Jack Caldwell - The Three Colonels

“Mrs. Parks, there will be a letter of reply for Miss Darcy. Please see that it is posted directly.”

“Yes, miss,” responded a puzzled housekeeper.

“Mrs. Jenkinson, please excuse me, but I must see to this letter at once.”

“Of course. I will just see to dinner, shall I?” The two older women gave each other a knowing look.

As Anne reached her writing desk, she added, “Oh, by the way, Mrs. Jenkinson, please be so kind as to inform my mother that I shall not be accompanying her to Bath—not next month, nor any time in the future. Thank you, that is all.”

Mrs. Parks and Mrs. Jenkinson walked down the hall, each fighting an urge to cheer as well.

London—April, 1815

Buford House, London

My dearest wife,

Can it be that you have been gone for only a fortnight? It has been an age, I am sure. I rattle about my empty rooms, expecting to find you reading in some out-of-the-way corner. If I listen closely, I can hear you playing on the pianoforte. Ah, but I am a pitiful fool!

Most of the staff officers have arrived from London, so I am released to prepare for the arrival of my regiment. I have met the young Prince of Orange. I wish you were here to meet him yourself, my own Queen of Orange—ha! You would find him amusing, I dare say. As for the prince being a military man, I have my doubts.

Darling, I must close now. I shall write as often as I can, but do not be alarmed if you do not hear from me as often as you could desire. My duties take up almost twenty hours of the day.

Longing to kiss you good night, I remain

Yours,

JB

PS—Pray ask Colonel Fitzwilliam to see to my equipment. I have good officers in my regiment, but their heads will be filled with their own concerns.

Caroline frowned—Sir John had not received her letter. She reached for ink and paper.

*   *   *

Delaford

Marianne Brandon was seeing to the last of the packing of her husband’s trunks, the family dog, a greyhound named Princess, about her feet. The family owned several greyhounds, but Princess was a particular favorite. Marianne tried desperately to anticipate Colonel Brandon’s needs when he got to Belgium: shirts, breeches, and trousers, flannel waistcoat, coats, uniform coats, stockings, small clothes, neckcloths, and—handkerchiefs!

Marianne raced to the dressing room, searching for Christopher’s handkerchiefs. “Where are they?” she mumbled to herself before opening the correct drawer. How many would her husband need? Would six be enough? He might catch cold in the rain. Would Christopher have to sleep in a tent?

Finally, the absurdity of the situation struck her.

You silly goose. Christopher is going to war. He cannot be bothered with handkerchiefs.

Dropping them, Marianne slid to the floor of Colonel Brandon’s dressing room, completely overcome with tears.

*   *   *

“Christopher, you are joking. Please tell me you are joking!” Marianne had cried the day before.

Colonel Brandon was as miserable as he had ever been in his life. He had just told his wife that he was not reporting for duty in London. He was called to Belgium instead to serve on Wellington’s staff, as requested by the duke himself.

“My Marianne—”

“But you are so old! You have not served for years!”

Christopher winced at the blow. He tried not to resent the comment. It was true, after all.

“What do you know of wars and fighting and cannons and—”

“Marianne,” he interrupted her ranting. “I am a colonel—”

“You were a colonel! Why you? Why?”

“Because there is no one else.”

*   *   *

Marianne resumed the packing after a little while. She neatly folded the handkerchiefs she had embroidered with his initials before placing them into the trunk. Nightshirts, robe, shaving kit, soap, tooth powder, and coffee were put in next. The last item brought a small smile to her lips when she remembered their fondness for sharing it. Salt, pepper, sugar, tea, polish for his boots…

The bedroom door opened as Sergeant Masters, Colonel Brandon’s aide, valet, and right-hand man, came in carrying a long, wrapped bundle.

“Please excuse me, missus,” he said as he placed the bundle inside the last trunk. “All done ’ere yet, ma’am?”

“I believe so, Sergeant,” Marianne answered.

“It looks ta me like you ’ave done a fine job. Beggin’ your pardon, though, but I think I will just double-check.”

“Of course, Sergeant. I would not dream of objecting. I will be downstairs with the colonel. Come along, Princess.”

