Rory had been astounded upon arrival. Not knowing anything about the ways of landed gentry and even less so about nobility, he had made his presence known at the front door instead of down the side where the servants’ quarters and kitchen were located. The butler who had opened the door had been slightly taken aback at the sight of a man dressed in the uniform belonging to a hussar in the eleventh. It was thanks to his appearance that he got a foot in the door. Everything that happened thereafter had been dreamlike and like nothing he had known before.
The entrance hall in the grand house led to steps up to a mezzanine floor where the main reception rooms were located. Inside, the ornamentation was generous, and to Rory, overwhelming. He could not believe that his wife worked in such surroundings, let alone get his head around the fact that such places existed. The chimneypiece was generally the main focus in all of the rooms he passed. They had been given a classical treatment, topped by paintings or mirrors, depending on the chamber it was in.
Plasterwork ceilings, carved wood, and bold schemes of wall paint formed a backdrop to increasingly rich collections of furniture, paintings, porcelain, mirrors, and artful objects of all kinds. There was hardly any wood panelling as it had fallen from favour around the mid-century. Wallpaper, including very expensive imports from China, was de rigeur now-a-days.
The lady of the house had been courteous to him from the start. After some tea, a rather disgruntled butler had escorted Rory to the basement area or “rustic”, where the kitchens, offices and service areas were. It also served as the spot where male guests with muddy boots entered and came some way above ground, and was lit by windows that were high on the inside, but just above ground level on the outside. A single block with a small court for carriages at the front marked off by railings and a gate graced the outside.
“Ye know that ye can seek employ here. I have spoken to her ladyship. She needs somebody to work with the horses. Ye have learnt a bit about that since joining the army behind my back.”
Rory could not help but notice the last bit. Mary had been furious with him after he had confessed by messenger that he had joined. It had been the only way because neither of them could write and he had not been allowed to leave the barracks at the time.
“I can’t, Mary, and you know that. I am very grateful to her ladyship that ye can work here and all.” Rory swept his arm over their surroundings expansively. “Tis truly magnificent and I am so happy that the children are able to grow up here.”
Mary frowned. “Then why do ye hesitate? It should be no choice for ye. Ye coming here and it’s final.”
“I can’t. I have an obligation to my comrades, my queen and my country. Also, I have a responsibility to…” Rory could not help himself from thinking about the young major who had been so kind to him the other day. He never heard his wife complain that he also had a responsibility to his family. He knew that he did, but somehow, he knew that they would be all right no matter what happened to him.
Chapter 21
Windsor Castle stood proudly close to the banks of the Thames. The motte, the stone keep that sat on raised artificial earthworks in the centre of the castle’s grounds, was the first thing that came into sight. William the Conqueror had established the original structure as a bastion in order to control the city of London, this strategically important position on the river and the surrounding countryside.
The castle as it stood that day was created during a sequence of phased building projects that spanned the centuries since their inception around the year 1066. The building was in essence an amalgamation of Georgian and Victorian design based on a medieval structure, with Gothic features.
“Tis magnificent is it not?” said Clementine looking up at the building Queen Victoria had adopted as her principle royal residence from her vantage point, reclining on the rowing boat they had rented for the afternoon.
“Yes, it is. “The building has a certain fictive quality – picturesque and Gothic, as if they are putting on a performance there,” said Stirling, turning his head and taking a break from his rowing.
Clementine giggled. “Well, it should be Gothic. Wasn’t it William the Conqueror who had the first stones laid?”
“Yes, I think it was.”
“It’s as large as a small town. Imagine living in that and having all that space to yourself. Think of all the cleaning that needs to be done. Tis a little grey and dreary, don’t you think? No wonder the queen said that it was dull and tiresome and prison-like.”
Stirling started to row again. Royce and Elizabeth had long since passed them. They were heading for their rendezvous point on a grassy patch close to the village of Bray. It was hard work rowing against the current that sourced on the other side of the country at Kemble.
“The entire thing is divided into three wards – an upper one, a middle one and a lower one. The lower part is where St. Georges’ Chapel is located, in the centre you have the motte with the main keep of old and in the upper part is where the royal residences are,” said Clementine still studying the enormous structure.
“Yes, the debauched King George the Fourth spent a fortune redecorating the place to his specifications when he decided that Carlton House in London, that was no less of a palace, was insufficient for his needs. The man poured vast amounts of money into Carlton House while he was Prince Regent only to have the place demolished and sold off as terraced properties so that he could move into Buckingham Palace and Winsor Castle.”
Stirling shook his head at the profligacy of it all. “That’s not to mention the money he spent sprucing up the Brighton Pavilion. He soon also found that home insufficient a place to reflect his wealth and influence in the world. Imagine him saying they were too small for grand court events. I am happy we have a queen like Victoria. She is far more realistic and a better monarch in all things.”
“But they say the insides are quite beautiful.”
