The Three Colonels

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 Leberknodelsuppe 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 Erdapfelsalat—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 Fraulein, 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 Leberknodelsuppe, 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