The Three Colonels Page 9

  M. Talleyrand smiled. Buford’s point had been made. “My lord,” he said to Wellington, “duties call me away. May we continue this conversation another time?”

  “Of course, of course.”

  “Merci. Colonel, welcome to Vienna.”

  Buford bowed again, and the ambassador, with his habitual limp, left the two Englishmen. “Well, you have met the old fox, Buford,” said the Iron Duke when the Frenchman was out of earshot. “What do you think?”

  Buford knew the duke wanted total candor. “He is a charming man, to be sure, but he bears watching. Lovely guest to have to dinner—just make sure that the silver is counted before he leaves.”

  The duke broke into a loud laugh. “Capital, sir! You shall do well here. Come into my offices. We have much to discuss.”

  * * *

  Caroline rode in her rented coach through the streets of Vienna towards the townhouse that served as the temporary home for the Duke of Wellington and his sister, Lady Beatrice Wellesley. The anxiety she felt was not helped by the presence of her companion, Sofia.

  “Lady Buford, is not Vienna ze most beautiful city? There is no more vonderful city in ze vorld. I am honored that I may assist you in your duties,” the maid rattled on and on. “Do not vorry; I shall guide you.”

  The cheek of the girl! She presumes to advise me?

  Caroline’s displeasure started that morning as she discussed—or tried to discuss—the meals for the week. Caroline had particularly wanted to give her husband his first English-style dinner in some time. There was a fine joint of beef that just begged to be roasted to a turn with mashed potatoes, leaks, and dried peas; fresh peas were out of the question in winter. As usual, Sofia was needed to translate for Helga, the cook.

  “What do you mean the joint is not available?” demanded the mistress.

  “Helga has… how do you say… set ze meat aside… marinate, ja, marinate. She makes sauerbraten—a very good dish. Helga makes a vonderful sauerbraten,” explained the blonde maid, as if to a child.

  “I had hoped to serve an honest roast beef to Sir John, but never mind. Let us turn to Tuesday—”

  Sofia interjected, “Lady Buford, ve must still decide today’s meal.”

  “Why? I thought we were having… sour-bratten.”

  “Oh, nein. Ze marinate takes several days. Sauerbraten is not until Thursday.”

  “Well, what do you suggest? I would like to do something in the English style,” Caroline asked the cook. She and Sofia jabbered in German for a minute and made several glances towards their mistress.

  “Helga says she has some very nice Würste… sausages.”

  “Bangers and mash is a bit rustic, but it will have to do. I would like some mashed potatoes with that, peas—”

  “No peas—is vinter.”

  Caroline raised her eyebrows. “I understand it is winter, but surely you have some dried peas.”

  More gibbering. “Helga has no dried peas. She vill make some nice beets… rote Rüben… along vith Erdäpfelsalat.”

  Caroline had no idea what Erdäpfelsalat was. “You do have bread in this”—godforsaken—“country, do you not?”

  “Ja! No finer bread in ze vorld! As special treat, she vill make Leberknödelsuppe—vonderful Austrian soup—and Meranertorte for dessert.”

  Caroline surrendered with a sigh. “Very well. As for Tuesday—”

  “Special treat!” cried Sofia. “Wiener Backhendl!”

  And so the morning went on. Caroline had the distinct impression that she was an object of amusement for the staff, but she had no evidence to prove it. What was obvious was that Sofia did not think much of her mistress, or anyone else who was not Austrian. Caroline intended to speak to Sir John about it that evening.

  Finally, the carriage pulled up before the Wellington townhouse. “Thank you, Sofia,” said Caroline before the girl could move from her seat, “but I believe I can manage on my own. After all,” she added, “we all speak English here.”

  “But, vhat shall I do?”

  “I am sure there are some errands. Have the carriage back here in an hour.”

  Caroline took her leave of the troublesome maid and announced herself at the front door. Directly she was shown to a small antechamber near the door where she was divested of her hat, coat, and gloves.

  As Caroline reentered the hall, she saw a tall, slim, elegantly dressed woman approach her. “Lady Buford? Welcome to our home. I am Lady Beatrice Wellesley.” She held out her hands to the young woman.

