“I would like to have a glass of white wine, if you please?” asked one of the officers.
“No, no, no, it’s his lordship’s command that only champagne be served in the mess this evening,” said a senior officer and one of Lord Cardigan’s toadies.
“Only champagne, sir, I was not aware.”
“Then be aware, young man. I made it explicitly clear that only champagne be drunk here tonight,” Cardigan glowered at the cornet imperiously. He was attired in his full regimental regalia and sat at the centre of the long table that spanned the entire length of the room.
“My Lord, of course.” He turned to the servant to change his order.
“Excellent, roast beef, Yorkshire pudding and roast potatoes, there’s nothing like it,” said Cardigan, peering down his nose onto his plate with the steaming food. He swivelled his large head, glowering at the other officers for recognition.
“Quite right, My Lord. Best dish by far. And may I take this opportunity to thank his Lordship for his generosity in always providing his Cherrybums with the finest fare and drink,” said Royce from across the table. Next to him, Stirling smirked at his friend’s ingratiating manner.
Clearing his throat, Cardigan nodded gravely. “You may, young man, you may.” A naughty grin populated his visage. “By God, you need it. After what you told me the other day about your wife, you need some happiness to fill your life. She sounds like a veritable ogre, sir.”
Everyone burst into laughter. Royce blushed crimson. He stuttered a few incoherent words until he felt Stirling’s hand press against his back. He turned his head to his right to see his friend looking at him fondly.
“Have you nothing to say to that, man. Am I right? Is marriage an abominable institution that emasculates men and empowers women? By Jove, my ex-wife surely tried…until I found another pasture to sow.” Cardigan’s eyes glinted with amusement as Royce mumbled some inaudible words and those present vented their hilarity.
“One forgives to the degree one loves, My Lord,” said Stirling, coming to his friend’s aid.
“What was that?” barked Cardigan, his face reddening with every sip of the champagne he took.
“François de La Rochefoucauld, My Lord. He was…”
“A damned Frenchmen. Don’t speak to me of the frogs, sir – they are not worth the effort. They prefer dreaming and talking to women rather than fighting a war.”
“Here, here,” echoed throughout the dining room.
“But it was the French that conquered most of Europe not so long ago. I’d say that was rather martial of them, My Lord,” said Stirling.
Cardigan bristled. “Only because the Corsican tyrant who lead them had the hots for a bit of Polish crumpet. What was the filly’s name?”
“Countess Walewska, My Lord,” interjected his chief sycophant and adjutant.
“Yes, that’s the one. Well worth the trip if you ask me.”
The remark invited more ribald mirth.
“Anyhow, once we got involved, The French didn’t have the stomach to face superior British soldiers. They were useless at sea and they boasted the very same efficacy on land. Was it not Wellington who thrashed their pants off, Major?”
“Indeed, it was, My Lord,” said Stirling, nodding thoughtfully. “Yet, they are our allies now.”
Cardigan grunted as if the notion was the most unappealing thing in the world. Having forgotten Royce and not deigning to continue the conversation with Stirling, Lord Cardigan swivelled his huge head to a young cornet sitting at the head of the table. He pleated his brow when he saw what was on his plate. “Are you satiated, young man?”
“I have your orders, My Lord, to be here and eat lettuce.” The young blond officer had a red tint on his cheeks, displaying his embarrassment as he stammered his response. He pulled out a piece of thick paper from his coat pocket and held it out in Cardigan’s direction. “I am eating lettuce. I have eaten lettuce to this day, My Lord.”
Cardigan puffed out his cheeks audibly, as the officers sitting down the side of the table with the heavy silver candelabras in the centre passed the note down to him. His aide-de-camp took it from the man sitting next to him and began to read.
“What it tells the cornet, as the youngest officer in the mess, is that he is expected to eat as a rabbit does – only lettuce.”
Cardigan snorted as he wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“And it’s signed by you, My Lord,” continued his crony, chuckling.
“So green, boy…so green…you have been drawn…tis not by my order that you should eat lettuce.” Cardigan expelled his mirth in a series of splutters and grunts. “Though, perhaps, it’ll put some sap in your pizzle.” He went redder still as he joined in with his men with raucous laughter.
Further down the table, Stirling smirked. It was little pranks like this that kept the unit together.
“Does this tomfoolery make officers, Major Whitt Whittaker?” asked a reporter from The Times who sat to the other side of Stirling.
“Perchance, but it makes comrades and that is the most important thing.”
The reporter nodded as the decibel level of laughter continued to rise in the room. “Do you think that perhaps we could have some Moselle?” he asked Stirling.
“Yes, of course.” Stirling beckoned to one of the servants to order a bottle of the sweet wine.
