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CHAPTER 14
Brussels - Friday,
June 2, 1815
Sir John awoke early
the next morning with a start. Looking about the unfamiliar bedroom,
it took him a moment to recall where he was. His throbbing temples
reminded him of the amount of alcohol he had consumed. And his
state of undress spoke volumes of his activities the night before.
Sir John got out
of the bed and padded to the dressing room. He found it empty,
as expected - Roxanne had the good sense to return to her rooms
during the night. He completed an abbreviated toilette and dressed
in the same black suit he had worn to the ball. He knew he would
not be conspicuous; many gentlemen would sleep off a great ball
at the host's home.
Within a few minutes
he was on the street, getting his bearings to return to his boardinghouse.
It was early and there were few hire coaches available, but there
was nothing for it. The last thing he wanted to do was to encounter
the Countess this morning.
Fortunately the
distance was not too great and the morning not too warm. The
walk might have been pleasant had not his head and conscience
bothered him. It was no great time before he reached the outskirts
of Brussels where his boardinghouse lay. His empty stomach reminded
him that he had yet to have breakfast and he hoped that he was
not too late.
Upon entering the
common room he saw Richard sitting at a table with a huge grin
on his face. Before him was a tall stack of letters, all in the
same stationary, tied with a string. "They were just delivered
last night after we left for the ball, old man!" he was
saying. "Some blunder at the port. I always thought the
people at the post can't read!"
Sir John hardly
heard what was being said. He approached the pile carefully,
as if the mass of correspondence would leap up and attack him.
Sure enough the words he desired and feared to see were written
on the envelopes in a fine female hand: Colonel Sir John Buford.
London
"Thank you,
Mr. Buford, for allowing me to stay at your townhouse,"
Marianne was telling Edward Buford while riding in his carriage
to Buford House. They had just left the Churchill lodgings -
and not a moment too soon for the lady.
"Think nothing
of it, Mrs. Brandon," replied her host. "You shall
be a fine companion for my wife and sister."
"Indeed? It
sounds as if you are leaving, sir."
"Yes,"
he said. "I leave this morning to return to Wales and Buford
Manor - I have been away too long."
"This morning?"
cried Marianne. "Sir, I am delaying you! Forgive me!"
Edward Buford shook
his kind head. "No bother at all, madam - happy to be of
service. How long are you in town, Mrs. Buford?"
"I had planned
to leave by post Monday for Delaford."
"Hmm…"
he murmured. "That's in Dorsetshire as I recall?"
"Yes."
He came to a decision.
"Mrs. Brandon, I have a proposition for you. My wife follows
me to Wales on Wednesday. If you will delay your departure until
then, Mrs. Buford may transport you to your home in our carriage.
"
Marianne was amazed
at his generosity. "Mr. Buford! I…I cannot accept…It
is out of your way…"
"Nonsense!
What is a few miles here or there? Please accept - it would be
a pleasure for Rebecca and a comfort to me."
Marianne thought
of the trip to Delaford by post and shuddered. "Very well,
I accept - only if you allow me to invite your party to stay
the night at Delaford."
Edward Buford's
eyes twinkled. "You drive a hard bargain, Mrs. Brandon -
but it shall be as you wish!"
A half hour later
Caroline was greeting her friend in the parlor. "Marianne,
it is so good to see you."
"And you, Caroline.
How are you doing?"
She smiled. "The
illness in the morning has passed, but I have such cravings now!
Pickles - anything pickled, and I must have it. Is that so very
strange? I do not recall my sister Jane having such desires."
Marianne laughed.
"For me it was sweets."
Rebecca said, "I
can not remember any unusual foods, but I did want to consume
my portion of my dinner and my husband's too - for all my children."
"How many do
you have, Mrs. Buford?" asked Marianne.
"I have three;
and if you are to stay in this house and ride in my carriage,
I must be Rebecca to you."
From one strangeness
to another - she is the most informal person I have ever met. Yet, Marianne was far more comfortable
with this kind of oddness. "Very well - call me Marianne,
Rebecca." Caroline smiled at the interaction; it was amusing
to watch others react to her in-laws.