Stirling nodded. “They should be.”
Clementine flashed him a smile in an attempt to soften him up. “Well, don’t you think our monarchs should have residences that reflect their station? Great Britain is the most powerful nation in the world. It just wouldn’t do, to have the queen slumming it out.”
“I hardly call living in newly renovated residences costing the British taxpayer over three hundred thousand Pounds Sterling slumming it out. I hear in order to have his favourite Rococo styles incorporated, King George the Fourth applied his taste to Windsor.”
Stirling thought of more things to say on the topic. For a heartbeat, he was taken aback by Clementine’s beauty and her knowledge on the topic as a sunray grazed her cheek. Before he could stop himself, his voice started to trail off again. He had to talk. He needed something to do lest his nerves claim him.
“The terraces were closed off to visitors for greater privacy and the exterior of the Upper Ward was completely remodelled into its current appearance. The Round Tower was raised in height to create a more dramatic statement; many of the rooms in the State Apartments were rebuilt or remodelled; numerous new towers were created, much higher than the older versions. The south range of the ward was rebuilt to provide private accommodation for the king, away from the staterooms.”
Stirling rowed harder and harder with every word. Spending huge amounts renovating the monarch’s residence every time a new one came to power was something he did not believe in. Surely, the money could be spent on more important things. For one, the army needed an organizational overhaul. Not in equipment and uniforms, but in the way it was managed. Thinking about the British army made him think of Cardigan again. His arrest had been cancelled, but only because of Clementine’s quick thinking and the involvement of the press. How could it have come to it? Arrest because of a black bottle in the mess. He shook his head with disgust.
When he saw Clementine staring at him, he reverted back to the previous topic by saying, “By the time George the Fourth died the cost of his renovations had spiralled out of control to one million Pound
s.”
“It appears that Queen Victoria and Prince Albert are far more frugal. They only commissioned a few minor alterations and they also had no hand in the fire in the State Dining Room last year – that needed to be repaired.”
“I suppose.”
“And I think that this royal couple deserve a few things. The queen is always busying herself with the plight of her subjects and Albert is doing his upmost with regard to this conflict with Russia. Did you know that it was his idea to impose economic sanctions on the Russian Empire?”
“Yes, I did actually.”
“And that he is trying to reform the British army?”
Stirling nodded.
“So, enough with this republicanism, Stirling. Just because George the Fourth was profligate, it doesn’t mean that all monarchs are bad. And besides, George was a magnificent patron of the arts and he changed the face of London. If it weren’t for him, we would not have Regent Street.”
“A more contemptible, cowardly, selfish, unfeeling dog does not exist ... There have been good and wise kings but not many of them ... and this I believe to be one of the worst. That is what a contemporary said of him when he died.”
“He was the most extraordinary compound of talent, wit, buffoonery, obstinacy, and good feelings - in short a medley of the most opposite qualities, with a great preponderance of good - that I ever saw in any character in my life. That is what the Duke of Wellington said about him.” Clementine eyed Stirling smugly.
“There never was an individual less regretted by his fellow-creatures than this deceased king. What eye has wept for him? What heart has heaved one throb of unmercenary sorrow? ... If he ever had a friend – a devoted friend in any rank of life – we protest that the name of him or her never reached us. That was printed in The Times when he died, Clementine.”
The two of them laughed uncontrollably. For Stirling it was like a breath of fresh air to be around such a woman. Clementine was everything he had hoped she would be and more. She was vivacious, full of wit and she was humorous to boot. The way her face lit up when she vented her mirth was nothing short of magical. She had a way about her that was unlike any other woman he had met. Not even her sister was anything like Clementine.
In that moment, Stirling could not have been happier that the Earl of Leighton had raised her like his son, making her more independent, spirited and educated than the other members of her sex.
Losing himself more and more in the deep silence pervading between them, Stirling found himself counting sheep and other livestock lining the banks of the river on the lush green fields. It was the only thing keeping him sane and calm. It was the reason he had nattered on unceasingly about Windsor Castle and the spending habits of the royals. Frankly, he could not care any less. It was true that he wanted an army reform, but that was about it. His mind was nervously occupied with other thoughts.
They did not have far to go until they came across the beautiful grassland that rolled down to the Thames River. For a moment, the tranquil flow of the water distracted him, diverting his thoughts from what he was about to do.
Contemplating the undulating grass, so idyllic and green, so much in contrast to the dominant blue of the river, the seed of an idea started to blossom. In an instant, Stirling knew how he was going to go about the most important decision he would ever make in his life. His mind was set, and he revelled in a clarity he had never before known. Lucidity that could only be born when a man was truly in love heightened the senses to a point where nothing else mattered, and only the notion of the woman for whom his heart beat remained.
