Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection

by Hamilton, Hanna

  “Recruit, Rory Bennett, Your Honour,” said the man, standing straighter still. His accent had a distinct Cockney lilt to it that could only be found in the east of London.

  “And what is your reason for wanting to become a hussar in the 11th?”

  Rory shrugged. “Money, your Honour. Lost my job working in the docks, ye see, and I need the Queen’s shilling to support the wife and the children.”

  “I see. And how did you come to enlist?”

  “The Sergeant-Major, sees, can be quite persuasive. My mate here, and me, was drinking and the fine promise of more gin seemed a good reason at the time…your Honour.” Rory shuffled on his feet nervously under the major’s piercing green gaze.

  “First, you can call me sir or major. The difference is of minor import. Secondly, have you any equestrian experience?”

  “Sir?”

  “Do you know horses, man?” snapped Stirling.

  “Oh, right, uh, well, I did work with horses at the docks, sir – pack animals and loaders, if you like, sir.”

  “I see…”

  “Stop flirting with the man, Major. Let the Sergeant get on with his training,” shouted Cardigan who had had his glass and that of Royce refilled with champagne by one of the recently arrived adjutants from the office.

  “My Lord.” Stirling bowed. “Well then, good luck, Bennett. We will be seeing a lot more of each other in the coming months, it appears.” He turned on his heels and marched back to his friend and the earl.

  As he went, the sergeant bellowed, “Now, lads, as you can see, our dress is bright and warm.” He moved his head forward and lowered his voice. “And you will notice, in time, that our officers barely whisper. They lead from the front, not believing that valour can be inspired by prods to the arse from the rear…”

  The recruits emitted a bout of muffled laughter.

  “Do you find me amusing?” shouted the sergeant.

  When he didn’t get the desired response, he yelled again, inducing the men to shout: “NO, SIR!”

  “Good, for this is not a gathering of a troop of comedians, but a training parade of the 11th Hussars. As you can well see our commander and his officers are here watching you. So, I would be on my best behaviour and show my best.”

  The sergeant started to pace up and down in front of the men, as his voice carried on at a pitch of meticulous martial precision.

  “Keep yourselves clean and avoid the demon drink…that’s the right path…a finely turned out hussar has the gay ladies pearling their eyes after you.”

  Jake took the chance to look at Rory quickly. He rolled his eyes, making the other man smirk. They had been up since the crack of dawn, seeking out their uniforms and their equipment. After that, it had been an endless barrage of insults and training. Thanks to the physical labour they were used to at the docks, it had not been as hard on them as for some of the more flaccid types that had spent their days lining the caked streets of London.

  “You there, sir – on the right,” yelled the sergeant.

  Seeing the man’s gaze upon him, Jake looked about stupidly. Next to him, Rory shrugged, still not comprehending the sergeant’s meaning.

  “Yes, you, sir. On the right.”

  Jake looked to his left but he was the last man standing in the row.

  The sergeant marched forward at a fast pace, belying his short stature. “Where are your hooks, sir?” he yelled with his nose nearly touching Jake’s.

  Jake shrugged, as the spittle landed on his face.

  “Hooks is spurs, sir. You are not wearing them.” Seeing Jake hitch his shoulders, he shouted, “NAME!”

  “Metcalfe…Jake, Sergeant-Major, sir.”

  The man sighed and walked back to his former position. He swivelled on his heels theatrically. “For the benefit of Metcalfe here and you other men of a limited intellect, we will be finding left.”

  He screamed at the corporal standing close by to start with the dispensing of straw sticks that were attached to the left boot of each man. In silence, the sergeant waited for him to complete his work.

  “What you got there is a new foot…an army foot.” The sergeant stood to attention. “Left foot forward!”

  Cardigan sniggered when half of the men got it wrong by instead moving their right foot forward. “Tis like a foreign language to them.” He shook his head in despair. “Come on, gentlemen. Let’s see the men who have already mastered the skill of the left foot.”

  Cardigan stalked off with his adjutant scurrying in his wake, carrying a freshly opened bottle of champagne. Stirling exchanged glances with Royce. They both knew that most of London’s population were illiterate. Seeing their superior officer trooping away, they followed hastily. Royce had trouble keeping up because of all of the drink he had consumed. Within a short time, there were more bellows scudding over the huge parade ground.

  “Dismount…prepare to mount…MOUNT!” ordered another colour-sergeant to a group of ten men mounting and dismounting from dummy horses made of leather and wood. “Put some spring into your back, man.”

  Every time, the men stood next to their mounts more blood seeped through their threadbare white breeches. The recruits’ knees and thighs were rubbed bare of the skin from the tortuous regimen imposed upon them by their instructors.

  The sight had Stirling starting to believe the earl’s earlier boast that he could train a troop in fourteen days. However, he did not agree with the method in the slightest. To his mind, soldiers should serve in the army because they wanted to and not out of force and poverty. He swore to himself that one day there would be an army composed of men who earned a fair penny and did it out of honour.

