The Three Colonels

Sir John merely laughed. “Wait until spring, my dear, and you will be able to fill the place with orange tulips.”

“Sir John,” said his wife with just the right touch of condescension, “you may know about maneuvers and strategies and other military matters, but it is obvious you know little about decorating!”

“I bow to your superior knowledge, my lady. Allow me to introduce you to your staff.”

Sir John gestured to three women standing by, two of a certain age and one a young blonde beauty.

“Helga is the cook and Frau Lippermann is the housekeeper. Roberts will serve as butler, as well as my valet. Sofia will join Abigail as your personal maid.” Sofia was the blonde.

Caroline nodded to each in turn, her eyes narrowing as she beheld the lovely Sofia. In a low voice, she said to her husband, “So many for such a small household? I have no need of a second maid. Abigail is sufficient.”

“Ah, but you do need another personal maid. Sofia knows German, English, and French. The other ladies speak only their native tongue.”

Caroline’s lips tightened. “Of course. Thank you for your foresight, sir,” she said, trying but failing to hide completely her aggravation at having to rely on the girl because she had no knowledge of German. Caroline was not happy; Sofia was too attractive by half.

Raising her nose, Caroline ordered, “Sofia, please inform Frau Lippermann and Helga that I look forward to our time together here in Vienna. They may return to their duties.”

“I vill. Thank you, my lady,” Sofia replied in heavily accented English, before speaking to the others in German. They nodded to their new mistress and left for the kitchen.

“If you will pardon me, sir, I will accompany my maids to my room to supervise the unpacking.” Caroline gave her husband a small curtsy before leaving the room.

Sir John was puzzled. What was wrong? What had provoked her?

*   *   *

Buford exited his carriage in front of Ballhausplatz 2, close by the Hofburg Imperial Palace. A four-story, rectangular building, it was the seat of the Austrian Minister of State, Prince von Metternich, and where much of the work of the Congress was done.

Buford wore civilian clothes—a fine navy blue with his sash of red. He handed his topcoat, hat, and gloves to the footman and entered the vestibule. Quickly ascertaining the location of the British offices, he went up the stairs to the second floor. Halfway down the hall, he saw two men—one tall and one of medium build—conversing in French.

To respect their privacy, Buford stopped a few yards away. The taller man turned in his direction and noticed the colonel.

“Buford!” Arthur Wellesley, the Duke of Wellington, called out. “Excuse me, sir,” Wellington said to his companion in English, “but I would like to introduce this gentleman. Come here, Colonel!”

Buford drew closer to the pair. “Your Excellency, may I present Colonel Sir John Buford of the British Army. Colonel, this is His Excellency Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Perigord, head of the French delegation.”

“Your servant, sir.” Talleyrand! Buford thought as he bowed.

“Colonel, I understand you are lately married,” said the foreign minister in perfect English. “Please accept my congratulations. I hope your wife did not find the journey tiresome.”

Buford replied in French, “Not at all—merci, Excellency. She is even now calling upon Lady Beatrice.” Buford tried to keep hidden his discomfort. How much do you know, you devil? Apparently, the French Secret Service changed its allegiance as quickly as you did.

The ambassador was notorious for changing sides: first, Louis XVI, then the Revolution, then against Robespierre, then for Napoleon, and later against the same man. Now he served as minister for Louis XVIII.

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 Wurste… 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 Ruben… along vith Erdapfelsalat.”

Caroline had no idea what Erdapfelsalat 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 Leberknodelsuppe—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.”