The soldier eyed Marianne kindly as he gave the dog a pat. “A right good idea, ma’am. It would mean a lot to ’im, it would. And you should not worry. Me an’ the colonel been through a lot together. I will be watchin’ out for ’im. You got me word on it.”

“Thank you, Sergeant. I shall hold you to that, sir!”

“Yes, missus.” Masters began digging into the chests.

Marianne meant to leave, but she found she was rooted to the spot. The bundle Masters had brought was slightly unraveled due to the sergeant’s efforts. There, gleaming in the sunlight, was the hilt of Christopher’s sabre.

*   *   *

Arriving at the foot of the stairs, Marianne was about to ask a maid where the master was when she heard Joy giggling to a familiar chant.

“Who is my love? Who is my love? Why, it is Joy! Ha, ha, ha!”

Marianne closed her eyes for a moment as she grasped the banister for support. I must bear it for him, she told herself. Back in control of her feelings, Marianne entered the parlor. There on the floor was her husband in the campaign uniform of a colonel of cavalry, playing with their daughter. She leaned against the door frame and watched, allowing Joy this special time with her father.

After a few more minutes, the child began to yawn. Christopher pulled Joy close to his chest as he sat up. Propping himself against a couch, the colonel rocked his daughter to sleep, singing a lullaby. Princess had gone to lie next to her master on the floor, her head on his lap. The only reason Marianne did not weep was that she had no more tears to give.

Finally, Joy was fast asleep. Christopher looked up at his wife as she walked over to him and relieved him of their daughter.

“I will be just a moment, love,” she said to him before returning Joy to the nursery.

By the time she returned, Christopher was back on his feet, pouring a cup of coffee from the pot the maid had just delivered. Before she could ask, he handed her the cup and poured another one.

“Shall we retire to the library, dear?” he asked. She nodded, and the pair left the parlor.

Once in the library, Christopher placed his cup down on his desk and held out a chair in front of it, indicating that he wished Marianne to sit there. After seating his wife, Christopher reclaimed his cup and sat behind the desk, facing his wife.

“My love, here is all the information you need to manage Delaford in my absence—ledger, chart of accounts, book of contracts, an address book with the names of the solicitor, banker, agent, contacts at the War Department—everything. The steward, Mr. McIntosh, has been in my service for a dozen years. He is hardworking and honest.”

He held up an envelope. “Here is my will, and here,”—he handed Marianne another envelope—“are my instructions naming you as my agent, giving you full power of attorney. This means you speak with my voice, and all decisions you make are final.”

Marianne could hardly mark what her husband was saying—her attention was riveted on those evil papers he referred to as his will. Christopher caught what had attracted his wife’s notice. He held up the will again.

“This states that I leave everything to Joy, that you are trustee of Delaford lands and mistress of Delaford Manor for the rest of your life, and you shall receive half the income. The house in London is yours, free and clear. There is also a bequest to my ward, Eliza.” At Marianne’s distressed look he continued. “We must speak of such things, my dear. To know that you, Joy, and Eliza are well provided for is a comfort to me.

“Now here is a letter explaining all to Mr. McIntosh—oh, blast! I meant to add something,” he mumbled. “I forgot to leave instructions for McIntosh to reverse the ratio of barley to wheat this year. Oh, where is paper—”

“Christopher, I want to have another baby!” cried out Marianne.

Christopher looked up. “Pardon me?”

“These legal and business matters give you comfort. But I wish for something, too. I want to have another baby—a son,” she said to him seriously.

“But… but these things are unpredictable—”

“I know that, you silly man, but I wish to try before you leave in the morning.”

Christopher looked into the earnest eyes of his wife. Leaving her pregnant was not comforting to him, yet he could see the justice in her words. To be in her arms was his greatest delight, and the odds were tremendously in his favor.

“Are you certain, my Marianne?” he said in the love code only the two of them understood.

She nodded.

Christopher reached out a hand to his now beaming wife. Hand in hand, they left the library just as Sergeant Masters came downstairs.

“Beggin’ the colonel’s pardon. All the cases are checked and locked tight.” His eyes drifted to the couple’s clenched hands.