Chapter Thirteen
“Why are we celebrating the one hundredth anniversary of Hanoverian George’s ascension to the throne with a reenactment of the Battle of the Nile?” Clem paused at the open carriage door, using the extra height to look over the heads of the crowds gathered along the canal in Saint James’s Park.
“I don’t understand what a monarch from a hundred years ago has got to do with Bonaparte’s defeat in France.”
Rowing boats representing the various ships involved in the battle flew their colors as they were readied for the spectacle, but it was the new Chinese bridge that held everyone’s attention, including Clem’s.
“Get out of the carriage, Clemmie. I want to find my friends.” Phillip nudged her back, impatient to alight.
Rufus offered his arm and assisted her from the carriage. A few yards ahead, her parents strolled side by side, while behind, Phillip jumped out of the carriage with a thud. As soon as his feet touched the ground, he bolted off to find his friends.
“Why did the Prince Regent choose to celebrate one of his ancestors’ victories, you ask.
Several reasons, I think. First, it’s a reminder of the many great and glorious victories of the British Empire, and the stability of centuries of relatively peaceful rule that led to them.
Second, Bonaparte was defeated in Egypt, where the might of Britain has previously prevailed. ”
“So it’s a reminder of another of his defeats?”
“I believe so. People enjoy knowing they are the conquerors and can look down on the losers. This spectacle reinforces that knowledge.”
Clem nodded as she considered Rufus’s explanation. “It seems there is a lot more thought behind these celebrations than mere pomp and circumstance.”
“There is a good deal of political commentary that most people don’t notice.
Bonaparte’s defeat is being changed into simply one more example of the might of our British armed forces.
By casting him as one of the many, as just another loser to Britain’s power, it strips him of much of the fear people had about him. ”
Tipping her head up the better to see Rufus’s face, Clem said, “Perhaps you should write a book about this art of being the victor. I would read such a work.”
“No, thank you. Like Will, I prefer action to desk work.”
Clem stopped dead amid the crowd and tugged Rufus’s arm. It was the first unprompted reference Rufus had made to Will and the sort of work he was doing, and it set her heart thumping to imagine her beloved in such danger. “Is Will in the thick of some action? Is he in danger?”
Rufus frowned, and she was certain he hadn’t intended to give away that snippet about Will.
Shaking his head, Rufus drew her forward again. “No more than before; probably less now the French army has been dispersed back to their homes.”
“So he is definitely in France. I had worked that out but thank you for confirming it.” She waited a heartbeat or two, then said, “And?”
“And nothing, Clem.” He drew her through the throng, and suddenly she could clearly see the centerpiece that all the fuss of tonight’s opening ceremony was about. The Chinese pagoda was spectacular, a beacon in the night.
All around, adults and children oohed and aahed at the scintillating Chinese bridge on which sat a seven-story pagoda.
Every part of the pagoda was covered in lamps and glass reflectors, and the edifice appeared to be alight with golden fire.
In Clem’s view, it was stunning, if anachronistic, or at least geographically impossible.
“What, pray tell, does a Chinese pagoda have to do with Egypt? Is there some metaphor or political implication that I’m missing?”
Rufus shook his head. “I don’t believe either accuracy or historical relevance applies in this particular instance, nor to many of the staggering number of celebrations throughout the summer.”
“It seems each has been designed to be bigger and brighter and louder than the last.”
Noticing the gap between her and her parents had increased, combined with the noise of happy crowds, Clem asked, “Did my parents truly invite you to dinner because you invited us here?”
“As it happens, yes. Your mother thought an early dinner would be a sensible precursor to the entertainment.”
“That’s a relief. I thought she was trying to matchmake us.”
He patted her gloved hand. “Oh, she’s definitely doing that. After all, an earl in the family would be a coup for her. But because I’ve been tardy in stepping up, she hasn’t given up on an offer from Lord Hetherington either.”
“The baron has become assiduous in his attentions of late. I had hoped—”
“I know, but don’t worry, Clem. He won’t be a contender for much longer. There is a reason for my invitation to this event. Let’s make our way down to my pavilion. It’s in a prime spot for the denouement to your little drama.”
“Of course it is.” She smiled up at him. “The aristocracy always claims the best spots.”
“Are you complaining about the privilege of rank? That’s rather French of you.”
“Merely making an observation.”
They followed in the wake of her parents, catching up to them as they reached a sectioned-off area where the earl took the lead, guiding their party to a small but pretty silk pavilion where plates of light foods and drinks were laid out.
As if they needed more food after dinner.
Papa helped her mother to a seat commanding an excellent view of the canal, and Clem watched as she examined the interior of the pavilion.
As much as her father loved both of them, Papa would never have thought to set up such a treat.
Mama would see it as the sort of action only a man intent on courting would take so much trouble over.
She would see it as a declaration of intent.
