A Charming Cavalryman for Clementine_A Historical Romance Novel Based on True Events

by Hanna Hamilton

  “Oh, come on, little sister, let’s not argue about this topic again. This is your day. You’re married to the man you’ve always wanted. Congratulations, I’m so happy for you.”

  Elizabeth smiled wanly and accepted her sister’s embrace. “Alright, you will get away with it this time, but don’t you dare think that you have fobbed me off. On the contrary, I want to know everything about your plans.”

  “Darling Wife, I’d like you to meet someone. He is an inspiration to us all in the regiment,” interrupted Royce. He couldn’t have looked more proud. His chest swelled out as if he were on parade.

  Elizabeth spun around. At the sight of the imposing figure standing next to her husband, she instinctively curtseyed politely and babbled a few inarticulate greetings.

  Clementine, on the other hand, was so taken aback by the earl’s sudden appearance that she didn’t move a muscle. She stood frozen for a few heartbeats, admiring his good looks until she, too, automatically curtseyed under his withering gaze that was laced with lust.

  “May I present Lord Cardigan, my commanding officer,” said Royce with flourish and a little bow.

  The 7th Earl of Cardigan was dressed in an extravagant military uniform that consisted of a tight-fitting navy-blue coat with heavy gold frogging cordage across the front of it, golden epaulettes and maroon-red breeches with yellow stripes. His face was fashionably whiskered and stern and arrogant as he studied the two women with his piercing azure gaze. It was well known throughout England that he was still a notorious philanderer and womanizer despite of his age.

  “Ladies,” he said in a deep scratchy voice that betrayed the consumption of too much liquor and the smoking of too many cigars. At the same time, Lord Cardigan tilted his head to one side. Like scanners, his hard blue eyes bored into the women lewdly. “All this swish and tit gets me spiffing nose up,” he said crudely.

  Elizabeth and Clementine blushed crimson at the aristocrat’s libidinous remarks. Not able to criticize his superior officer, Royce laughed nervously as he continued voicing his lecherous intent with blatant disregard for the presence of ladies.

  “I shall have to fetch off tonight, young man. Being out on a horse all week with my cherrybums always makes me randified.”

  “I say, My Lord. Wouldn’t you agree that that kind of talk is better suited for the officer’s mess? You wouldn’t want the ladies to know all of your sordid little secrets and prodigious talent between the sheets.”

  Clementine watched Royce titter like a fool. She decided that he was a rather pleasant man to look at, but she disliked his chin and crabby mouth. She concluded that he was no leader of men but more of a follower. Her biggest wish was that he would be good to her sister.

  Her gaze did not linger there for long. Her eyes flew open and she bit on her lower lip. Before her stood the most handsome man she had ever laid eyes upon. Also, the new arrival had courage to be able to state his views so clearly in the presence of a superior.

  “May I present, Lord Stirling Whitt Whittaker, son to the Duke of Kenbridge and a soon to be captain in the 11th Hussars,” said Royce, finally recovering from his friend’s interruption.

  Clementine’s gaze shifted to Cardigan who cleared his throat and appeared to turn redder still. It was evident from his bearing that he had enjoyed a very privileged upbringing. No one save the queen told this man what to do. His arrogance and breed allowed him to get away with murder.

  It was common knowledge in England that Cardigan had no qualms in challenging people to duels if he considered them displeasing. On top of that, Clementine saw him for what he was: a bigoted, misogynous and pompous twit that was immoral and licentious. To him, women were mere objects for pleasure and nothing more.

  She looked back at the Johnny-come-lately. Clementine hardly heard Royce babbling on about how much of a friend and an accomplished horseman he was. His smaragdine eyes held her in a vice. They only briefly left her face when he paid his respects to the newlyweds and saluted smartly to the earl. The latter made a few more vulgar remarks, but other than that he was not perturbed by the young captain’s interruption. He even spoke of accepting his appointment to an officer’s position.