"Well, if you
would excuse me, I must prepare for our visit," announced
Rebecca.
"Really?"
inquired Marianne to both ladies. "Are we going somewhere?"
"Oh, I am sorry,
I forgot to tell you - we dine at the Matlocks today."
"Good!"
cried Marianne. "Lady Anne can finish her story, Caroline."
"I am looking
forward to it." Caroline replied. And how the Earl responds
to my sister-in-law.
Brussels - Saturday,
June 3, 1815
Colonel Sir John
Buford wandered the afternoon streets of the Dutch capital in
despair. Walking up grand boulevards and down small lanes, the
magnificent historic buildings and small modern shops passed
by his eyes without recognition.
In the last four
and twenty hours he had read and re-read each of Caroline's letters
at least three times. His guilt and remorse battled with his
feelings of delight at the news of Caroline's pregnancy. But
after reading the initial news, Sir John's self-disgust grew.
Weekly! She had
been writing to me weekly - while I closed myself up in my rooms
feeling very ill-used. Such love and devotion - I am not worthy
of her. Damn the Army! Why could they not forward the letters
before now - before Thursday - before that damned ball? Roxanne
seduced me - the whore! But I could have - should have resisted
her. How could I be so weak?
His thoughts flew
in a thousand directions - mainly recriminations against the
army, postal clerks, Roxanne. But eventually his reproaches returned
to the one most at fault - himself. He had failed his wife, his
unborn child, his uniform, his own promise to himself. He hated
Roxanne d'Pontchartrain, but he hated himself more.
Just past the Grand-Place,
along the rue au Beurre, Buford came across a pint-sized
Catholic church. Something made him stop before the ancient structure.
The name above the door said the church was named in honor of
St Nicholas. He looked at the door for a long time trying to
decide, before opening the door and walking inside.
The interior was
dark and unwelcoming. It was early afternoon, well before Vigil
Mass, so the sanctuary was empty. A few candles burned before
the statue of the Virgin Mother. Sir John noticed that the church
was unusual: the three aisles of the nave were built at an angle
to the chancel. He looked up and spied a cannon ball, of all
things, embedded high up in the third pillar on the left of the
nave. Obviously, the parishioners had kept the gruesome memento
of some long-ago bombardment as a badge of honor.
While looking at
the odd ornament, the parish priest entered the sanctuary and
genuflected to the large crucifix above the altar. It was then
he noticed the British officer standing in the middle of the
church. Curious why a Protestant would enter a Catholic church,
he approached Sir John and said in English, "Good afternoon,
my son. May I help you?"
"Bon après-midi,
Père. Your English is very good."
"Merci,
Colonel. What brings you to the Church of St. Nicholas?"
"I…I do
not know…I should not be here…I am keeping you from
your work…"
"Forgive me,
Colonel, but I can tell you are troubled." The priest, no
admirer of the Tyrant or of the Revolution that he represented
(the Revolution that had sent so many of his Brothers to the
guillotine), warmed to the young soldier who was here to defend
his country. "Come - share your worries with me."
"Surely I am
keeping you from your duties."
"I am only
preparing to take confession."
A sudden idea came
to Sir John. "Father - would it be possible…if I…would
you…"
"What, my son?"
Sir John swallowed.
"Father, would you hear my confession?"
The priest frowned.
"My son, are you a Catholic?"
Buford shook his
head. "I am no Papist…uhh, I mean…no, I am not
Catholic."
"My son, do
you know what you ask of me?"
"Father, my
mother was a French Catholic. My aunt was of your faith. She
used to take me to Mass when I was young. I know the Sacraments
- I know what they mean…"
"Then you know
that I cannot give you absolution."
"I know, but…my
heart is heavy with regret…it would be a comfort…please,
I know I ask much…"
The priest reflected
for a moment. He knew he should ask the English Protestant to
leave - to his bishop, the soldier was no better than a heretic.
