~Thirty~
The kiss, resting in Matlock’s memory, would be the only bit of happiness he would have.
After a grueling ride, he arrived to find the regiment he had left behind in utter disarray.
General Higgenthorpe, having taken to his bed, now struggled to speak as the illness that would claim his life grew stronger.
“I thought I would have more time, or at least, the dignity of dying in battle, but one never knows, now do they? Headquarter’s promise to send qualified men has come to naught.
You....” he gasped, pausing for rest, “must lead the regiment, train the others...and try not to be too hard on Michaels. He means well, but somehow cannot manage to carry through...”
They were the final words between them, for by morning, General Montague Higgenthorpe had been called to the place were old soldiers finally rest, leaving the new Earl of Matlock to resume his duty as the now ranking officer.
It was a circumstance that left him in mild despair.
Dispatching the appropriate letters, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam felt awkward behind his former commander’s desk, as if an intruder, but it was better than the alternative.
The first order of business beyond the required notifications, was to make some sort of peace with Colonel Michaels.
Despite his reputation, it was logical to believe that he would be the first promoted, but for reasons formally undisclosed, it had not happened.
Now, by sheer time in rank, Fitzwilliam was thrust into a role he never wanted.
Rising as the identically clad officer entered, he rose and put forth a hand, not in friendship, but in the manner that made it clear that they must work together.
“It’s too bad about old Higgy, he will be greatly missed,” Michaels declared in way of greeting. His voice seemed sincere, but Fitzwilliam was wary and nodded in agreement as his now second in command continued, taking a seat before it was offered.
“But as much as I admired the man, he should have stepped down far earlier. Things have been quite a mess, what with all the new men, officer and conscript both...but my hands were tied. One man cannot do everything.”
“Indeed, and that is why I have returned, to set matters in order before my commission is sold.”
“Ah, I did hear something about that...Your Grace is it now?” he inquired, but this time, his voice held an edge, suggesting that the title was of no value.
“Yes, something like that.”
“And that you have married as well?”
“That too,” Fitzwilliam replied curtly, hopefully putting an end to what was swiftly turning into an interrogation.
His private life was his own, something to which he desperately desired to return, but not until his conscience was clear in regard to his military duty.
Changing the subject, he pulled forth the rosters that contained the names and present ranks of every soldier in the regiment.
From these men, new leaders would be honed, but as to which, he did not know.
They were mostly strangers, and even those whose names he recognized, had been rather green.
It would take time to put the regiment back into a shape acceptable for any necessary action, and in that, assistance was required, even if it came from a quarter that had yet to earn his trust.
“General Higgenthorpe has left us quite the task, but I assure you, once complete, you need not expect me to remain any longer than necessary.” Fitzwilliam replied.
It was an honest statement, and one that appeared to place Michaels at ease, allowing a grim smile to cross his features as he reached for the rosters.
“Well then, let us get started.”
It would be an uneasy truce for a fortnight, but afterwards, as the colonels became better acquainted with one another’s ways, a mutual respect was formed, with each man acknowledging the strengths of the other and disregarding any former misconceptions.
Training the raw enlisted men turned out to be a far easier task than that of the new junior officers.
Seeing an opportunity for advancement and steady wages, they readily followed orders, falling into formations in the first days and learning proper marksmanship without a single mishap, unlike those who believed themselves better.
But that was the difference between them, the enlisted men wanted to be there, a part of something worthwhile and necessary.
Junior officers were quite another matter.
Spoilt younger sons, with little chance of inheritance, or those whose families had tired of paying large sums to keep them out of trouble, the commissions had been purchased, with no expectation of actually doing anything.
By the second evening of his return, Colonel Fitzwilliam had been forced to discipline half a dozen of those so-called gentlemen.
Disobeying curfew, they had been caught returning from some unknown location, each in a state of advanced inebriation.
Disgusted, he had ordered them secured inside an empty chamber used for storage.
There, with but two pails, one with water and one for whence it came out, were the sole items within.
“Twelve hours, then provide bread and more water, but nothing more. If they wish to behave like animals, they will be treated as such.”
