“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, whipping 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.
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 wed
ding. 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 have 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.
A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events Page 2