How many Catholics had died at the hands of the Church of England?
Catholics still did not have full rights in Britain.
Yet the father knew
that both sides had engaged in religious warfare. The Inquisition
in Germany was matched by the Inquisition in Spain. Did being
right justify such behavior? The priest had joined the Church
to serve - and serve he would. Besides, what the bishop didn't
know wouldn't hurt him.
"Come with
me, my son." He gestured to a side wall of the church where
a small door was flanked by two curtains. The priest opened the
door and sat in his familiar chair, where he heard so much of
the pain of this world. By the time he slid open the window,
the English Colonel had already taken his position on the kneeler.
Sir John bowed his
head. "Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned…"
Sir John returned
to his room to write a letter:
September 3,
1815
Lady Caroline
Buford, Buford House, London
My dearest Caroline:
I take up pen
to write to you what a wretch you have married. I am deeply mortified
at the pain my unjust and unworthy letter must have caused you,
my dear wife. Destroy it at once, I beg you! If I could reach
across the seas I would snatch up that evil document and consign
it to the nether regions! I am a poor pitiable fool - how could
I write such lines to you?
Too good, too
excellent wife! Before me are the results of your most faithful
labors. I feel unworthy to touch them. But read them I must,
for thoughts of you are in my every sleeping hour - and waking
hour, too.
But I know you
wish news of me, your most undeserving husband. I am well in
body, but sick in spirit. If I were a selfish man, I would beg
you to fly to my arms and comfort me. But I cannot - I will not.
I am happy you are safe in England and I am pleased to know you
have found a home with my most excellent family. Your letters
are a godsend to my soul. My equipment safely arrived - thank
you my love for your kind attention to that. The men, all veterans,
were ill-prepared for battle when they disembarked, but constant
drill has sharpened them like the edges of their sabres. They
will be ready for whatever Providence brings.
You write that
our family is increasing. Oh, what happy news! That God would
so smile upon us! I wish I could be there to share this time
with you, my love. You write that your belly is growing - nothing
in this world sounds so beautiful! Know that I send kisses to
that wonderful roundness, that evidence of our love - and its
mother too. You say you wish it to be a boy. I would be as proud
as a prince to have a son by you. But I cannot help but to wish
that it be a lovely girl instead, with her mother's looks. That
way I might have two Carolines to spoil. I think your idea to
remain in London is a good one - no better doctors exist in the
kingdom. You must take care of yourself - but who am I to tell
you your duty? You have proven yourself to me a hundredfold.
I must admit
something to you, dear Caroline. When I first met you, while
I was pleased with your outward appearance, I was only looking
for a mistress for my house. I never thought I would actually
fall in love with my future wife. But God in Heaven is merciful
and has given me a great gift - the sweetest, wisest, kindest,
loveliest woman any man could ever wish for. I love you, Caroline.
I love your loving soul. I love your excellent mind, so wise
and sharp. I love your form and figure; oh, how my dreams of
you keep me up at night! I love your eyes - so full of expression.
And I love your lips - for your sharp, amusing words and for
your sweet kisses.
I do not deserve
you, my wife. You should have married better than me. I know
my faults and I will strive for the rest of my days to improve
myself - to make me worthy of calling you my beloved wife and
lover and mother of my child.
Adieu, my dearest
love. I shall write again as soon as time permits. I shall sign
this as you have done so consistently,
Rwy'n dy gari
di,
JOHN
Letter finished,
Sir John needed it to get back to England as quickly as may be…
"You want me
to do what?" cried Major Denny.
"Come, Denny;
I am not asking you to do anything illegal," pleaded Sir
John. At least, I don't think so. "A small thing
- what is that between friends?"
Denny looked at
the Colonel. "You want me to enclose a personal letter in
the official pouch to London - and you call it 'a small thing'?
Forgive me, Colonel, but I would not like to see what you would
refer to as a great favor!"
"But you can
do it? You have a friend on the staff that will either post it
or deliver it?" Sir John begged.
