Letter finished, Buford needed it to arrive in England as quickly as may be.
“You want me to do
“Come, man, I am not asking you to do anything illegal,” pleaded Buford. “A small thing—what is that between friends?”
Denny looked at the colonel. “You want me to enclose a personal letter in the official pouch to London, and you call it a small thing? Forgive me, Colonel, but I would like to know what you would refer to as a great favor!”
“You can do it, can you not? You have a friend on the staff who will either post it or deliver it?” Buford begged.
Denny thought. “Yes, Castlebaum would do it, especially if there was something in it for him. It will cost you a half-crown, sir.”
“Done and done, sir!” cried Buford as he shook the man’s hand. “Here is the money. I call it a bargain!”
Colonel Fitzwilliam watched his men practice, and it did not make him happy.
“What do you call that, gentlemen?” he bellowed. “You ride in that lackadaisical manner against the French, and they will cut you to pieces. Show some spirit! Do the drill again!”
Four at a time, the forty riders of the third squadron took off down the training course, while the other nine squadrons watched. The course laid was a fifty-yard dash to a straw bundle, then halting at a post wrapped in cotton and burlap, then a final gallop past another post, this one uncovered. All the time the troopers were to slash at the targets with their swords. Most did the drill correctly, if cautiously. None did it quickly.
“Hell’s fire! Must I do everything myself?” Fitzwilliam cried. “Stand clear!” He drew his sabre and readied his mount. With a drive of his spurs, the horse shot forward.
“ARRRGGHH!” he screamed as he headed down the left-hand side of the course, leaning over the horse’s neck and pointing the sword forward. At full speed, he cut at the haystack with all his might, straw flying everywhere. Pulling back at the reins, he expertly pivoted and dashed to the second target. His mount danced about the post as Richard slashed at it repeatedly. Then in a blink, he was off again, his blade this time held at an angle to his body. It made a satisfying
“Time!” he called.
His aide checked his pocket watch and informed the rapt audience that the colonel had bested their top performance by ten seconds.
“There!” Richard called out, breathing heavily. “If an old man can do that, you can certainly do better. Do the drill again, and a pint of ale to any man who bests my time by twenty seconds!”
A cheer went up from the troopers. “I will be drinking your beer soon, Red Fitz!” cried one unnamed rider as he took off down the course.
Richard could not help grinning at the use of the nickname by which his men referred to him, usually when he was out of earshot. By the time the exercise was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam was poorer by a gallon and a half.
Happy to have found something to motivate his men, he turned to his aide. “A barrel of Belgium beer to the squadron with the best average time.” The aide grinned and left to deliver the message.
Richard was satisfied. His troopers would be ready.
While Caroline performed at the pianoforte, Marianne hid her disquiet as she had tea with Anne, Mrs. Albertine Buford, and Rebecca. Marianne knew that Caroline was unhappy, for while she played with great skill and technique, there was a want of feeling. Her friend was mechanically going through the motions.
Caroline finished and turned to her guest. “Do you play today, Marianne?”
“I thought you were my friend,” Marianne exclaimed.
Caroline was taken aback. “Whatever do you mean?”
Marianne smiled at Mrs. Buford and Rebecca. “She would have me, with my meager talents, follow such a lovely performance. For shame! I shall be thought as the most rank beginner in comparison, I am sure.”
For the first time that day, Caroline allowed a smile to adorn her face. “Meager talents, indeed! Come, Marianne, you leave tomorrow. I would love to hear you play once more.”
The guest sighed dramatically. “Oh, very well, if you insist.” Privately, Marianne was very pleased with her efforts to lighten Caroline’s mood. She sat before the instrument and started into a light country air while Caroline took a seat next to Anne.
Anne looked at Marianne and sighed. “If only I had learned to play.” She turned to the group. “You know, my mother always said if I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient if my health had allowed me to apply. She is confident that I would have performed delightfully,” she said with a straight face.
Caroline’s face had turned the brightest red as she screwed up her mouth, holding back the laugh that threatened to erupt. She had heard that comment countless times from Lady Catherine de Bourgh—in fact, every time she played before the old biddy. The other Mrs. Bufords could only look on in puzzlement as first Caroline then Anne began to giggle, but the ladies could resist no longer and the sounds of laughter began to drown out Marianne’s performance.
Mrs. Brandon stopped her piece and turned. “I say, what is so funny?” she demanded with all injured eloquence. With that, she started to play again, which only redoubled the two ladies’ mirth.
“Dear,” asked Mother Buford to Rebecca, “do you know what they are about?”
“No, but it seems to have a proper effect.” They, too, had noticed Caroline’s melancholy, but unlike the other ladies, they knew the reason.
The ladies sat back to enjoy the concert when it was again interrupted. This time the offender was Roberts, the acting assistant butler.
“Lady Buford, there is an army officer to see you.”