  “I am very pleased to make your acquaintance, My Lady.”

  Clementine felt goosebumps crawl over her arms and legs. “Ah, thank you, My Lord.” She nearly wanted to pull her glove-clad hand away when the officer took it and lightly grazed the back of it with his lips. “Very nice to meet you too,” she added lamely, at the same time regretting every word.

  “Lord Cardigan assures me that I will make a fine officer and a gentleman of the 11th Hussars, darling. And there is also talk of war with the Russians and we are to be sent over there,” said Royce confidently as he attempted to reoccupy centre-stage.

  The earl just grunted in agreement. The colour on Elizabeth’s face turned a lighter shade of white at the news of war.

  Clementine still studied Lord Cardigan with an angry glint in her eye. She so despised chauvinistic men like him. Furtive glimpses to the cavalry officer softened her mien. When he would look at her, she would look away. She felt the heat rise up her neck to her face. Clementine did not know what was happening to her. Hot flushes alternated with delightful little shivers; they danced a merry little waltz up and down her spine.

  “This comes as a surprise, darling,” was all Elizabeth managed to say.

  “Yes, the Tsar presses for a port in the warmth and access to the Mediterranean. For this, he must control the Dardanelles. The Ottoman Empire is not what it once was. The land with the onetime most fearsome infantry in the world is now the sick man of Europe. They lose one territory after another and Great Britain cannot allow the Russians to snap them up. It is time for us to send in the army,” said Cardigan imperiously.

  “My Lord, those infantrymen you speak of were the Janissaries, if I am not mistaken. But tell me why the army must go. Surely, our navy is more than enough to keep the Russians boxed up in the Black Sea,” said Clementine, angrily trying to free herself from the captivating hold of the intense green orbs pooled in milky-white spheres.

  Cardigan cleared his throat gutturally. He was obviously put out at having to discuss geopolitical and martial matters with a woman and a young one at that. “Yes, Janissaries were the name of the soldiers. At first, they were taken into the regiment by coercion. The Turks used to kidnap young Christian boys and train them into the most efficient killing unit. However, put your mind to pretty things, young lady.”

  He turned away from Clementine to look at her more docile sister. “This husband of yours will make a very fine Cherrybum in his tight breeches that leave nothing to the imagination. I am sure it will have you begging for it,” said Lord Cardigan, patting Royce on the shoulder paternally.

  “What’s a Cherrybottom, your Lordship?” asked Clementine before she could keep her tongue in check. She had barely registered the earl’s rudeness. But she blushed crimson when Stirling chuckled. The initial embarrassment soon turned to annoyance. Had she misjudged the young officer? Was he another chauvinistic bigot like the earl?

  “What’s a Cherrybottom? What’s a Cherrybottom? They are called Cherrybums. Do you boast no education, woman?” guffawed Cardigan arrogantly, totally forgetting Clementine’s earlier display of intellect.

  Royce joined in his lordship’s mirth and Elizabeth just stood there stunned. She was still in shock that her husband might soon be sent off to war. And Clementine just thought, I could bang their noodles together until their doodles drop off.

  “Cherrybums are what his lordship calls the men of the eleventh, My Lady,” said Stirling. He was deeply moved by the young woman. It took all of his effort to maintain his habitual stoic poise. Looking at her, he would have liked nothing more than to whisk her away and talk about the future. “They got the name after the men of the brigade who hid in cherry trees from the French in the last Great War.”

  “I see,” said Clementine, immediately softening to the young lord.<
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  “You should find yourself your own Cherrybum, girl. The gentlemen in my regiment would jump at the chance to court a young lady such as you. Good pedigree, what is what,” said Cardigan addressing Clementine haughtily. He did not register the burgeoning connection between the two young people. His words galloped over them like a three-quarter ton charger.

  But before Clementine could answer or continue speaking to Stirling, Cardigan carried on as if her opinion on the matter was of no interest to him.