Denny thought. Yes,
Castlebaum would do it, especially if there was something in
it for him. "It will cost you a half-crown, sir."
"Done and done,
sir!" cried Buford as he shook the man's hand. "Here's
the money - and cheap at the price!"
Monday, June
5, 1815
Colonel Fitzwilliam
was watching his men practice, and it did not make him happy.
"What the hell do you call that, gentlemen?" he bellowed.
"You ride in that lackadaisical manner against Bonaparte
or Ney and they will cut you to pieces! Show some spirit! Do
the drill again!"
Four at a time,
the forty riders of 3rd Squadron (of ten) took off down the training
course. A fifty-yard dash to a straw bundle, then halting at
a post wrapped in cotton and burlap, then a final gallop past
another post, this one uncovered. All the time the troopers were
to slash at the targets with their swords. Most did the drill
correctly, if cautiously. None did it quickly.
"Hells fire!
Must I do everything myself?" Fitzwilliam cried. "Stand
clear!" He drew his saber and readied his mount. With a
drive of his spurs the horse shot forward. "ARRRGGHH!"
he screamed as he headed down the left-hand-most side of the
course, leaning over the horse's neck and pointing the sword
forward. At full speed he cut at the haystack with all his might
- straw flew everywhere. Pulling back at the reins, he expertly
pivoted and dashed to the second target. "ARRRGGHH!"
His mount danced about the post as Richard slashed at it again
and again. Then in a blink he was off again, his blade this time
held at an angle to his body. It made a satisfying 'thunk' as
it struck the last post. Crossing the finish line at top speed,
he halted in a cloud of dust. "TIME!" he called.
His aide checked
his pocketwatch and informed the rapt audience that the colonel
had bested their top time by ten seconds. "There!"
he called out, breathing heavily. "If an old man can do
that, you can certainly do better. Do the drill again, and a
pint of ale to any man who bests my time by twenty seconds!"
A cheer went up
from the troopers. "I'll be drinking your beer soon, Red
Fitz!" cried one unnamed rider as he took off down the course.
Richard couldn't help grinning at the use of the nickname by
which his men referred to him, usually went he was out of earshot.
By the time the exercise was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam was poorer
by a gallon and a half.
Well, I found
something to motivate them,
he thought. He turned to his aide. "A barrel of Belgium
beer to the squadron with the best average time." The aide
grinned and left to deliver the message. Richard was satisfied.
We'll be ready.
London - Tuesday,
June 6, 1815
Lady Caroline was
performing at the pianoforte. Marianne Brandon could hear that
she was playing with great skill and technique, but with little
feeling. She has played better, she thought. What has
made her unhappy?
Caroline finished
the piece and turned to her guest. "Do you play today, Marianne?"
"Oh, ho! And
I thought you were my friend," she exclaimed.
Caroline was taken
aback. "Whatever do you mean, Marianne?"
Mrs. Brandon smiled
at Albertine Buford and Rebecca Buford. "She would have
me, with my meager talents, follow such a lovely performance?
For shame! For I shall be thought as the most rank beginner in
comparison, I am sure."
For the first time
that day, Caroline allowed a smile to come to her face. "Meager
talents, indeed. Come. Marianne. You leave tomorrow…I would
love to hear you play once again."
The guest sighed
dramatically. "Oh, very well…if you insist…"
Inwardly, Marianne was very pleased with her efforts to lighten
Caroline's mood. She sat before the instrument and started into
a light country air.
Caroline sat near
Lady Anne, who had come for tea. Anne sighed. "If only I
had learned to play…" She turned to her friend. "You
know, my mother always said if I had ever learnt, I should have
been a great proficient, if my health had allowed me to apply.
She is confident that I would have performed delightfully,"
she said with a straight face.
Caroline's face
had turned the brightest red as she screwed up her mouth, holding
back the laugh that threatened to erupt. She had heard that comment
countless times from the originator - in fact every time she
played before the old biddy. The other Mrs. Bufords could only
look on in puzzlement as first Caroline then Anne began to snort.
