Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

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 mind flooded her awareness: She might have to do so for the rest of her life. A searing pain coursed through Marianne’s 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, and 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.

With this resolve, the mistress of Delaford returned home to her duties.

*   *   *

Brussels

Colonel Brandon was at his desk concentrating on paperwork when he noticed Major Denny leaving Wellington’s office. “Is that the schedule for the southern patrols, Denny?” he asked.

Denny assured him that it was and handed over the paper for Brandon’s perusal. A quick glance told him everything.

“This is it?”

“Yes, sir,” said Denny in an emotionless voice.

“And the duke approved this?” Brandon looked at the younger man.

Denny looked over his colonel’s head at the wall behind him. “Yes, sir.”

Brandon thought for a moment before rising to his feet. “Wait right here.”

He strode to Wellington’s door, and with only the briefest of knocks, he entered the commander-in-chief’s domain. He found the duke in consultation with the Quartermaster General, Colonel Sir William de Lancey, who was acting chief of staff.

“Sir,” Brandon began, “pray, forgive the intrusion, but I must speak to you.”

Colonel de Lancey’s eyebrows rose, but Wellington’s imperial visage remained impassive. “Yes, Brandon, what is it?”

He closed the door behind him. “I hold here the schedule for the southern patrols—”

“His lordship has already dealt with that, Brandon,” interrupted the chief of staff, but the duke cut him off.

“You have some question about this?”

“Sir, the number of men assigned to this duty is completely inadequate for the task. You must increase the patrols.”

Wellington pursed his lips. “I disagree. Bonaparte will do nothing for at least six weeks, if not longer. We do not need to waste men touring the Belgium frontier.”

“Sir,” said Brandon sharply, “I beg you to reconsider. Has Bonaparte ever done the expected? We know troops are massing in the north. The earlier he strikes the better for him. It would be well to err on the side of caution.”

“Colonel, are you implying that I am wrong?” asked Wellington dangerously.

Brandon swallowed. “I believe you are acting under incomplete intelligence, your lordship.” Brandon knew he was risking his career. He did not want to be sent to Belgium, but now that he was here, he would do everything in his power to assure the success of their mission, including taking the risk of being sent home in disgrace. His sense of professionalism would allow nothing less.

Wellington gazed at the colonel down his long nose—quite a feat, as the Iron Duke was still sitting. “Double the patrols. Was there anything else, Colonel?”

Brandon came to an even more rigid attention. “No, sir,” and fired off his salute.

“Return to your duties, Brandon,” ordered the duke as he turned again to a bewildered de Lancey.

A minute later Brandon handed the schedule back to Denny. “Double the patrols, as per orders I have just received from his lordship.”

Denny looked upon his senior officer with near awe before responding. “Yes, sir—thank you, sir.” He hurried out of the office.

Brandon looked about the office to see Major General Sir Hussey Vivian, commander of the 6th Cavalry Brigade, looking at him. One hand was injured and in a sling.

“Not bad, Brandon. I wonder if you have anything on the old man.”

“No, sir,” replied the colonel in embarrassment.

“Do not be so modest. It is not just any man who can get the Iron Duke to change his mind. I congratulate you.”

Brandon nodded at the compliment and returned to his work. He was still uneasy. He felt they had far too many men at Hal, but he was not willing to beard the lion in his own den twice in one day.

*   *   *

London

“Do not be silly, Caroline,” Rebecca said. “Do not change your plans. Of course, you should have your friends visit. You cannot disappoint them.”

“I will be poor company, I am afraid,” Caroline replied, still distressed over the letter fiasco.

Rebecca took her sister’s hand. “Sir John will receive his letter in a few days. All will be well. He would want you to be happy—especially at this time.”

Caroline considered as she caressed the very slight bulge in her midsection. She did want to see Anne de Bourgh, as well as renew her acquaintance with Marianne Brandon.

“Oh, very well.”

