Mollified, Wickham returned, “Friendship!” drained the glass, and fell backwards, oversetting his chair, completely intoxicated.

Denny walked over to ascertain his companion’s condition. Feeling no pain tonight, but I cannot speak for his head in the morning. Denny rounded up a couple of soldiers and had Captain George Wickham carried home to sleep off his carousing in his own bed. Denny stood by the bed as the servant tucked the master in.

George, George, George—shall you never change? he asked silently as he looked at his friend. Denny looked around the cottage. It was small but fairly neat. The maid did what she could but had little help.

He thought back to Wickham’s outburst and colored. It was true he had admired Lydia Bennet three years ago, and he was sorry that she had chosen to go off with Wickham, but Denny thought himself resigned to their union long ago. Could his true feelings be so transparent?

In vain, Denny fought the thought that came to his mind: Lydia deserves better than this.

Chapter 8

Austria


It was now Lady Caroline Buford’s decided opinion that sea travel was unpleasant and unrefined. It was not so much the accommodations; even Caroline knew that warships were not designed for ladies’ travel. Their food was tolerable, for the short voyage assured that the passengers would not need to partake of the more common rations given to mariners, such as rotten mutton, weevil-infested biscuits, and suspect water. The passage across the Channel was uneventful, given calm seas. No, what Caroline did not like was that the beds aboard could not accommodate two.

It had been quite a change for the former Miss Bingley. Prior to her marriage, she could hardly imagine sharing her bed with a man. Now she could hardly bear not to do so. She found it a great comfort to awaken with her husband’s arm holding her close, and his even breathing was pleasurable. As for the nights, she could only blush. She felt sure she enjoyed those times far more than propriety subscribed, but it did not signify, as Sir John seemed to be delighted with her.

There was a cloud over her happiness, however, and the kindness her husband paid to her person only added to her worries. She knew Sir John had not sought a love match. He wanted a partner to manage his house and entertain his guests. The time would soon come when she would have to prove her worthiness, and she was determined that she would not disappoint.

As for the quivering she felt in the pit of her stomach, Caroline began to suspect what it meant—what John meant to her—and that realization both excited and frightened her.

Once on land, things progressed in a most agreeable manner. The party left Calais in two carriages: Sir John and Lady Buford in one, the maid, Abigail, and valet, Roberts, in the other with most of the luggage. The weather was cold but not oppressively so, and the blankets provided served reasonably well. It did not stop Caroline from occasionally complaining of a chill. This would provoke Sir John to join her under her blanket, and if certain liberties were permitted and enjoyed, the curtains were drawn, so no harm was done. Otherwise, the colonel sat across from his wife, either enjoying the countryside or studying the volume of papers he had brought with him.

Caroline was astonished to learn over the course of their journey that her new husband was a bit of a linguist. Many of his papers were in languages other than English. When she inquired, Sir John admitted to being fluent in French, Italian, German, Spanish, Portuguese, and Dutch. It was for that ability that Wellington had asked for him. He allowed that his Russian and Swedish were only passable, and his Polish was terrible. Caroline, her French and Italian being merely adequate, could only gape.

During the day, the party traveled through the countryside, Sir John pointing out interesting features. At the inns where they spent the evenings, Lady Buford took charge. She had the servants see to the rooms while she handled the innkeepers and ordered their meals with her passable French. Nothing was left to chance, and Caroline saw that Sir John did nothing but rest. At night, the knight and his lady would fall into bed together, sometimes for love but always to rest intertwined for the travels ahead.

They spent little time in France; the route to Vienna was more directly through Belgium and Bavaria, and Sir John did not trust Paris overmuch. He assured his disappointed bride that they would enjoy the French capital another time. Their journey first took them to Brussels and then through the Ardennes Forest to Coblenz, where they crossed into the Saar. Caroline thought she had seen a great river before, but the sleepy Thames was nothing to the powerful Rhine.

Bavaria and the Black Forest were all delightful. Caroline had never seen such mountains before. It brought to her mind a rather silly comment Louisa had made about mountains being “unrefined.” If the Peaks in the north of England had inspired such a remark, Caroline wondered what her sister would say upon beholding the Alps.

The party worked their way from Frankfurt down to the Danube River. Soon they entered Austria, and within a few days, they reached the beautiful city of Vienna. Caroline’s heart was in her mouth for more than one reason. The city, on level ground with the river running through it and covered in snow, had a fairy tale air about it. At the same time, she sensed foreboding. Now Caroline’s worthiness to love her husband as she feared she did—and be loved by him as she now dreamed—would be tested.

*   *   *

Caroline walked the rooms of their apartments in Vienna. Large French windows lined one wall, facing the street. The furniture was made of oak with colorful fabrics, unlike the dark Chippendale style favored in England. The rooms were comfortable and well appointed.

That would never do. How was Lady Buford to prove her worth if she did not leave her mark? It was all very vexing.

“Well?” asked her husband. “Does the place meet with your approval?”

Caroline said nothing, occupied with her dilemma. Finally, she pointed to a couch.

“I believe that settee should be over there and those chairs around it.” Roberts and a footman complied with her instructions. Caroline contemplated the arrangement, walked over to a vase on the mantle, and moved it to a table near the pianoforte. “There,” she said. “That is better. These rooms will do tolerably.”

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-Périgord, head of the French delegation.”