The Three Colonels (10 page)

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.

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 conversation.

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.

Later, as she prepared for bed, Mrs. Jenkinson thought over the last two years. For the twenty years since her husband's untimely death, she had been Anne's governess and companion and had despaired of ever seeing her young charge take her rightful place in the world. Anne had been a sickly child; her constant cough and runny nose prevented her from developing her talents and kept her shut up in her nursery and rooms for most of her life. It was hard to imagine the daughter of a baronet not learning to sing, or play, or dance, or draw, but at least Anne could improve her mind. Reading was her only joy—that was, reading what Lady Catherine would allow.

Mrs. Jenkinson was an obedient sort, taught never to question her betters, but her heart went out to Anne. She grew to love her like a daughter—the daughter she would never have. Therefore, she would do whatever she needed to do to help Anne survive. For twenty years, Mrs. Jenkinson followed Lady Catherine's commands to the letter, no matter how foolish or cruel. She would keep
her
girl alive, no matter how much her heart would rebel at her instructions.

Three years earlier, Fitzwilliam Darcy upset all of Lady Catherine's plans and dreams by marrying Miss Bennet. Mrs. Jenkinson by then knew her girl's mind—knew she did not love Darcy in
that
way—and that Anne was relieved of her fear of a forced, arranged marriage.

Then, two years ago, Mrs. Jenkinson's old aunt gave her some advice. Her aunt was wise in the old ways. She
knew
things—things that doctors and other men of science could not explain. Mrs. Jenkinson had thought over her advice for a long time. Then, one night, as she watched Anne's cough develop into yet another fever, she made up her mind.

That night, two years ago, she committed murder.

***

Richard lay on his bed, jacket off, hands behind his head, when there was a knock at the door. “Enter,” he called out.

The housekeeper, Mrs. Parks, came in the room with a tray of chicken, cheeses, and bread. A bottle of Madeira was brought as well.

“Thank you. Please set it down on the table there.” He rose and crossed over to the table. Popping a bit of cheese into his mouth, Richard noted that Mrs. Parks had not left. She stood in the middle of the room, looking expectantly at him.

“Mrs. Parks, I trust I find you in good health?”

The housekeeper's unreadable countenance did not change. “Well enough, I thank you.”

“The… eh… staff—everyone getting along?”

“Perfectly, sir.”

Richard was uncomfortable. He remembered Darcy's words: “
Trust
Mrs. Parks. She can be of invaluable aid to you
.” Could Darcy have meant this stone wall? If Richard were back in his regiment, he would know how to deal with this. But he was not; this was a household and not
his
household.

Clearing his throat, Richard asked, “Mrs. Parks, is there
anything
you wish to tell me?”

In an emotionless voice, the housekeeper answered. “Everything in this household is as you see. I have no complaints to report. I very much enjoy my position here. Is that all?”

The slight air of insubordination was too much for Richard. Civilian or not, he knew of only one way to deal with this. Drawing himself up to his full height, he fixed his most severe glare on the woman—a glare that had caused not a few lieutenants concern over soiling their breeches. With the voice of a king's officer who had seen war and worse, he said, “I am glad to know of it. I will surely keep those sentiments in my mind.” He allowed the pause to hang in the air before finishing. “That is all. You are dismissed.”

Richard's quiet yet forceful tone lashed across the woman. It was a moment before Mrs. Parks could manage her curtsy and exit the room. No sooner had the housekeeper left, than Richard unhappily threw himself into the chair.

The interview had not gone well. Richard had learned nothing about the problems within the manor house, and that left him frustrated. He felt that he could not let down his father—or Darcy—or Anne.

Anne?
He frowned.
Where
did
that
come
from?

Dismissing the thought as quickly as it came, Richard returned to his meal with little appetite.

***

Mrs. Parks walked down the hallway towards her own quarters, fighting the small smile that threatened to come to her lips. She knew it would take a gentleman with extraordinary strength of character to stand up to the Mistress and set things right. She had quite despaired since Mr. Darcy's banishment from Rosings and had no faith in the happy-go-lucky soldier son of Lord Matlock.

But perhaps she was wrong. The young man had shown some steel beneath his genial exterior.

She could not stop herself from thinking that there might be hope for them, after all.

***

Anne de Bourgh snuggled deeply into her bedcovers. It was one of her favorite things to do on a cold winter's night. It was a pleasurable end to an eventful day.

Anne recalled how pretty Kitty looked—so happy, shy, and excited, all at the same time. Mr. Southerland walked around the entire time with a rather silly half-grin on his face, as if he could not believe his own good fortune. Anne wished the couple well, for she and Georgiana had become much attached to the girl.

Georgiana would be next, she imagined. How lovely a wedding at Pemberley would be! Perhaps Mr. Southerland would do the honors. Oh, how that would upset Mr. Collins! He still fretted over Elizabeth and Darcy's choice of a bishop. On and on her thoughts flew, ignoring the fact that Georgiana had no beau.