He had not batted an eye at doing what some might have deemed cruel, for Colonel Fitzwilliam had always believed that officers should set the example for others, their reputations beyond reproach.
It was a punishment to which Colonel Michaels was in full agreement, and did not hide his opinion.
But when the time came for release, it was obvious that the young men had not become repentant, instead, they had chosen a leader amongst them.
“Do you know who my father is?” a particularly disheveled captain demanded, his voice a high-pitched whine as he came forward.
“No, nor do I care,” Fitzwilliam replied, thinking that perhaps he should have chosen to confine each man in isolation.
“We shall see about that, sir! When Viscount Arlington hears of my treatment, you are finished here, both of you!” Captain David Smithson continued, much to the merriment of his followers. Some, even dared to snicker, despite the vomit that coated their uniforms.
“Frederick Smithson? That Viscount Arlington? Ah, the name does ring familiar. Well now, that does change things considerably, does it not, Colonel Michaels?” Fitzwilliam replied, looking to his counterpart who nodded solemnly.
“Indeed, it does, Colonel, indeed it does...”
Fitzwilliam’s voice had been light, almost bantering as the younger man puffed up his chest like a small rooster.
But now, he was done playing about. This was His Majesty’s Army, and not some third-rate club where the rank of one’s father took precedence.
It was no wonder that Fred Smithson had bought his son a commission, for beyond the spending of money, there was little to be done with such a wastrel.
Placing his hands behind his back, Fitzwilliam paced silently, as if in serious contemplation, allowing the now sober officers to wonder at his thoughts.
Eventually, he ceased, stopping within inches of Captain Smithson’s smug countenance.
“Your father may be Viscount Arlington, but I am the Earl of Matlock, as well as your current commanding officer. I would be only too happy to discuss his unfortunate circumstance in having such a disappointment for a son,” he offered, his voice low and clear before addressing the rest of the company.
“And as for the rest of you, should this behavior be repeated, you shall be sent packing, with no compensation for the price your families wasted on the purchase of commissions....and that will only be after a month clapped in irons for insubordination, conduct unbecoming of an officer, and dereliction of duty. Is that understood?”
Immediately, all sounds of amusement stopped.
Such was the silence that Fitzwilliam imagined he could hear the hearts beating inside the shallow forms of the men before him.
Most, he believed, would make the necessary changes....
but not all. No, it was never all. Repeating his final query until the resounding echo of ‘yes, sir!’ satisfied him, he ordered a dismissal.
“Bathe, and see to clean uniforms. We begin anew on the morrow.”
With that, the former prisoners filed out, but none dared utter a word under their breath in defiance. It was a pathetic scene, but once the chamber was empty, Colonel Michaels allowed a sigh of relief.
“I wonder how long it will last. That Smithson, he’s been a troublemaker from the start, using his father’s name to have his way. I never knew why the general tolerated it.”
Nor did Fitzwilliam, and did not speak further, Captain Smithson would be watched carefully. Whatever favorites General Higgenthorpe once had, and for whatever reason, were no longer. Privilege would be earned through merit alone.
Later that evening, as he struggled to compose a letter to his wife, Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam closed his eyes, trying to envision his dear Moira.
Had it truly been a month since he had left her standing in the courtyard at Redbyrne?
True to her word, she had written with regularity, filling him in on all the trivial details that made his present misery tolerable.
Did he prefer hunter green or navy blue when it came to draperies in the library?
Several of the near neighbors, caring not what the London gossips said, had come to call, and made much of the improvements.
Even the Westlakes, knowing which side was most favorable, had sent an invitation to tea, including Francis, referring to the boy as ‘Master Blackpool’.
Surprised by this last, he wondered if there were some ulterior motive.
Lord Westlake, and especially his daughter, Lady Gloriana, never did anything without reason.
But whatever scheme they might have planned, it would come to naught, for Moria Blackpool Fitzwilliam could handle anything....
or so he hoped, for there was nothing he could do to help.
However, the Countess of Matlock was not entirely without assistance, for now, with marriage, she had acquired relations that truly cared.
Taking up his pen, a letter was begun, but it was not to his wife.
This letter would go directly to Pemberley.