  “Gentlemen, I forgot to mention. The Secretary of War, Sidney Herbert, has requested the honour of the regiment’s officers at the ball next week. We shall of course attend. There will be a fair amount of swish and tit that I will definitely not pass up on.”

  Stirling and Royce chuckled.

  “Tis a shame that you are married, young Royce. To be caught in the vice of one woman’s tentacles at such a young and virile age is a sin, my boy. You, Whitt Whittaker – you are not married, sir?”

  “No, My Lord, I do not have that privilege.”

  “Privilege, privilege, have you lost your mind, man. A wife is nothing other than a walking, talking iron ball on a chain. They have the tendency to talk as much as a church bell. I tell you, heeding to a gang of whooperups singing a song with unmelodious vigour is far more enjoyable than listening to her nagging all of the time. Women are con artists; after luring you in with all manner of doing the bear in the bushes, once she has you, your life is forfeit. And I’ll have you know that being held in a gaol in a state of captivity would be far more enjoyable than the institution of marriage – tis a farce, I say.”

  Stirling smiled. “If you say so, My Lord.”

  “Oh, I do – Now, if my fob watch is not playing tricks on me, it is time for luncheon. Come along, gentlemen, we shall have it at my club, Whites, on Saint James’s Street. You can speak to me of India, Major. And you can remind me why I got divorced, Captain.”

  The earl sniggered uncouthly as he marched in the direction of a waiting carriage with four horses.

  Chapter 11

  Clementine walked into her parents’ London townhouse in Belgravia. It was an elaborate affair with white-stuccoed columns and façade. The building had only been in the family’s possession for a short time as completion of this area of the city had only recently taken place. Many considered the houses there as some of the grandest ever built.

  After having passed the main entrance, she emerged into a hallway with meticulously inlaid black and white marble flooring. The walls were stuccoed and bedecked with landscapes and family portraits. Clementine took a moment to take in her surroundings. She had only ever been in the house once before and the sight of it never ceased to amaze her.

  Above her head, the ceiling was no less than four metres in height. In front of her, a twin staircase hug
ged curving walls all the way up to the first floor – it was beautiful.

  “Ma’am, your sister and her husband await you in the drawing room. Will you please follow me?”

  Clementine nodded graciously at the butler attired in the finest dark livery, crisp white shirt and perfectly polished shoes that did not make a sound as he spun on his heels and began to traverse the main foyer. She smiled to herself. It was good to be home for the afternoon.

  The image of her father standing proudly on one of the canvasses caught her attention. It was new. She decided that he had such loving eyes and a soft mouth. It sometimes made her think how he put up with her mother – she could be such a battle-axe some of the time.

  “Darling Sister,” announced Royce when she entered the elaborate drawing room. He quickly got to his feet and walked up to her, taking Clementine into his arms.

  “Dear Royce, how are you? I hope the army is treating you well,” said Clementine, pulling away.

  “Splendid, splendid, it couldn’t be better.” Royce turned and indicated to his wife. “Your sister has been dying to see you again. It feels like it’s been ages since the wedding.”

  Clementine smiled wanly as she stepped forward. “And you poor darlings never got the chance to go on a honeymoon.”

  “Ah, no bother. There’s a war on and we are soon to be shipped out – Lord Cardigan assures me of that fact.”

  Elizabeth winced. With a sad face, she patted on the silk settee, indicating that her sister sit next to her.

  Clementine hugged her warmly. “It’s alright. They are all brave men and they are sure to come back.” She felt Elizabeth shudder in her embrace. They hugged a little while longer before breaking apart.

  Strutting around the room, Royce continued to natter on about the war. “It is all over the press and the public is going wild with anger at the Russian’s treatment of the Turks. A detachment of Royal Engineers and officers just returned from their inspection of the harbour at Sevastopol – it is heavily fortified and manned with over twenty-thousand men, but nothing we can’t handle when we finally get there.”

  Clementine watched the happy expression on her brother-in-law’s face. It sickened her to the core how men could speak of war as if it were some kind of leisurely outing. Royce kept going on and on about how many soldiers would be sent, and how their fine colours and banners would look on the dry landscape of the Crimea.

  He elaborated that the British military was not up to scratch because of the huge demobilization after the Napoleonic Wars. Yet, he was confident that the men of Great Britain would make the inferior Russians quiver with fear. The bear of Russia was simply no match for the lion of England, he concluded.

  “Oh, do be quiet, Royce. I can’t listen to it anymore. Are you really so excited to go off and leave me behind full of worry,” snapped Elizabeth. “I would so much rather hear about Clementine’s nursing experience.” She nodded at the butler for him to pour her sister some tea and offer her a piece of sponge cake.

  “Dear, Royce, I have to agree with Elizabeth. Talk of war is so depressing.” Turning to her sister, Clementine smirked. “I see Sister that you were quick to adopt the Duchess of Bedford’s new whim of taking tea in the afternoon. I have never had one myself, but I hear that even the queen is fond of it.”

