Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

“Well, sir?” Caroline asked with an arch look. “What shall we do now?”

Sir John grinned, then reached and took her hand. “I am sure there are matters you wish to attend to in private,” Sir John said as he helped his wife out of bed and walked her to her dressing room. “I shall leave you, madam, but will return. Oh, by the way,” he added offhandedly, “the staff is rather short in number; I gave most of them their liberty for the day.” He bowed, kissed her hand, and left the room.

Caroline completed her morning routine by herself, somewhat irked that she would have no maid to help with her toilette. There was nothing for it—she put on her best robe and was able to do something with her hair before her husband returned. Sir John had an expectant look on his face that Caroline could not credit.

“Lovely robe,” was all he said before picking her up. Caroline, crying out, thought his plan was to take her to bed, so she was surprised that they went through the open doorway into his rooms and entered his dressing room.

There she saw a bath freshly drawn, steam rising from the tub and a bucket next to it. Her bewilderment turned to surprise when Sir John put her back on her feet and lovingly removed her robe. Without a word, he gently placed her into the bath.

She gasped as she lay back. The water enveloped her body, her aches soothed by the warmth. It was exactly what Caroline needed, but to her surprise, within a moment, she felt a stream of hot water cascade over her head. Her husband, Colonel Sir John Buford, war hero and Knight of the Bath, was seated on a stool behind her, washing her hair.

Never before had the practice felt so pleasurable. Caroline was temporarily lost in indulgence. At that moment, she would do anything Sir John asked of her.

The only words Sir John spoke to her, though, was a request that she lean forward so that her hair could be rinsed. Once accomplished, he squeezed as much of the excess water from her tresses as he could before he leaned over and kissed her ear.

“A moment, my dear,” he said and was gone. Disappointed with his departure, Caroline lathered the rest of her body, standing up to do her torso.

Task completed, Sir John returned to his dressing room to the spectacle of his tall, slim wife standing in the tub facing away from the door, soaping her body, her buttocks gleaming. His mouth went dry at the sight. Finally, he was able to whisper hoarsely, “Venus rises from the waves.”

Caroline looked over her shoulder at him. He could see a bit of suds had clung to the tips of her nipples.

With a smirk, his wife said, “Do not stand there staring, Sir John. Help me rinse off.”

Snapped out of his trance, he smiled and proceeded to do just that. Caroline reclined in the bath while Sir John reclaimed his stool. He sponged the remaining soap from her body and then held her hand while she relaxed.

Minutes passed before he said, “You will want to get dressed before the water gets cool, I think.”

Caroline grasped his hand firmly, a daring thought coming to her. “Perhaps you can help dry me with a towel.”

Sir John grinned. “Your wish is my command, m’lady.”

Working together, they dried Caroline’s body while wetting their lips with kisses. They were able to remain in some control of their passions, however, and it was not long before the pair, dressed only in their robes, returned to Caroline’s rooms hand in hand.

By now, little could surprise Mrs. Buford, so it was no shock to see that breakfast had already been laid out for them on the table at the foot of the bed. Caroline noted with interest that the linens on the bed had been changed, but seeing no profit in inquiring about it, let the observation pass without comment.

While eating, Caroline asked, “What did you have in mind for today, sir? You seem to have everything planned. More tea? I assume we will leave this room at some point.”

“Thank you. Why, it had passed my mind that you might wish to do a bit of shopping,” Sir John replied. “Our ship leaves in four days—just long enough to have a dress or two fitted and pick up some other necessaries as well. There are shops nearby. We can be there in a trice.”

There were few things Caroline enjoyed more than shopping. Sir John’s suggestion brought a smile to her face, which brightened further when she realized that he meant to go with her.

“That sounds delightful, John! I would like very much to go.”

She paused and then looked at him through her eyelashes. “But the shops are nearby, did you say? I can see no reason for us to hurry… Johnny.”

She opened her robe.

There were few things that Caroline enjoyed more than shopping—but she might have found another.

Marianne Brandon, hosting Mr. and Mrs. Tucker for tea the day after the wedding, sat in the parlor of Brandon House, enchanted by the sight of her husband lying face up on the floor playing with their daughter.