*   *   *

Delaford

Mrs. Dashwood and Margaret had come up from Barton for an overnight visit, and Mr. and Mrs. Ferrars had joined Marianne in attending them. The ladies sat in the parlor, speaking of many subjects, save one—the impending war. Their conversation was broken by delivery of the mail. One letter caught Marianne’s eye, and she begged leave to open it.

“It is from Lady Buford,” she said, “and she invites me to a week’s stay in London at her relations.”

“Oh, how wonderful,” cried her mother. “Such diversions to be found! Marianne, you should go before Town grows too warm.”

Marianne was tempted, not only by the diversions London offered but also by the company. She wanted to know Caroline Buford better. However, she had responsibilities. “Nothing could be more delightful, but I should not leave Joy.”

“Nonsense, Marianne,” said Mr. Ferrars. “We should be happy to have our niece stay at the parsonage.”

“Indeed, Sister,” confirmed Elinor. “Enjoy yourself in Town.”

Marianne smiled. “Thank you. I believe I shall!”

Brussels

Three colonels of cavalry strolled into the palace where expatriate British civilians were holding yet another ball. Brandon and Richard were in full-dress uniform, while Buford wore a suit of black with white stockings and his sash. Already the hall was filled with Dutch royalty, exiled Frenchmen, traveling members of the London ton, and officers from many different nations, in and out of uniform.

“Quite a crowd here tonight, eh, Buford?” offered Richard. Buford’s reply was noncommittal.

“I find it hard to believe that so many have come here from England,” observed Brandon.

“Bored, useless vultures—the lot of them,” grumbled Buford. “The ton, looking for excitement, journey across the sea to see a war. What fun! Bastards,” he added sotto voce.

“Well, I am glad you are enjoying yourself, Buford!” cried Richard.

“The two of you, be quiet! We have to pay our compliments,” warned Brandon as the group walked towards the receiving line.

Having been presented and received, the three officers entered the main ballroom—right into the path of one who was very familiar to Buford.

“Bonsoir, Sir John! Pray, introduce me to your charming companions,” purred Countess Roxanne de Pontchartrain.

*   *   *

Captain George Wickham could hardly believe his luck. Somehow, the colonel of his regiment had not realized there was a ball that night, and poor Hewitt was scheduled to serve as Officer of the Day. Wickham was finally out from underneath the colonel’s, and by extension Darcy’s, thumb and was free as a bird. He was under no illusion that this freedom would last or that it ever would be repeated. Therefore, Wickham was determined to enjoy himself as much as possible.

Helping himself to the first glass of wine he could secure, Wickham stood in his infantry-red best, looking for opportunities for diversion—if not more. Noticing one of his fellow officers conversing with a couple of ladies, he strolled over. There he was introduced to a Mrs. Norris, and he applied his considerable charm to the lady.

He was making progress when he noticed a familiar face out of the corner of his eye. He looked to make sure, and his countenance paled. Wickham beheld one of the two men in the world he least wanted to meet at a ball, or anywhere else for that matter—and this one was not Darcy.

*   *   *

After being accosted by Countess de Pontchartrain, the three colonels had separated. Richard walked about, taking in the dancing, when he almost walked into Major Denny. Turning away abruptly, cutting the man, Richard was surprised to see George Wickham not twenty feet away.

Richard stood rooted to the spot, staring a hole through his nemesis. His eyes narrowed and his fists clenched as he observed the creature—he could never call Wickham a man, much less a gentleman—who had labored so to ruin Georgiana, chatting with someone else’s wife. He unconsciously reached for the sabre that was safely in his trunk back at the boardinghouse.

The corners of Richard’s mouth twitched as he saw Wickham’s face go white when he became aware of his presence. Richard began to move in the blackguard’s direction. He had no plan; his legs moved of their own accord. Before he could take more than a few steps, he felt a hand restrain him. To his shock, it was Major Denny.