The Three Colonels

Buford, defenseless, laid his soul naked before his wife. “I love you, and only you, with all my heart.”

Caroline took a moment to comprehend what her husband admitted and then fell on his face with kisses.

“Oww… ow… oh, my dear… please,” begged Buford.

Caroline helped him rise from the floor and walk back to the bed. Helping him onto it, she then climbed in after him and lay by his side, taking him into her arms and putting his aching head on her breast. There they rested in silence for a time.

Finally, she began. “What happened? Did she attack you?”

“I suppose it could be called thus. It was certainly uninvited.”

“When I saw the state of her dress! Oh, forgive my lack of faith in you.”

“No, my dear, you have no need to apologize. What were you to think with the girl wrapped around my person?”

Caroline began to chuckle. “As I look back at it, it was rather silly.”

“Silly?” Buford rolled onto his back.

She began to laugh heartily. “Yes, it was something out of a Shakespearean comedy.” She dissolved in laughter. “You… her… the door—”

“Stop! It… it was not that funny.” He began to laugh with her. This continued for a time until finally, their laughter sated, Sir John caressed Caroline’s chin with his finger.

“I meant what I said.”

Caroline closed her eyes. Could she dare to open her heart as well? All her life she was trained never to leave herself vulnerable, open to hurt. Sir John deserved an answer, but the words caught in her throat. She had to find another way.

“I believe I need your assistance, Husband.” She rose on one arm to look at him.

“Anything.”

“I need to work on my knowledge of languages, if I am ever to match yours.”

Buford closed his eyes, frowning. “How so?”

“Well, for example, I believe the correct phrase in French is je t’aime, is it not?” She looked down into his eyes.

Wordlessly, Sir John searched her face. “Yes, that is correct, but I believe the formal version is je vous aime.”

Caroline repeated, “Je vous aime. Oui.”

Sir John swallowed. “I must say, however, that I prefer je t’adore. ’Tis used between lovers.”

She smiled. “Je t’adore—it is far more agreeable, I must admit.” She kissed him tenderly. Sir John reached up and ran his fingers through her hair, deepening the kiss.

Caroline moved away slightly. “My Italian is not what it should be, I confess. Ti amo I believe is right?”

“Oh no—ti voglio is much better.”

Caroline’s eyes widened. “Indeed? Very well then—ti voglio.” This time the kiss was passionate and long. “And, of course, Spanish is te amo.”

Sir John liked this game. “Te amo, te adoro, te deseo.”

“But I have no German. You must help me. Did your… friend teach you the phrase?” she said with a grin.

“Wench! It was that baggage that was taught a lesson.”

Her laughter rained down on him like a summer shower. “This will never do! Teach me, Husband!”

“Let me see. Ich liebe dich is perfectly acceptable.”

“Ich liebe dich. Do you know Russian?”

“Ya tyebya lyublyu, I believe.”

Caroline started to giggle. “Surely your talents know no bounds! Do you know any others?”

“Eu adoro-te is Portuguese. The Dutch say ik hou van je. For the Irish it is ta gra agam ort or taim i’ ngra leat. Do not ask me to say it in Polish—there is no telling how badly I would butcher it. I would probably say, ‘I like your stomach.’” Caroline was laughing now. “But the way I like best is the Welsh way.”

“And what do the Welsh say, Johnny?”

“They say rwy’n dy gari di.”

Caroline’s eyes sparkled. “Yes—rwy’n dy gari di.”

Sir John smiled back. “Rwy’n dy gari di.”

The sounds of the lovers would continue throughout most of the evening.

*   *   *

It was the middle of the night when Caroline awoke. The knock on her door and her husband arising to answer it had broken her slumber. She opened one eye slightly to see Sir John in a robe reading a letter by the fireplace. The stiffness in his posture caught her attention. Completely awake, she sat up in bed, the sheet falling away from her naked torso.

“John, what is it?”

He turned to her, backlit by the fire, his expression unreadable.

“Bonaparte has escaped from Elba.”

*   *   *

Grenoble

The men of the 5th Regiment stood nervously across the road to Grenoble. Before them were over a thousand people, many of them armed. Their orders were to arrest the tyrant who dared leave his exile on Elba. The officers moved about the soldiers, reminding them of their duty to the king.

Suddenly, a man approached on horseback. He wore a simple military greatcoat and a cocked hat with a tricolor cockerel at the peak. He stopped and observed the forces before him. He then dismounted and approached the soldiers alone, on foot. When the man was within earshot of the men, he threw open his coat, the Legion of Honor clearly visible.

“Soldiers of the Fifth, you recognize me! If any man would shoot his emperor, he may do so now!”

Following a brief silence, the soldiers and officers erupted into shouts of “Vive L’Empereur!”

The emperor basked in the adulation for a few moments before returning to his horse. He had been called many things in his lifetime: genius, monster, lawgiver, tyrant, Defender of the Revolution, Destroyer of Mankind, but no one doubted his personal courage or underestimated his knowledge of men’s hearts. Today he had reminded the world of those talents.

The soldiers sent to stop the tyrant instead joined the ranks behind the emperor to march on Paris.

Chapter 15

Matlock Manor

“And then Aunt Catherine ordered me out of the house.” Colonel Fitzwilliam took a large swig of his father’s port and looked around at each of the other men in the study, searching their faces for any hint of censure. His cousin, Fitzwilliam Darcy, was his usual impenetrable self, keeping his opinions hidden behind his oft-used mask of indifference. His brother, Viscount Andrew Fitzwilliam, stared intently into his own glass of port, and his father, Lord Matlock, looked deeply disturbed.

“Well, you could not expect me to remain after that performance, could you? I packed up my belongings, gathered the documents there—” he pointed to the opened packet on the desk—“and left for my lodgings in London. The rest you know. What would you have me do? Father?” Richard turned to his cousin. “Darcy—come, man,