“Who is my love? Who is my love? Why, it is Joy! Ha, ha, ha!” Colonel Brandon cried repeatedly to the child sitting on his stomach. Joy Brandon squealed in delight.

Their guests looked on in amusement. The Tuckers had heard that the Brandons cared little about what other people thought of their attentions to their daughter. Many thought them odd, but Mary and Thomas could see no harm in it.

Finally, the babe began to yawn. “Time for a nap, my love,” said Marianne, retrieving Joy from her protesting father’s arms. With a sweet kiss, she gave the child to the nurse to put to bed and then returned to the guests. Already talk had turned to politics.

Mr. Tucker leaned towards the colonel in an earnest manner. “Every day, more common land falls to enclosure. It has yet to happen in Meryton, but can it be far behind? What is your opinion, Colonel?”

Brandon shifted uncomfortably. “Ah, had you asked me that question two years ago, you could be sure of my answer, but now, I see both sides. So much land has been wasted, used up. The latest arts in agriculture have not been used to their fullest extent. Those lands that have been enclosed have been the beneficiaries of suitable management. Yields are up due to proper rotation of crops. And yet—”

The young lawyer interrupted. “People are without access to land that was available for centuries. They are fleeing the villages for the cities to find employment, but on the other hand, everything you say is true as well. The population is increasing, and we need more food.” Mr. Tucker shook his head. “Our world is changing, Colonel, but can you honestly say it is for the better?” They both pondered the matter for a while.

Mary broke the silence. “We must pray for the Lord’s guidance to help us through these times and trust in His wisdom.” She lightly touched Mr. Tucker’s hand. “And we cannot forget the poor.”

“Amen,” said her husband, and the others nodded in agreement.

“Colonel,” Mary asked, “have you given any more thought to standing for Parliament?”

Brandon glanced at Marianne. “Yes. The seat for Delaford will be vacant in a year or so. Mr. White, good man that he is, wishes to retire.”

Mr. Tucker, a staunch Tory, was not as sure about Mr. White’s goodness, as the man was a wicked Whig, but knowing Colonel Brandon’s Tory leanings, he kept his opinion to himself. “You will be a great addition to the Commons. You have it arranged with our Friends?” Tucker referred to the only party apparatus that existed in the early nineteenth century; party politics was still in its infancy.

“Yes. They have pledged their support. I have no idea who else will stand—”

“Why should anyone?” cried Marianne. “All Delaford knows Colonel Brandon for the fair magistrate he has been. There is no more worthy man in all England!”

The fire in her voice moved Tucker. “No doubt, no doubt. The other side will not surrender the seat without a fight, Mrs. Brandon; depend upon it. But I am certain that the fair people of Delaford will come out for your husband.”

Marianne began to regain control of her emotions as Christopher looked upon her with humble affection. “I would certainly expect so, Mr. Tucker.” Marianne’s attention was drawn to the maid entering the room.

“Ah, the tea is here. May I pour you a cup, Mary?”

Richard Fitzwilliam was no stranger to the Darcy townhouse in London. He had been in residence there so often in the past that one of the bedrooms was reserved for his use alone. Being on the best of terms with his cousins, Richard took as much advantage of the open invitation as he could. Visits were at least weekly when the Darcy family was in Town.

Now, after an excellent dinner hosted with aplomb by Mrs. Darcy, the two cousins took their ease in Darcy’s magnificent study and retreat. It was a room of dark wood paneling, comfortable furniture, a fine exotic carpet before a roaring fire in the fireplace, and an excellent Chippendale desk. One wall was adorned with a small portrait of Elizabeth Darcy, another with a bookcase filled with a selection from the grand library at Pemberley. It was dignified, unpretentious, rich, and masculine, in a word—Darcy.

“Damn me! That is fine brandy,” Richard exclaimed after sipping the glass Darcy poured for him. “Where on earth did you get it?”

Darcy smiled indulgently. “Such are the rewards of having an uncle in trade. I am sure Mr. Gardiner would be most disposed to setting you up.”

“At the family price, I hope?”

“Uncle Gardiner is kind, but not that kind. Cigar?”

“Thank you,” he said as he selected one.