fluffy hoops and frilly petticoats. It was made of organdie with elements of silk and culminated in different places with ruched bits of lace.
Still captured in a state of observance, she thought how young she was. Only six weeks ago, it had been her nineteenth birthday and now she was getting married. How time flies. It was not that long ago when she constantly tripped over and fell into puddles. The irritating pest, as Clementine had liked to call her, was a woman now. Soon, she would have a home and children of her own, while she still lived with her parents in the Kentish countryside. Elizabeth pressed her lips together. Not if I have anything to do with it, she thought.
For a long time, Clementine had had plans to go to London. It was the centre of the world and the number one place for adventure. The epicentre of an empire that would one day soon cover one quarter of the earth’s landmass and claim one quarter of its population as its subjects. It was the capital city of the most powerful nation in the world. British warships policed the sea-lanes, bringing the Pax Britannica to all corners of the planet. There was hardly a place on the face of the globe that was not within the reach of the British crown.
Clementine’s mother had a mind to launch her into society. It was something that Clementine had avoided for the better part of three years. Her younger sister had completed the circuit, resulting in her wedding this day to a dashing young hussar. It was what was expected of a young lady, but Clementine had other plans for her stay in London. Her father knew of them.
Although he did not approve and would ha
ve much rather seen the more beautiful of his daughters married to a suitable gentleman, he did not have the heart to refuse her anything. Mother was the problem. She would go berserk when she found out that her eldest daughter was not going to the capital city to meet men, but to leave her mark on the world.
“So, Sister, are you looking forward to your launch into society this season? Next year, we might be celebrating your nuptials to one of the kingdom’s finest gentlemen,” said Elizabeth as if she had read her sister’s mind.
Clementine eyes snapped open. She had been lost in deep thought. “That is not exactly why I am going to London, Elizabeth.” She giggled when she saw the confusion play on her sister’s face.
Like Clementine, Elizabeth’s appearance was a pristine canvas of superb porcelain, the kind of delicate shade that can only be found in the British Isles. Her hazel-coloured eyes scintillated curiously as she scrutinized her sister’s face in the Cheval mirror. She recognized the expression of stubbornness on her features that she had known since childhood. “What are you up to now?” she asked, dreading the answer.
“We can talk about that later. We haven’t the time now. It’s your wedding day, remember?”
Clementine fidgeted irritably because it was nearly time to go and she didn’t have any desire to discuss her future plans just yet. Also, Elizabeth had a big mouth. It was nigh impossible for her to keep a secret. Mother would be aware of her plans before the day was out if she told her. And that would invite an unwanted storm into the day’s proceedings. Besides, the time was soon afoot and her little sister would no longer be “Miss Elizabeth Delaney” but “Mrs Royce Ryder”.
“Come here, sister dearest,” said Clementine. She held up the veil that was in her hand and smiled encouragingly. “Time to put this on. We can’t have Royce getting a glimpse of the goods too soon.”
Elizabeth swallowed anxiously. She managed a little giggle despite the tension. “Where’s Mama? I can’t believe she’s disappeared again.”
Clementine pursed her full lips. “Don’t worry, she’ll be back soon. She won’t let you go out into the fray without a kiss and a few empty platitudes.”
The sisters laughed. “Yes, I am sure that she will say that I need to obey my husband in all things,” said Elizabeth.
“Mama always was a stickler for convention. Listen to me, little sister. Men are very easy to handle as long as you pay them compliments often enough. And when you require something of them, always be sure when he agrees that he thinks it was his idea all along.”
“Ha-ha, mama has that down to a perfection. I still don’t know how she persuaded papa to let me marry a simple gentleman with a lieutenant’s commission and no family wealth. Poor old Royce, he’s got to find patronage to climb the ranks.” Elizabeth sighed. “It’s just so unfair.”
“Yes, it is ridiculous that advancement does not have merit as a prerequisite. It is all about family connections and money. The army is full of fools with no ability. I pray for the time when women can vote and decide their own fates and attain an equal footing with the menfolk. Maybe, it will one day be a woman that reforms the army.”
“There is not much of a chance of that happening, Sister.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Have you heard of Florence Nightingale? I hear that she recently has taken up the post of superintendent at the Institute for the Care of Sick Gentlewomen in Upper Harley Street in London. Now, there is a woman to emulate. There are even rumours of her setting up and leading a nursing corps to the east should Britain send the troops to fight the tsar.”
“Balderdash, Clementine. That will never happen. Women tending to men’s wounds…maybe for cleaning up duties after an operation,” countered Elizabeth.