But the ladies could resist no longer and the sounds of laughter
began to drown out Marianne's performance.
Mrs. Brandon stopped
her piece and turned to her interrupters. "I say, what is
so funny?" she demanded with all injured eloquence. "I
will have you know that this dress was passed down to me from
my grandmother!" With that she started to play again, which
only redoubled the two ladies mirth.
"Dear,"
asked Mother Buford to her daughter-in-law, "Do you know
what they are about?"
"No mother,"
returned the other. "But it seems to have a proper effect."
They too had noticed Caroline's depression, but unlike the other
ladies they knew the cause.
Mission accomplished
- she and Marianne had planned in advance to cheer up Lady Caroline
- Anne sat back to enjoy the concert when it was again interrupted.
This time the offender was Roberts, the acting assistant butler.
"Lady Caroline, there is an Army officer to see you."
Silence descended
upon the room. Caroline's face became a stone mask as she rose
and slowly followed Roberts out of the room. First Rebecca, then
the others followed. A short captain waited for them in the vestibule.
"Lady Caroline
Buford? Captain Castlebaum at your service. I am charged with
delivering this letter to you." He held out an envelope.
Caroline saw at
once that the writing upon it was in her husband's hand. Taking
it with trembling hands, she willed herself not to tear it open
on the spot. "Thank you, Captain. We are at tea; would you
care to join us?"
Observing four lovely
ladies and one handsome matron, Castlebaum was temped, but resisted,
knowing they were all probably married anyway. "Thank you,
no. I must be off. Happy to have been of service to you."
The half-crown in Denny's envelope with the directions didn't
hurt.
Caroline grasped
his arm. "God bless you, Captain."
"It was an
honor, Lady Caroline." He bowed and left.
Caroline turned
and mumbled, "Pray excuse me…" as she made her
way directly into the library. The other ladies followed at a
discrete distance. A few minutes later they were distressed to
hear the sound of weeping from within. Ignoring proprietary,
the four entered the library to find Lady Caroline softly crying
on a sofa, the letter in one hand.
Mother Buford reached
her first and embraced her daughter-in-law. "Oh my dear…oh
my love…" She could think of nothing else to say.
Caroline hugged
her tightly. "Oh, Mother…all is well…all is well…"
she smiled through her tears.
Rosings Park
- Wednesday, June 7, 1815
Lady Anne de Bourgh
and Mrs. Jenkinson alighted from the de Bourgh carriage that
had carried them back to Rosings. Lady Anne walked up the front
steps of her ancestral home with a new assurance. Rosings had
always been the place she grew up - now it felt like home. Her
home.
"Mrs. Parks,"
Lady Anne greeted the housekeeper. "How fairs the house
- any mishaps during my absence?" She handed her traveling
cloak to a footman as Mrs. Jenkinson saw to the luggage.
"No, ma'am,"
reported the housekeeper with just a touch of pride. To her mind
it was well worth 15 years of dealing with Lady Catherine to
see this confident young lady assuming her rightful place.
Anne smiled as she
handed her hat to the butler. "No trouble at all? Not even
from my mother?"
Mrs. Parks smiled
in return. "No, ma'am; that would be difficult from where
she is."
Anne turned slowly.
"I beg your pardon?"
"Why, you know
- Bath."
Anne blinked. "I
am afraid I do not comprehend your meaning. Am I to understand
that Lady Catherine is not in residence?"
Mrs. Parks was confused.
"No, ma'am…but…"
"Did you say
she was in…Bath?"
"Lady Anne
- your mother said you were aware of her plans! She was very
insistent…"
"Mrs. Parks…I
know nothing of this…"
Mrs. Parks' hand
went to her face. "Oh, dear…"
Anne thought for
a moment then walked quickly to the parlor. Throwing open the
door, she went directly to Lady Catherine's writing desk. Sure
enough, there was a letter for her:
May 31, 1815
Dear Lady Anne,
I congratulate
you on your ascension to the management of Rosings Park. I am
sure you shall do your duty to your heritage, both as a Fitzwilliam
and a de Bourgh.
