“Ah, yes.” The earl got to his feet. “I have been expecting something from my banker in London. Please excuse me.” Lord Matlock followed the butler out of the room.

“Well, I expect we will be hearing next of that damned Corsican’s head on a pike. The Frogs cannot be stupid enough to want him back!” Lord Andrew declared.

Darcy turned from the mantle. “I must disagree with you again, Andrew. King Louis’s government is very unpopular. There may well be civil war.”

“Here is something new—you disagreeing with me, Darcy! All is right in the world as long as Fitzwilliam Darcy finds fault with Andrew Fitzwilliam! Tell me, is there anyone you totally agree with except that wife of yours?” At Darcy’s glare, Lord Andrew continued with a smile, “Oh, come now! Do not take offense, old man! You know we approve of Elizabeth.”

“It took you long enough to come around.”

“Again with that? Very well—yes, we have come to see that she is not the uncultured country girl we feared. She has not hurt our standing in society, and she has done wonders with Georgiana. In short, she is too good for the likes of you. How you managed to win her I will never comprehend.”

Before Richard could express his opinion, all conversation ended with Lord Matlock’s reentrance, a grim look on his face. Without a word, he handed a letter to Richard. Richard immediately noted that it was from the War Office addressed to him. With a sinking feeling, he murmured an apology, opened the letter, and read in silence.

Finally, Lord Andrew could bear no more. “What is the news?”

Richard looked up slowly, all his hopes dashed. “I am recalled to London. King Louis has fled the country. Bonaparte has entered Paris and declared himself again Emperor of the French Republic. It is war.”

*   *   *

Delaford


Richard Fitzwilliam was not the only one receiving express letters.

“Do not worry, my love,” Christopher Brandon told his wife as his valet packed his trunk. “I shall only be gone for a little while—less than a fortnight, I should not wonder.”

“But, Christopher, you are requested so urgently!” Marianne observed. “Why would they want you? You have been inactive for so very long.”

Because Wellington wants me, he replied to himself. The country was not ready—it had too many troops on the other side of the Atlantic because of that insane war with the Americans. “Perhaps they need a new staff officer in London during the crisis. If so, I will send for you and Joy to join me at Brandon House in Town.” Brandon turned to his valet. “All done there, my man? Excellent.” He opened his arms. “My love, I must leave.”

Tearfully his wife embraced him. “I am so worried.”

“Never fear, my Marianne. Nothing will keep me from returning to you.”

*   *   *

Newcastle


Captain George Wickham entered his commanding general’s office along with the other officers.

“Gentlemen,” the general began without any other preamble, “it seems our old enemy is back. Yet another coalition is being formed to contain Bonaparte. All training regimens are hereby doubled. We leave for Belgium in a month.”

Wickham looked about stupidly. “Begging your pardon, sir. Did you say we were leaving?”

“Yes. Any questions, Captain?”

Wickham could not restrain himself. “Why, sir?”

The general gave the assembled a crooked grin. “It seems we are invited to the party this time. The War Office has ordered this regiment to join Wellington on the Continent.”

A stunned murmur arose from the attending officers. Wickham did not join in; he was too shocked. Finally, thoughts began to form in his head. War? He was going to war! He did not join the army to fight a war! He thought he was in a safe regiment!

He suddenly remembered that he did not “join” voluntarily, and he did not choose his regiment—someone else did.

Damn that Darcy!

Chapter 16

Vienna


On the day before Easter, the ambassadors of Austria-Hungary, Prussia, Russia, and Great Britain gathered around the table, documents scattered before them. The other members of the delegations—diplomats, advisors, secretaries, and others—stood watching against the walls of the room, while staffers moved about the great men, papers and pens in hand. Some representatives of the lesser powers were also in attendance.

The French Delegation was nowhere to be seen. It was understandable; the authority of the ambassador of the Court of Louis XVIII of France was dissolved with the king’s flight from Paris.

