“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, Clementine, 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.
“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.
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 unif
orm. 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.
A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events Page 10