  Ignoring her chastened husband who sat down with a sigh, Elizabeth nodded. “Well, yes, I think it is a lovely idea to have a little something to eat in the afternoon. I do get peckish around four o’clock and this seems like the perfect solution.”

  Sipping her tea, Clementine nodded. “Yes, Miss Nightingale insists upon it in the afternoons.”

  “And? Tell us more. Are you enjoying it? Is it better than finding a nice chap and getting married?” asked Elizabeth sternly.

  “Neither of them have anything to do with the other. It is just something I always wanted to do – to be independent.” Clementine reflected for a heartbeat. “In the nursing corps, we are taken seriously. Miss Nightingale is tough on us, but if we ever do get sent to the Crimea with the army, we will have to be well trained and prepared for the conditions in a foreign land. We cannot know what to expect.”

  With a frown pleating her brow, Elizabeth studied her sister closely. “Don’t tell me that you are also looking forward to this ridiculous little escapade.”

  “Elizabeth, how can you say such thing? War is something that we can never look forward to – it is evil and horrible, but it is necessary from time to time. Great Britain, as the foremost nation in the world, cannot let tyranny reign unchecked. And as far as I am concerned, the Tsar is a despot and a land-grabber on a mission to enrich himself.”

  Clementine shuddered a moment until she could continue.

  “Look at the serfs in Russia. They have nothing. In contrast, we span the world with our beliefs and ideals in order to bring civilization and religion to the noble savages. It is my strong faith that England is destined to incorporate those less educated and fortunate peoples into the empire and nurture them under the ever-watchful gaze of the queen.”

  Elizabeth frowned. She never shared her sister’s penchant for politics or geopolitical matters. She was out of her league on that front and she knew it. She pressed her lips together, getting more and more agitated as Royce beamed at his sister-in-law and kept repeating, “Here, here.”

  Putting her irritation aside, she said, “Husband, do tell Clementine about that charming friend of yours. It makes for far more interesting conversation.” She regarded her sister impishly.

  “I would be delighted to. You know him of course, Clementine,” said Royce, sipping on the rim of his teacup.

  Clementine frowned. “I know him? Where in heavens from?”

  “Our wedding of course. He was the young gentleman I introduced you to along with the formidable Lord Cardigan.”

  Clementine felt the blood in her veins surge like torrent of water after a heavy rainfall. The memory of how she had felt that fine late morning came back to her with a vengeance. He had been so handsome and self-confident. To her great surprise, she could remember every little detail of his face. Each little crevice, dark strand of hair and the line of his jaw and chin were singed into her mind. But that was not it.

  His eyes – yes, it was those smaragdine irises that she remembered the most – they had bored into her with sweet and determined intent and had made her slightly dizzy. Were it not for that fool Lord Cardigan, she would have completely fallen for his charms.

  “Don’t you remember, Clementine? He was about to join the 11th…”

  “Of course, she remembers, darling. Look at her. I think my headstrong sister has at last found her mate,” said Elizabeth smugly. This was what she was good at – who cared about the Russians and any other fool with a penchant for violence. The attraction between man and woman was where the true fun lay.

  Clementine felt hot flushes populate her cheeks like a rash. It made her feel so embarrassed at having been so transparent in front of her sister. But why? She did not know herself what was going on – or what she felt. By God, I don’t even know his name, she thought. Oh, yes you do, said another voice in her head – Stirling!

  “Stirling Whit Whittaker, the finest horseman in the whole of England, if not in Europe. And I got him his commission in the regiment,” said Royce proudly.

  Clementine was no longer listening. What did she care whether he could ride a horse so well. And yet, she did. It took all of her strength of will to force the unknown feelings away from her mind. “Oh, really – if he’s so good then why did he need your help?” she asked priggishly.

  Next to her and watching closely, Elizabeth smirked.

  “Well, he ran into a spot of bother with his father – that’s all really. Nothing serious.” Royce shrugged. “Doesn’t matter now. He’s been gazetted to the 11th as a major. I am so very happy for him.”

  “Stirling is such a charming gentleman. A man like that will not be around for long. I suggest you get your talons into him, Cl
ementine, before some other…” Elizabeth tittered. “How did that vulgar commanding officer of yours put it, Royce? ‘Fine filly, boasting swish and tit.’” Elizabeth had to control her mirth with her dainty hands pressed against her face.

  “I will not be some filly and especially not for a man I hardly know. I don’t know what all the fuss is all about. He wasn’t that special, you know,” said Clementine, smoothing down her dress before she got up to walk over to the large windows facing out onto Belgrave Square.

  Royce and his wife exchanged knowing glances.

  Chapter 12

  Raucous laughter reverberated off the wood-panelled walls in the officers’ mess. It was a large room with portraits of some of Britain’s most illustrious commanders lining the walls. The floor was covered in a thick red carpet. Eddying cigar smoke filled the air with a white haze and the happy clinking of glasses gave the entire atmosphere a pleasant ambiance. Standing behind some twenty-five officers were servants dressed in dark-blue tunics with golden buttons. Off-and-on, they milled about, refilling flutes and delivering dishes of food.