  Caroline fell into a deep curtsy, earnest to make a good impression. “I am deeply honored to make your acquaintance, my lady. I hope I am not behind my time.”

  A low, rich laugh escaped the older woman. “Oh, my dear, please do not stand on ceremony. There is enough of that outside this house.” The two clasped hands. “May I call you Caroline? Allow me to wish you joy—this time in person—on the occasion of your marriage.” Lady Beatrice’s face broke into a sweet smile, and Caroline began to believe that, amazingly, Lady Beatrice was trying to befriend her. “How is dear Sir John? You both found the journey pleasant, I hope.”

  To her mortification, Caroline blushed. “Sir John is well. The journey was… very pleasant.”

  “Oh, I see.” Caroline blushed deeper, which caused Lady Beatrice to laugh softly again. “Forgive me, my dear; I shall tease you no more. Come, the other ladies of the delegation are waiting to make your acquaintance. I understand you play the pianoforte; perhaps you will honor us?”

  And so it begins, thought Caroline.

  * * *

  “…And that is the progress we have made to date.” Wellington leaned back in his chair and looked at the assembled delegation about him. “Not enough—slow business this—but there it is.”

  “Sir, the agreement on the slavery issue is a notable achievement,” said Buford.

  “Thankee, Sir John. Yes, we did good work there.” No politician was immune to flattery, and the duke liked it as much as the next man. “Only it is the Royal Navy that will enforce it. We cannot convince any of the other beggars to lift a finger.” Wellington looked at his pocket watch. “Well, enough for now. ’Tis time to dine.” The group of men rose and left the room. Buford lagged behind.

  “Your lordship, I have some questions about the Polish situation.”

  Wellington dismissed Buford with a wave of his hand. “Enough of that, man! Get yourself home to that bride o’ yours.”

  * * *

  “How is your soup, dear?’

  “Interesting.” An English translation for Leberknödelsuppe would be liver dumpling soup. “I cannot say I have ever fancied liver, but this is good.” Sir John told a small lie.

  The main course was more successful. The sausages were excellent, the beets better than Caroline expected, and the dark rye bread was tasty. As for the Erdäpfelsalat—room temperature potatoes with onions and vinegar—it was not the mistress’s idea of bangers and mash.

  But Helga won over her employers with her Meranertorte—a piece of chocolate heaven that left the knight and his lady speechless, save for an occasional groan of pleasure. The two sat back in satisfaction as the plates were taken away.

  “Mein Fräulein, diene ich den Kaffee jetzt?” asked Frau Lippermann.

  Caroline winced. The only tea to be had in Vienna was the few boxes they had brought from England. Sofia assured them more could be acquired, but Caroline had her doubts; Sofia had recommended the Leberknödelsuppe, after all.

  “Shall we adjourn to the library, dear?” she asked her husband. “Kaffee—library,” she pantomimed to the housekeeper.

  After they were served, the mistress waited until Sofia, finally becoming aware of her ladyship’s glare in her direction, excused herself.

  “Sir John, I wish to speak to you about the staff.”

  “What? Is something the matter?”

  Now that she had begun, Caroline found it hard to continue. She did not want to lose Sir John’s confidence in her abilities
. “I am sorry about dinner. It was not what I was expecting—”

  “Nonsense, m’dear! We are in a foreign country, you know. I will grant you the soup was a bit strange, but it does not signify. You must admit the dessert was excellent!”

  “Yes, that is true, but—”

  “If there is anything you do not like, just let Helga know. Sofia will translate.”

  Caroline put her coffee cup down. “It is about Sofia that I wish to speak to you.” Sir John looked at his wife expectantly. “I have found her to be disrespectful.”

  “Indeed? In what way?”

  “Well, nothing specific. It is her general attitude.” She stopped as she heard her husband’s gentle chuckle. “What do you find so amusing, sir?”

  “Attitude? Oh, my dear Caroline, of course she has an attitude. She is Austrian! All these Teutonic types think they are God’s gift to the world. Heaven help us if the Prussians, Bavarians, and Austrians ever get together. We would probably bring Bonaparte back to help take them on.” He reached over and patted her hand. “No, you just keep the whip hand over that little girl and all will be well.”