I have removed
myself from a household that no long needs nor desires my company.
As Rosings Park is now forever taken from me, I shall secure
myself a proper household, as befitting my station.
Do not concern
yourself on my behalf - Lady Metcalfe has provided lodgings for
me and shall act as my companion in Bath. Already, General Tilney
has agreed to call, and Lady Metcalfe is desirous to introduce
a Sir Walter Elliot to my acquaintance. It may be, daughter,
that I shall quit the name de Bourgh in no short time after you
do so.
I insist that
you write soon to acquaint me with your plans for your wedding
so that I may guide you.
Your loving mother,
LADY CATHERINE
DE BOURGH
Mrs. Jenkinson and
Mrs. Parks watched in amazement as Anne doubled over in laughter.
Instead of answering their entreaties, she handed them the letter.
Mrs. Jenkinson started giggling as she read but the housekeeper
was aghast. "Lady Anne! Should I have a new team assembled
for the carriage?"
Anne looked up.
"What - ha ha - whatever for…?"
"So that you
may go to Bath…to collect Lady Catherine…"
Anne put her hand
out. "No, I do not think so…ha ha ha…I think Mother
can handle this on her own…"
Hampshire, Thursday,
June 8, 1815
The Buford carriage
was upon the road, just outside of Winchester. Marianne Brandon
found that Mr. and Mrs. Buford were pleasant traveling companions;
always ready for conversation but content with just riding in
silence too. Marianne sought the solitude - she had much to reflect
upon, given the events of the last few days.
Her confrontation
with Willoughby had finally closed the book on that chapter of
her life. She had not known how she would respond to him, had
she ever come across him - her forcefulness took even her by
surprise. She blushed to think how she could ever compare that
man to her darling Christopher - at this moment she doubted that
they were even the same gender.
John Willoughby
had admired her, but just for her exterior - her looks, her voice,
her open manners. Christopher saw more - he loved her for who
she was. He adored her body, mind and soul. He shared everything
with her; everything he loved and cared for. He trusted her opinions
and sought them out.
Marianne's improvements
were not some vanity project of the colonel's - by sharing his
love of books and learning, her husband unintentionally ignited
a passion for learning in his wife. She grew in talents and confidence;
so much that when he was called away to war Christopher placed
her in charge of Delaford Manor. He had placed his unwavering
trust in her abilities; if she had not already loved him she
would have fallen hard at that point.
Marianne berated
herself. It had taken so long for her to realize her own feelings.
After her recovery, Colonel Brandon began his two-year courtship.
By the time he did propose, his attentions were obvious to everyone,
including his intended. She remembered wondering what took him
so long to come to the point. Because by that time she had resolved
to accept her great friend and she had every expectation of marital
felicity. But because she did not fell the burning passion she
had felt for Willoughby she thought she did not love him.
Living with Christopher
taught her there was more than one kind of passion - not just
for the act of love but for thinking well of another. Caring
about another's comfort before one's own. Knowing that your partner
in life considered your needs before his own - the same way you
did. Yet it was not until Joy was in this world that brave, wise
Marianne could admit to herself what Elinor saw on her wedding
day - she was violently in love with Christopher Brandon. There
were three days forever etched in Marianne consciousness: her
wedding night; the day of Joy's birth; and the afternoon she
told her husband of her feelings for him.
Caroline's letter
had brought another realization to Mrs. Brandon. Since embracing
her love of her husband she feared that she could not live without
him. The last few months had proved otherwise. A thought that
had been in the back of her head flooded her awareness - she
might have to for the rest of her life. A searing pain coursed
through her heart, but there was no panic in her mind. Should
the unthinkable happen, she would grieve for her beloved for
the remainder of her days, but she would not fall down and die.
There was too much to live for - Joy and Delaford. They depended
upon her - she would have to be strong for them.
John Willoughby
had dallied with a mere girl. Colonel Christopher Brandon had
left Delaford Manor to the administration of a woman full-grown
and tested. Her soft heart might break, but her steel backbone
could bear any burden.