After that epiphany, he was content. In that moment, he might have come across as dejected and aloof, but his mood floated on a higher plane. It balanced in the sweet equilibrium of what could be had and what couldn’t, riding the fine line between reality and fantasy where only those people who are truly in love roam, basking in the state of knowing only one thing: that they are truly in love.
“Stirling, we have arrived.”
He turned around to see Elizabeth and Royce waving to them from the banks of the river. Their idling had given them ample time to set up the plaid on the grass and the other trappings needed for a picnic. The spot they had chosen lay gloriously under a large sycamore tree. The shrub introduced to the British Isles by the Tudors had branches that formed a broad, rounded crown. The bark was grey, smooth and occasionally flaking in irregular patches. The abundant leaves grew on long leafstalks and were large and palmate with five radiating lobes.
“It is about time, you got here,” said Royce, helping them bring the rowing boat ashore.
“Stirling was regaling me with the details of monarchical decadence all the way from Windsor,” said Clementine, stepping off the boat.
“I did not know you were so interested in that, Stirling?” asked Royce, looking at his friend quizzically. “Don’t you have more important matters on your mind?” he whispered so that the others could not hear him.
Stirling nodded. “Nothing that can’t wait until after lunch.” He fumbled with something in his coat pocket as he walked up to Elizabeth who set the plates on the large rug.
Soon, the quartet sat sipping chilled champagne and picking at the assortment of cold meats, fruit, cheeses and sandwiches they had brought with them in a wicker picnic basket.
“Isn’t it glorious and a wonderful send off for our two brave men who leave on the morrow for the Crimea.”
Clementine ignored her sister’s angry stare because of her comment. Her scrutiny was reserved for Stirling alone. He had acted quite strange the entire time since their departure that morning on the train from Waterloo Bridge station on the newly erected London and South Western railway line to Windsor and Eaton Riverside station. If she did not know any better, she would think that he was nervous – but why? Could it be because of the war? She discounted that fact. He was the bravest and most honourable man she knew.
She loved the way his jaw moved when he chewed. The action made the muscles on his jawbone move and flex, giving him a deliciously masculine air. He looked so much the Victorian gentleman in his deep brown frock coat with the fashionably full skirt and looser fit through the arms and chest. It was double-breasted and regal. It was something he had mimicked from Prince Albert, the man who had popularized the garment early on in the royal marriage. Underneath it, Stirling wore a bright-hued waistcoat of damask and silk and a white linen shirt. Dark, striped trousers with a high waistline bedecked his legs and on his feet he wore half boots that were all the rage.
“Why don’t you take off your coat, Stirling?” she asked. It was a pertinent question because it was rather warm even in the shade.
“I think I shall wear it a short while longer.” Stirling flashed her a smile that did not exude its habitual confidence. “Clementine, if you have finished, would you like to join me for a short stroll by the river.”
“I’d love to, Stirling.”
She did not miss the knowing exchange of grins between her sister and her husband. What was going on? Usually, she was always aware of everything that went on in the circle of her friends and family. Clementine let Stirling help her to her feet. Walking away, she interlinked her arm with his. The thoughts in her head played funny games with her. Being so close to Stirling had this delightfully frisky effect on her. The silence that reigned between them had a pleasant air that spoke volumes of the regard they had for each other. Here were two people who felt completely at ease in the presence of the other.
Stirling seemed to know exactly where he was going. It was as if he had been to the same spot on previous reconnaissance missions just to make sure it had everything he needed. Clementine looked back. With both of them lost to their brains’ devises, they had left Elizabeth and Royce more than a mile behind them. She could still see them, but merely as specks sitting by the river.
By the time they had mounted a small knoll, overlooking the course of the river and the countryside around them, Stirling came to a stop. Clement
ine had to concede that it was a splendiferous spot. It was a place one could fall in love all over again. The grassy hill was bare of any trees or bushes. Yet, the sound of birds trilling in the trees below it added enchanting melodious strokes to the ambiance. Far and beyond was Windsor to the east and Maidenhead to the northwest. In-between, quiet riverside villages, orchards and market gardens dotted the vista.
Up and down the river a series of great palaces reached as far as London. They became as one with the grand houses, magnificent gardens and hunting parks that stood amid the water meadows and woodland, linked to one another by grand avenues of trees. It was a veritable Arcadia – a rural paradise right on the doorstep of London.
She failed to hear Stirling turning in her direction; too all encompassing was the vista. “Will you be my wife, dearest Clementine?” As the words past his lips, he lowered himself on one knee. He fumbled in his coat pocket nervously.
Clementine’s eyes flew wide open. It was what she had wanted to hear since the day she met him. Although she knew him to be brave, she had never expected him to pucker up the courage to ask for her hand in marriage. It had all been so meticulously planned: the train trip, the carriage ride to the boat stand, the rowing and their chat, the picnic, the stroll and now this.
Diaries of a Heartbroken Duchess: A Historical Regency Romance Collection Page 46