  Sir John returned to his coffee, never realizing his blunder. He did have confidence in Caroline’s abilities to run the household, but like so many military men before and after him, he did not understand that a household staff could not be managed like a regiment. In his experience, once an order was given, it was to be obeyed without question. This was a luxury not afforded his wife.

  He also made another critical mistake. Like most men, he underestimated the young and blonde.

  Caroline immediately hid behind a mask of indifference. A lifetime of training had taught her never to show how offended she might be at some careless or malicious remark. Her husband’s patronizing comment had hurt her deeply, but her fear of being considered unable to do her duties—of being unworthy—stayed her tongue.

  Chapter 9

  Rosings Park

  Colonel Fitzwilliam rubbed his head as the carriage rocked over a rut in the road.

  “Does your head hurt, Cousin?” asked Anne de Bourgh disapprovingly, sitting across the carriage from him with her companion, Mrs. Jenkinson.

  “Just a slight headache. A trifle—it will pass soon enough.” Actually, Richard’s head was splitting, but he was not about to admit it to her.

  Darcy might think nothing of fifty miles of good road in a well-sprung carriage, but Richard would wager he had never been on the road to Hunsford with a drunken headache!

  Yesterday was the wedding of Kitty Bennet to Mr. Southerland, an excellent reason to make merry. That, however, was not the sole reason for Richard’s current distress. His overindulgence in Mr. Bennet’s excellent cellar was in anticipation of his duty today: He must journey to Rosings to set right whatever Lady Catherine had damaged. Moreover, he was to do it himself, for there would be no father or Darcy to help him.

  Lord Matlock had let Netherfield for the duration of the Darcy, Bingley, and Fitzwilliam families’ stay in Meryton during the Southerland wedding. For a week, Richard had been closed up in the study with his father and Darcy reviewing all contracts and other estate matters regarding Rosings. Too much wine was not the only reason Richard’s head was bursting. Never again would the colonel mock his father, his brother, or his cousin, for he learned how taxing the proper management of an estate could be.

  Richard eyed his cousin, who was looking out the carriage window with a sour expression on her face. He wondered why Anne seemed so cross with him. She surely knew nothing of his mission. She almost certainly thought he was taking this opportunity of returning her and Mrs. Jenkinson to Rosings to visit Aunt Catherine earlier than he usually did.

  Anne’s unhappy mood disturbed Richard greatly. He had always gone out of his way to pay attention to his cousin, feeling it was his duty to make up for Darcy’s distance in his dealings with her. He knew that Darcy had little choice; any attention he showed Anne would have been taken by Lady Catherine as submission to her desire for a union between the two.

  Simply put, Colonel Fitzwilliam did not like Anne being displeased with him.

  A jarring bump in the road caused another shot of pain to race through the gentleman’s head.

  Lord! Four more hours of this.

  * * *

  “Richard! Come closer, boy. Let me have a good look at you!”

  Lady Catherine was in fine form upon the travelers’ arrival. She held court in her palatial sitting room, Mr. and Mrs. Collins seated on the divan next to her. Richard acknowledged the pair before addressing his aunt.

  “Aunt Catherine.” He bent to kiss her cheek, a jolt of pain behind his eyes. “I trust I find you well.”

  The old woman eyed him with a mixture of amusement and disparagement. “I was always celebrated for my strong constitution and robust health. Indeed, illness is a weakness brought on by lack of occupation and libertine behavior. I am sure that ill breeding is a cause of many of the world’s maladies. One must always watch the bloodlines, be it dogs, horses, or… other things.”

  Will you never stop disparaging the Bennets, Aunt? Richard thought.

  Mr. Collins seconded his illustrious patron’s position. “Oh, yes, Lady Catherine. Why, just the other day, I was speaking to Mrs. Collins while preparing next week’s sermon, pointing out a certain passage in scripture that exactly reaffirms your excellent observation of—”

  “Yes, yes,” Lady Catherine silenced him. The vicar deflated like a bullfrog that had ceased to croak. The mistress of Rosings must have noticed Richard’s reaction to her words and hastened to correct them. “Anne is doing better now as you undoubtedly noticed during her visit in the north. Her delicate constitution is not rare among those of the highest station and must not be confused with those of low class.