Edward Buford saw
a small tear run down Mrs. Brandon's face. "Marianne, what
has distressed you? Can we be of any comfort?"
"No, thank
you…Edward." She smiled. ""Tis nothing; I
am missing home, is all."
Rebecca was leaning
her head against her husband's shoulder. "I understand -
I am missing my babies intently."
"Do not be
distressed, ladies," said Edward Buford. "We stop tonight
at the county line; by mid-day tomorrow we shall be at Delaford,
I am sure."
Brussels - Saturday
June 10, 1815
"You want me
to send another letter, Colonel?" Denny cried.
"Yes, if you
would be so kind," Sir John replied. He had just received
Caroline's "express" and had to respond quickly.
Denny was conflicted
- he wanted to say no; he had the right to do so. But the look
in Colonel Buford's eye convinced him. "All right - but
this is the last time, sir."
"I understand,
Major; thankee," he said as he handed over the envelope
and the required half-crown.
Paris - Monday,
June 12, 1815
The Emperor walked
down the steps of the Palace of Tuileries at 3:30 pm to his waiting
carriage, after a farewell dinner with his family. Unlike the
events that had occurred earlier in the month, when he tried
to raise morale and faith in his leadership with the people,
this leave-taking was without Imperial pomp. He wore the blue
infantry coat with red epaulettes of a grenadier, adding only
his Legion sash. After saying good-bye to his brother Joseph,
who had been left in command of the city, he set off to join
his Armée du Nord with his aides de camp, ordnance
officers and four hundred Imperial Guardsmen. He had also secreted
over one million francs' worth of diamonds in the coach, just
in case. And so, with protection, wealth and his lucky star,
the Emperor set out to secure his throne with one last mighty
victory.
Rosings Park
- Tuesday, June 13, 1815
Lady Anne helped
her extremely subdued mother out of the hired coach that had
brought her from Bath. She offered the use of her arm and helped
Lady Catherine up the front steps into the house. With no greeting
to or from the staff, the two women walked slowly up the stairs
to the older woman's suite of rooms. Once there, Lady Anne instructed
that Lady Catherine's luggage not be brought upstairs until requested
then entered the sitting area behind her mother.
Lady Catherine sat
down with a huff. "Well, I suppose you should be saying
'I told you so'."
Lady Anne pulled
a chair close to her and sat down. "No, Mama."
"Sir Walter
Elliot, indeed! What could Lady Metcalfe have been thinking of?
The man is a certifiable twit! Never have I seen a man so vain!
And the way he looked at me - you would think I had grown two
heads!"
Anne smiled - she
had heard stories of Anne Wentworth's father from Jane Bingley.
"I may have
a few years under me, but I have always been celebrated
for my youthful appearance." She looked at her daughter.
"It is certain that you inherited your lovely complexion
from me, my dear," she said as she caressed her face. "Yes,
you have turned out very well, indeed."
"Thank you,
Mama."
"And General
Tilney - why the way he looked at me…it is certain what
he desired…" She leaned close. "My money."
Lady Anne patted
her hand. "You have had a narrow escape, Mama."
"I have indeed
- thank goodness for my unerring judgment of character."
Lady Catherine sighed.
"Are you tired,
Mama?"
"A little,
Anne…Bath is no easy distance. Perhaps we may talk later…about
improvements to the dowager house?"
Anne kissed her
mother. "As you wish, Mama…"
Brussels - Wednesday,
June 14, 1815
Buford and Fitzwilliam
were sharing dinner together at the boardinghouse, perhaps for
the last time. Rumors of the French crossing over into Belgium
had been flying around the camp for days. It didn't help that
Wellington had placed the army under a form of alert - certain
units were moving as they ate.
"Brandon says
nothing?" asked Buford.
"No, and Denny
neither. What good is it to have friends at headquarters if they
will tell you nothing?"
Buford grunted.
"You and Denny have patched things up, I take it?"
"Yes - he is
a good sort of fellow, in his way," Fitzwilliam allowed.