This was the largest gathering of the Congress, and its task was grim. The treaty before them was based on the declaration of 13 March 1815. It stated that Napoleon Bonaparte, self-appointed Emperor of the French, had placed himself outside civil and social relations and handed himself over to public justice as the enemy and disturber of the peace of the world. The signatories agreed to establish a coalition—the seventh of its kind—to oppose the Tyrant, and they pledged to raise armies of at least 150,000 each to enforce the peace and security of Europe and restore the lawful government of France.

One member of the audience turned to another. “Does the duke realize what he is doing? He is committing the government to war—and at such a scale,” the British diplomat whispered to his companion.

“I believe his lordship knows exactly what he is about,” answered Buford. “He is forcing the government’s hand—not that it matters. He has already been named commander-in-chief of all British and Hanoverian forces on the Continent. We simply await the official commission.”

The situation was grave. Marshal Ney had promised King Louis XVIII that he would bring Bonaparte back to Paris in an iron cage. Instead, Ney defected to his old commander along with the six thousand men under his command. Marshal Murat, the Bonaparte-installed king of Naples who had joined with the Coalition the year before when France’s defeat seemed certain, now betrayed his new allies and declared for Napoleon and a united Italy. He was already attacking the Austrians.

“Do you join the duke in Brussels?” Buford was asked.

“We leave directly. I am to serve as advance staff until my regiment is shipped from England.”

“And Lady Buford? Does she remain in Vienna?”

“No,” said Buford firmly. “She journeys with us to take a boat for England. I would have her safe with my family.”

A bustle at the table drew the gentlemen’s attention. The signing done, the ambassadors shook hands and began leaving the room. Wellington walked over to where the British delegation had gathered.

“Well, that is that. Come, gentlemen—there is work to be done.”

*   *   *

After attending Easter morning services, Caroline rushed about the apartments, overseeing the last of the preparations for their departure. Roberts and Abigail saw to the clothes and personal items, while Caroline worked with Frau Lippermann and Helga to arrange for the packing of the few vases and objets d’art that the Bufords had purchased during their stay and the shutting down of the household.

It was a bit of a challenge. Abigail was all atwitter; she feared that the Tyrant’s armies might march down the street at any moment. The housekeeper and cook had no English, and Caroline had no German—except for three words, and they were not applicable to the situation—but through patience and pantomime, progress had been made.

Finally, all was accomplished: trunks were packed, debts were discharged, and arrangements were made. Sir John and several footmen strode into a forest of packing rather than the chaos that produced it.

Sir John looked about the mass of trunks and boxes with a knowledgeable eye. He had a fair idea of logistics and knew what his wife had accomplished. It was no less than he had expected, yet he was wise enough to praise Caroline.

“My dear, you have done wonders,” Sir John said as he kissed her hand. “Give these men but a moment, and we shall be off.”

A moment turned into the better part of an hour, but it did not signify. It gave Caroline a chance to bid farewell to her remaining staff.

“Frau Lipperman, Helga, I wish to thank you for your services—Ich bedanke mich,” she read from a card. “You have done good work—gut gemacht. Here is my recommendation—Dienstzeugnis—for each of you. I hope you find employment very soon. I wish you Happy Easter—Frohe Ostern. Auf Wiedersehen.”

The two women looked at her for a moment before rushing to hug their former mistress. “Danke sehr! Wir werden Sie vermissen! Leben Sie wohl! Gott segne Sie—Frohe Ostern! Auf Wiedersehen! Goot bye, my lady!” Helga was actually in tears. It took no little time for the departing mistress to extract herself from the tearful farewells.

Soon, two carriages were making their way out of the Austrian capital. Caroline looked back at the city as they left. So much had happened there in just a month, she thought as she grasped her husband’s hand.

Shall I ever look upon Vienna again?

*   *   *

The trip to Vienna in early February had been a delight. The trip from Vienna in late March was a nightmare. Time was of the essence, and the horses were pushed to their limits. The carriages rocked the occupants cruelly. The spring rains threatened to wash out the roads on more than one occasion, and ever-present was the fear that Napoleon would strike before the Allies were ready.