Across from Stirling, two men discussed the necessity of being seen when doing one’s duty. One of them claimed that there was no point being in the army if no one witnessed your courageous acts. His comrade responded by saying that that was extremely difficult for the Russian soldier because he wore an assuming grey uniform.
When the black bottle of wine for the reporter arrived, Stirling told the server not to bother decanting it. Diagonally across from him, Cardigan quaffed his champagne contently. His gaze swivelled from left to right as he proudly surveyed his men. It came to an abrupt halt. The colour of his irises went a darker shade as he blew up his chest.
“You are drinking beer, sir - porter beer.”
Stirling looked about to make sure that he was the one being addressed. Seeing his superior officer’s scrutiny bore into him like daggers, he responded, “No, My Lord”
“Yes!”
“No”
“See it!”
“No, My Lord.”
“Don’t you no me.” Cardigan’s face looked like it was about to rupture as the blood shot up his neck, making the veins there appear to burst. “That is a black bottle,” he yelled.
“I assure you, My Lord.” Stirling was totally perplexed. He looked to his left and right for support, but none of his comrades would meet his gaze.
“That is a black bottle and you are drinking porter from it,” insisted Cardigan.”
“Champagne only,” said the adjutant in his superior’s support.
“As a matter of fact, I asked Major Whit Whittaker…” came the reporter to Stirling’s aid.
“You knew that.” The earl blatantly ignored the reporter, preferring to continue focusing on the young major.
“I am not aware,” shouted Stirling, getting to his feet.
Gradually, Cardigan stood up. “I am aware that you are drinking porter at my table.”
“Sit down, Major Whit Whittaker. What his lordship is saying was that champagne only was to be drunk in the mess tonight,” intervened the aid-de-camp haughtily.
“It is not porter; it is Moselle, My Lord,” said Stirling, barely controlling his anger.
“Apologize, Major,” said the adjutant.
“If I am in error…”
“In error…don’t quibble with me, sir. That is beer. I will not have beer drunk in my mess – come back Major, come back,” barked Cardigan as he watched Stirling march to the door. “You will not leave the mess, I command it.” The only answer he got was the sound of the door slamming. “DOG! – impertinent Indian dog devil!” Cardigan exhaled audibly, as he slurped down a large gulp of champagne to quell his nerves.
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Chapter 13
“Oh Clementine, look at them. Aren’t they dashing in their tight breeches and garish tunics?” said Sally excitedly as she watched a group of assembled officers standing at the other side of the ballroom. They were like a gathering of proud peacocks, bedazzling in their colourful plumage.
Clementine smiled. Sally was nearly the same age as she was and a fellow nurse in the corps. She was a plain girl from Yorkshire with a bubbly disposition and Clementine had taken to her immediately. Sally was kind-hearted, clever and a hopeless romantic. Clementine was sure that before the war was over that she would be married to an officer.
“Yes, they are fine gentlemen,” said Clementine not really interested in the men. Her gaze was more for the interior of the ballroom. It was like being in another world. A place where glittering chandeliers bedecked the ceiling like diamond halos and the sound of music serenaded the airwaves with melodious intent. She never was one for dancing, but this night, she couldn’t help tapping her foot to the rhythm.
But before she could say anymore, Sally was whisked away by a dashing young cavalry officer. Clementine didn’t mind. She enjoyed the brief respite; it gave her more time to study her magnificent surroundings.
The ball was held in the newly erected Army and Navy Club-House on Pall Mall in London. The exterior of the building was a combination of Sansovino's Palazzo Cornaro, and the Library of St. Mark at Venice; but varying in the upper part, which had Corinthian columns, with windows resembling arcades.
The ballroom itself was extremely rich in ornamental detail. The hall was panelled with scagliola, and had a ceiling enriched with flowers, and was pierced for ventilation by heated flues above. Arched windows, and mirrors formed arcades around the entire ballroom, affording innumerable vistas. Clementine didn’t know whether to look at the dancing couples, handsome men or the beauty of the architecture.
“Darling Sister, how wonderful it is to see you,” said Royce interrupting Clementine’s perusal. He moved closer to give his sister-in-law a peck on the cheek.
“Royce, I was so hoping to bump into you here. Did you manage to placate my sister concerning the definite mobilization of the army?” asked Clementine, referring to the imminent departure of British troops to the Crimea.
“Oh, that – well, I can’t say that Elizabeth is all too happy about it. She does worry so. She even went so far as not to attend this evening. She said that she would be no part of a celebration that glorified death. Frankly, I don’t know what all of the fuss is about. And besides, I have my friend, Stirling, to look after me.”
Clementine studied Royce for a moment and decided that her brother-in-law looked magnificent in his uniform. He seemed to have transformed into a new man. Gone was the foppish boy and born was the independent hussar. The army really did suit him was all she could think of. Shifting her gaze a little to the left, she gulped.