Was that Rufus’s plan? To divert her parents’ hopes away from Lord Hetherington by appearing as an alternative suitor? If so, Clem didn’t think much of it. It might buy them a couple of weeks, a month at best.
But Rufus would know that.
Did that mean he believed Will would be home by then?
Hope beat anew in her heart as, out of the corner of her eye, Clem noted her mother’s eyes gleaming as she watched Rufus seat her daughter with care and consideration. She sensed the hope springing in her mother’s breast.
“Lord Marsden, congratulations on your forethought and attention to detail. You have found a prime location to view the display, and your care for your guests’ comfort is second to none.”
“Thank you, Lady Basingthwaite. I will pass on your compliments to my housekeeper. She is a gem.”
“With such good taste, I trust she will also guide your wife when you marry.” Neither Clem nor Rufus missed the hopeful note in her voice, nor the look she sent their way as the Battle of the Nile began.
Clem dearly wanted to know what plans Rufus had in place with regard to her importunate suitor. But beneath the blaze of light cast from the pagoda, the reenactment was noisy and messy, and conversation, impossible.
And Clem couldn’t look away.
The oarsmen of the British rowboats were egged on by a partisan audience lining both sides of the canal. The noise swelled as the mock battle moved towards its finale, and then the fireworks began in earnest.
Showers of white and yellowish sparks rained down over the park, illuminating the sky to such an extent that night all but turned into day. Brief, bright bursts of light reflected in the water and, in the midst of that glorious, blinding color, the pagoda glowed brighter than before.
As the firework display reached a crescendo, a fog of smoke covered the park and hid the night sky while reflecting the brilliance of the pagoda.
Suddenly, the soft-lit reflection brightened, and Clem jumped to her feet and tugged Rufus’s sleeve. “Look—the pagoda! It’s burning.”
“Sparks from the fireworks must have landed on the wood.”
Ash from the pagoda floated free, carrying fire from its source and dropping it onto the performers’ boats. Below the burning edifice, something about the chaos of the water battle, some change in the rhythm of the action drew Clem’s interest.
“Rufus, were there lights on the rowboats before?”
“No. Burning debris has landed in one of them and set it on fire. I think—”
“Oh my goodness—”
Rufus grabbed her and pressed her face into his chest. “You don’t want to see this.”
Her breath caught in her throat, and she understood the image burned into her brain. A man had been standing in a column of fire, burning bigger and brighter than the torches lining the bridge.
From the canal, screams of agony rose above cries of fear from those with the clearest view.
“Rufus, I can’t breathe.” Clem tried to push back off Rufus’s chest, but his hand held her head firmly, allowing her only to turn slightly so her nose was no longer buried in the fine material of his jacket.
“Two oarsmen—They’re both caught in the fire.” His voice sounded strangled and tight, caught in his throat by the horror of the moment.
“Let me—”
“Don’t, Clem. Don’t look.”
The screams stopped one after the other, and despite the heat of the night, cold fingers of fear scraped down Clem’s throat and into her stomach.
Rufus released her head, but his hands slid down her arms and held her elbows. He met her gaze but spoke to her father. “Lord Basingthwaite, shall we escort the ladies back to my carriage?”
One of his servants hurried off to call for the carriage, and Rufus set her hand on his arm, covering it briefly with a reassuring squeeze.
As they stepped out of the pavilion, he angled his body so she wouldn’t catch even a glimpse of the fatalities. They threaded their way through the crowd, many pressing forward to ogle the tragedy.
“Clem, I am sorry you had to see that. This evening did not end as I expected.”
“Nor as I imagined. It was horrible.” Clem shuddered.
“That’s true, although I’m not referring only to that tragedy.”
“Then what? What were you expecting, Rufus?”
“A small but very public confrontation between a certain young woman and Lord Hetherington. Tonight’s tragedy has overtaken those plans.” A muscle twitched in his cheek, his gaze set doggedly on picking a path through the crowd.
Behind her, Clem was aware of her mother and father speaking softly together, but she saw little as she set one foot in front of the other. “Is that what it’s like on a battlefield? Watching a man die in some horrible way and being unable to do anything to help him?”
“Multiplied by hundreds—by a thousand maybe. Oddly, so much horror begins to strip it of the power to shock. It’s the singular deaths that most affect us.”
“Like those poor men.” Surely she was imagining the stench of burnt flesh as a light breeze wafted by her.
“Has Will seen such scenes where he’s been?”
“I don’t know, Clem. Probably not. What I do know is that dwelling on it won’t help you sleep tonight. I suggest a small brandy before bed.”
They drove home in silence, and Clem swallowed the recommended medicinal brandy while blinking away tears that insisted on filling her eyes.
Perhaps tonight had given her a small taste of what Will had endured fighting for the regent.
She suspected the experience would return as a nightmare and shuddered at the thought of reliving even that glimpse of hell. How long would the image haunt her?
Did all soldiers suffer nightmares?