Clementine wanted to say more on the subject that was so very close to her heart. To her mind, men, although physically superior, were not as strong as women. A woman could do anything a man could and she was going to prove it.
“Well, not if she is as docile and supplicant like a cat rubbing itself against a leg. You know, a bit like mother when she wants something from father. The fierce old battle-axe can be as saccharine as sweetmeats when she wants something,” she said instead in an attempt to change the direction of the conversation.
Both young women giggled hysterically.
“I heard that, Clementine,” said another voice.
The sisters spun around on their heels. Clementine nearly dropped the delicate white veil in fright.
“Mater,” squealed the girls in unison.
Their mother smiled affectionately from the doorframe. It was how she liked to be addressed. The Latin term for mother was far more suitable for young ladies than the childish terminologies of “mama”, “mummy” or even the more formal address of “mother”. She stood stoic and still by the door.
Her daughters were so much the same in appearance and yet…when it came to temperament, Clementine was the rebel. Due to her incomparable beauty, she had had suitors galore. And still, her mother worried that she would spend her life as a spinster. There just was no man in the realm that held a candle to her. She knew that it was her husband’s fault. He had bred an independent vixen of such proportion that no matter how lovely she was, no man would have the heart to propose. Not that he would ever get the chance to do so anyway.
Lady Leighton was the incarnation of the perfect Victorian lady if there ever was one. She was not beautiful. Yet, despite her middle-class origins she had style and grace. It had been something she had worked on assiduously since she was a girl. She boasted no aristocratic pedigree, and yet, she had come far in society. She often reminded her daughters that she was once a lady in waiting to Queen Victoria and the pride of her onetime position was still etched onto her face like an interminable tan.
“Come on girls, we haven’t got all day. Your father eagerly waits to take you down the aisle, Elizabeth. I mean it, hurry up. If the poor man has to wait a moment longer he’s going to pass out.”
They all laughed. The mood was lightened. The two young ladies immediately jutted into action. There were still a few minor preparations to be done. Clementine studied her sister’s reflection in the mirror. She had never looked so lovely, she decided. Royce Ryder was a lucky man indeed.
“Elizabeth, turn around and let’s get this on you,” ordered Clementine, holding up the veil.
“Must I wear that thing? Royce won’t be able to see my face with it all covered up.”
“He will be looking at it for the rest of his life, dear. I am sure that he can wait a few moments longer,” said mother, stepping closer.
“But…”
“No buts. You know what is expected of you. The vicar would burst a vein if you appeared in the chapel not attired to perfection. Do you want to risk him having one of his little tantrums and annulling the nuptial day? You know what the man’s like and especially if he’s had one nip of the gin too many.”
Elizabeth shook her head. Obediently, she turned to face her sister. But before Clementine could put the veil on her, Elizabeth took a step back and spun around to face the mahogany Cheval mirror that stood close by. For a few heartbeats, she studied her reflection seriously. For a moment, Clementine thought that her sister was going to cry, but then as if she’d made up her mind, she again turned to face her mother and sister. The expression on her face was of utter dismay.
“Oh fiddlesticks, is this really the right dress? It is so white and fluffy.” She patted the flats of her hands on the bouncy tussocks of fabric that encircled her legs in a hoary mantle. “I look like one of Cook’s rotund meringues. Royce is bound to think he is marrying a snowy mountain.”
Clementine and her mother exchanged glances. They burst out laughing.
“I do. I knew it.” Elizabeth started pulling on her dress. “Take this hideous thing off me. The wedding is off. I am like some great big white cow. Not even an Indian Hindu would worship me.”
Mother and eldest daughter could not contain themselves. They were in hysterics. Cle
mentine had to concede to herself that her sister did look a little like a pudgy snowflake. Seeing Elizabeth’s discomfort, she contained her mirth. “You look beautiful, Elizabeth. I am sure every Indian on the subcontinent would worship you if you were a cow.”
The tears threatened to drop off Elizabeth’s lashes and lids. She snivelled. “Really?” she squeaked.
“Of course. You are the epitome of the holy white cow.” Clementine had tears streaming down her cheeks. In contrast to Elizabeth’s, hers were of mirth. “All you have to do, is keep the bull in check until after the festivities.”
“Clementine! Stop this uncouth behaviour this very instant. I did not raise my daughters so that they could comport themselves like harlots in Covent Garden Market. For someone who doesn’t like the prospect of marriage, you certainly know a lot about the happenings between couples behind closed doors.”
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 32