“May I present my fellow officer and friend? I believe that you are already acquainted,” said Royce, turning to his companion who stood a little further back.
Clementine’s gaze moved to the strapping officer standing next to her brother-in-law. She swallowed nervously. She was amazed she hadn’t noticed him at once. He was superb, just like she remembered him. He looked so good, like sin in a uniform.
Before Clementine could help herself, iniquitous thoughts populated her mind in a rush of libidinous intent. She asked herself whether this was what all the girls felt when they were confronted with a man that made their hearts beat faster, skipping beats when he smiled.
Feeling slightly flushed, she started fluttering the ornate fan that she held in her hand, directing it below her face to abate the flush that threatened to betray her. Before she realized what she was doing, it was too late – she had just indicated to the gentleman with her wide-open and flapping fan that she was single and in love with him.
She snapped it shut far too violently. This gesture made her more nervous still. She did not hate him as her immediate action had just indicated – God, this is all wrong; damn him for having this effect on me. Whatever she did was erroneous and making her look more and more like a fool. Ultimately, she decided to lower her right arm and refrain from any further unwanted fan signalling. All the while she had been struggling with her presentation, the man studied her with a knowing smirk on his face.
For far too long, Clementine stared back at him greedily. She behaved as if she had never seen him before or that he was her beau who had returned home after a long voyage at sea. He was lean, of a fine height, long ash black hair with a determined clean-shaven face. Though at the same time, his green eyes exuded kindness and compassion.
Even though her body and mind had betrayed her at her sister’s wedding, he was all Clementine could ever hope for in a man. Before she knew it, and for the first time in her life, Clementine could entertain the prospect of marriage.
“Major Stirling Whitt Whittaker, finest cavalryman in the 11th Hussars, darling Sister,” said Royce enthusiastically. He winked at Clementine. “As if you didn’t already know that.”
“I am so very pleased to see you again, Major. Although, the last time when we were introduced, you were not yet a major,” said Clementine regaining her composure and adopting her customary self-assured poise.
“I have your dear brother-in-law to thank for that. And please do call me Stirling,” he answered confidently.
Clementine tried her best to force down her elation and remain aloof – she would so love to call him by his given name. Yet, this proved to be virtually impossible. It maddened her that a man could have such an affect on her. “I don’t think that would be proper, Major. After all, we are not in a state of courtship,” she said confidently.
For a moment, they just stood there staring at each other. Stirling couldn’t believe his eyes. Clementine was even more beautiful than he remembered. He revelled in the lustre of her soft silky skin that shone like white marble under the crystal chandeliers above.
Her golden blonde hair was done in the pompadour style and was held in place on the top of her head, while a few errant golden curls hung listlessly down over her forehead. Stirling could imagine that when untied, her hair would cascade languorously down her back in a river of molten gold. He breathed in deeply with unfathomable wanting.
With a spark in her silver-grey eyes, Clementine was the first to recover. “Finest cavalryman in the regiment? That’s quite an accolade, Major Whit Whittaker.” She deliberately continued to employ the formal address. Although she wanted to call him Stirling, she just loved the way his surname sounded on her tongue. It was as if she was already claiming it as her own.
“Naturally, he’s the best horseman in the whole of England. He was literally born in the saddle. Even Lord Cardigan agrees,” said Royce butting in. He had not yet noticed the electrical current that ran between Clementine and Stirling.
For a heartbeat, Clementine flinched upon hearing the arrogant aristocrat’s name. But at the same time, she loved the way Stirling blushed modestly. She found it so endearing how a man of his obvious talents could display such humility.
“The higher we are placed, the more humbly we should walk,” said Clementine with a glint in her eyes.
Stirling grinned at her. “Marcus Tullius Cicero, I believe.”
Clementine could’ve jumped up and down with glee. He was not only gorgeous but an educated man as well.
“May I have this dance, Lady Delaney?” Asked Stirling.
Clementine smiled mischievously. “You don’t appear to be on my card, Major.”
Stirling smiled at Clementine’s allusion to the dance card, containing the names of her dance partners that each woman was presented with by the host. “There’s an exception to every rule, My Lady,” he said, taking her gloved hand and making to lead her to the dance floor.
“Well, I don’t think that would be proper, sir. I, I, cannot,” she stammered, losing all of her composure. It took her a few moments before she could muster the
will to free her hand from his.
“Oh, but I do think that you can. You see I traded places with that gentleman over there. He is a cornet and his name is Smith…yes, Arthur Smith, I believe.”
The cool grin on Stirling’s face infuriated Clementine. She furtively looked down onto the ornate card with the dance partner’s names written in an exquisite hand. Her gloved hand nearly crumpled it. It was true. Her next dance partner was in fact the cornet. The heat rose to her face. It was not the same as before. This time, anger was the fuel. “I do not appreciate being bartered like a slab of meat.”
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 40