  “Well, Nephew, I am happy to see you. I am sure your affection for Rosings increases daily and that is what brought you to us early this year.”

  “How could it not?” cried her jester. “Such refinement, such—”

  “Anne has gone to her room, has she? I am certain she is fatigued from the journey—coming from such a primitive part of the world.” The good patroness took no notice of the flash of pain that flew over Mrs. Collins’s face. “Rest is always good for the complexion.”

  As poorly as Richard was feeling, he could not resist responding. “Hertfordshire is a lovely place! Why, there was no snow or ice to speak of, and the roads were in good condition. Anne and Mrs. Jenkinson bore the journey very well.”

  Lady Catherine’s face darkened. “I held the earl in higher regard than he deserves. I permitted Anne to stay with him and the countess for Christmas and depended on his judgment and sense of decorum, but he chose to involve her in this… this circus in Hertfordshire in the most inclement weather! Of what could he be thinking? The countess was behind it, I have no doubt! She and I have never agreed on anything. I suppose you saw your cousins while you were there?”

  “Of course, Aunt. Darcy is… well, Darcy. Mrs. Darcy is as lovely as ever, and Georgiana was never in better spirits. She and the new Mrs. Southerland are particular friends. Master Bennet remained in Town, but I can assure you he is in excellent health.”

  “I understand Mr. Southerland has the living at Kympton,” Lady Catherine stated. “It is a particularly good living—fifteen hundred per year, very likely more.” Mr. Collins could not help but blanch at the considerable amount. Lady Catherine went on. “Very generous of Darcy, but I suppose he had inducements for benevolence.”

  Richard ignored the crude allegation. “Mr. Southerland is an excellent fellow and very attached to Catherine Bennet. One cannot but rejoice that the four sisters shall reside within such an easy distance of each other and that their husbands are so amenable.”

  The scowl on Lady Catherine’s face revealed that she was displeased to have Georgiana described as Mrs. Southerland’s sister, no matter how accurate it was, and Richard knew there could be no profit in the continuation of that line of co
nversation.

  Lord Matlock had made it clear that he supported Darcy in his choice of wife, and all his family was expected to do likewise or suffer his displeasure. It clearly galled Lady Catherine to acquiesce to her brother’s will—oh, how she railed against it—but he was the head of the family, and she depended on his “advice.” There was only one thing Catherine Fitzwilliam de Bourgh feared, Richard knew, and that was her brother’s anger. Therefore, the woman celebrated for her candor was reduced to making snide, somewhat obscure observations. She prided herself on being as impertinent as possible without crossing the line of impropriety—by Lady Catherine’s definition of the word.

  “Well,” said Lady Catherine, “the hour is late. I am sure the Collinses are soon to depart.” At the hint, the good reverend leapt to his feet. “You have missed dinner, Richard, but I shall have the housekeeper arrange a cold repast. Do you wish it to be sent to your room?”

  Richard agreed to have his meal in his bedroom and took leave of his aunt and her guests.

  * * *

  “I will go down to the kitchen and have something sent up,” said Mrs. Jenkinson. “You must be famished, my dear.”

  Anne de Bourgh sat on the edge of her bed and nodded. “Thank you, but please do not bother. You must be exhausted. I will see to it myself.”

  The older woman crossed to Anne, taking the young lady’s hands in hers. “My dear Anne, it is no trouble, and I promise that after I eat, I will go straight to my room.” She looked at her charge with affection. “I am so happy with your improved health over the last two years. It is truly a miracle. You are becoming quite the young lady. I think the time is quickly coming that you will not need old Mrs. Jenkinson to fuss over you. You will have some strapping young man for that, God willing.”

  Anne de Bourgh looked her old governess in the eyes with a steady composure but with glistening eyes. “No matter my fate, you shall always have a home in my house.” The two women shared a quick embrace, and Mrs. Jenkinson left the room.