"Even through
he is friends with Wickham?" Sir John needled him with.
Richard's eyes were
on his plate. "I guess I can't hold that against him - after
all, I eat with you."
It took a full glass
of wine to relieve Sir John after his food went down the wrong
way.
Later over port,
Fitzwilliam asked, "Are you going to the Duchess of Richmond's
ball?"
Sir John looked
down. "I think I've attended all the balls I'm going to
during this campaign, Fitz. You?"
"No…I
have a feeling I need to be close to my regiment…you know?"
"Yes…I
know…"
Thursday, June
15, 1815
Colonel Brandon
and Lt. Colonel Denny were conferring with the other ADCs regarding
the rumors of a French invasion of the United Netherlands, as
the polyglot Holland and Belgium were known, when the door burst
open at about 1500 (3:00 pm). A sweaty and dusty Prussian officer,
who had obviously ridden hard, walked in the room. "Where
is the Duke?" he asked in German. "The French are here!
The French have taken Charleroi!"
Wellington walked
out of his office and asked, "What was that, sir?"
The officer repeated,
in English, "The French have taken Charleroi!"
The office was deadly
silent. Charleroi was only 30 miles away.
Over the next hours
the staff worked to verify the information. Soon information
from other riders, sent by Blücher and the Prince of Orange,
collaborated the intelligence. By 1700 the Duke began ordering
his troops into position south and west of Brussels. But the
Duke still didn't know if the thrust at Charleroi was a feint
or the main axis of Napoleon's attack. Until he knew he could
not advance.
"Sir,"
asked an aide, "what about the Duchess of Richmond's ball?"
Brandon looked at his chief.
Wellington looked
up. "Until we know for certain, there is no reason to panic.
I do not feel that Bonaparte can advance so fast, but we must
be certain. Morale is important - let the ball go ahead as planned."
The Duchess of Richmond's
Ball was the social event of the season. Held in an impromptu
ballroom in what used to be a coachmaker's depot the 224 invited
guests included the Prince of Orange, the Duke of Brunswick,
the Prince of Nassau, four earls, twenty-two colonels, and total
of 55 women, only about a dozen who were unmarried. The hall
was done up in crimson, black and gold with flowers everywhere.
The music was gay but the attendants were not, as concern over
the rumors of a French advance was everywhere.
At about midnight,
Wellington and his staff arrived. A young woman, Lady Georgiana
Lennox, dashed to meet the Duke.
"Sir,"
she cried, "Is it true - the rumors - the French are here?"
Wellington's face
was very grave. "Yes, they are true; we are off tomorrow."
The room buzzed with serious alarm. Wellington walked over to
a sofa to sit with Lady Dalrymple-Hamilton. Between chats with
the woman the Duke would give the odd order to some senor officer.
"Come on, Denny,"
said Brandon. "Let's get something to eat." Apparently
the Iron Duke felt the same as he left the sofa to eat his supper.
While the men ate, with all the room watching, a pale Prince
of Orange approached the commander-in-chief. His whispered message
had an extraordinary effect on the Duke. A look of utter disbelief
flashed across his aristocratic face, and then faded. For the
next twenty minutes, Wellington ate and conversed with his fellows,
showing no alarm.
Finally the Duke
rose and informed his host of his intention of retiring for the
night. As goodbyes were exchanged, Brandon overheard this commander
whisper in Richman's ear, "Do you have a good map in the
house?"
Brandon and Denny
followed their chief into the study and the requested map was
spread open before Wellington. He studied it hard, looking at
the distance between the French border, Charleroi, Quatre Bras
and Brussels. Wellington looked up. "Napoleon was humbugged
me, by God! He has gained twenty-four hours' march on me!"
He was shocked at the speed of the French troops.
"But what are
you going to do?" asked his incredulous host.
Wellington looked
at the map again. "I have ordered my army to concentrate
at Quatre Bras; but we shall not stop him there, and if so I
must fight him here." His finger moved over the map
and stabbed down just south of a small village called Waterloo.
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