  “How old are you, girl? Nine and twenty? About time you got married before you’ve completely outlived it. By God, woman, the dangers for you to squeeze a baby out of your archaic body increase with every passing year. Not to mention your looks. It’s the face powder that gets us men and the baking powder that keeps us,” he said nudging Royce in the ribs jovially.

  Cardigan laughed uncouthly. Clementine could’ve strangled him for making her a full eight years older than she actually was. However, the icy expression on Stirling’s face made her frown. If she didn’t know any better, the man was about to punch the earl. She watched him clench and unclench his fists belligerently. She must do something before he gets himself into a position he’d regret.

  “Fine filly such as yourself should have no other ambition in life other than straddling a young man,” said Cardigan winking lewdly.

  “There’s more to life than being some man’s filly,” spat Clementine, getting her word in, in the nick of time, and before Stirling blew a cap.

  “More to life than a man, woman? Whatever next! Best choose yourself the finest stallion in the stables before you’re dragged off to the slaughterhouse,” said Cardigan dismissively. It was obvious that he found independent woman like Clementine distasteful.

  “If you must know, your lordship, I’m going to play my part when the time comes. When Britain’s young men are called upon to serve queen and country, I will be there to support them.” she swallowed deeply. “And it won’t be as some young filly waiting to be mounted by a randified stallion, but as a nurse.” She spat angrily.

  “Women joining the army. Now that is a ridiculous notion. In Roman times, there used to be a followers camp for mistresses and whores. Maybe we should reintroduce that.” Cardigan examined the scene before him. “Is there anywhere where I can get a drink?”

  “Do you know who you remind of, My Lord?” asked Clementine sweetly.

  Cardigan arched his brows.

  “The lustful Turk, My Lord. If you are not careful, maybe you also will find your manhood chopped off and placed into a jar for the woman that did it to cherish.” Without waiting for a reply, Clementine turned on her heels and left the bewildered Cardigan who cleared his throat nervously. Elizabeth burst out laughing. She couldn’t hold herself despite Royce’s attempts to quieten her.

  Stirling smiled. He had never met a woman such as this before. He had thought to intervene and come to her defence throughout the exchange, but somehow he felt that that would have only spurred her on. Clementine was a highly intelligent and independent woman, graced with the most infinitely exquisite looks. He promised himself that late morning that he would see her again.

  “That woman reminds me of my ex-wife. She, too, was the most damned bad-tempered and extravagant bitch in the kingdom,” said Cardigan, stalking off in the direction of a servant holding a bottle of champagne.

  Royce laughed. Elizabeth could have slapped him, but fortunately, Clementine never heard what Cardigan had said. Stirling had already left to speak to Royce’s parents before he departed for his father’s estate.

  The banquet that followed was a glorious affair. Myriad trestle tables with crisp white tablecloths that had garlands of flowers draped down the sides of them graced the parkland belonging to the earl’s estate. There was a small band playing music and after lunch there would be dancing. Clementine sat next to an extremely tedious young gentleman who kept droning on about the tensions between the Ottoman and Russian Empires. They were at war and Great Britain was soon to pledge to help poor little Turkey, also known as “the sick man of Europe.”

  All Clementine could think about was the war and her sister. Was there really going to be a war? She had never experienced one or lived through one. All she knew was that they were brutal affairs. Her reading had taught her that. Young men always wanted to go off and fight them. It was the way of the world that old fools like Cardigan decided when and how young men like Royce fought.

  As soon as lunch was over, Clementine escaped her boring table companion. She went off in search of her mother. She wanted to tell her not to ever do that to her again. Weddings were supposed to be fun and not some tedium in the company of a twit. Also, she was going to tell her about her news. She was off to London to become a nurse.

  Chapter 4

  “It’s nearly quitting time. A few more sacks to lug and we’ll be spending our hard-earned wages at the Duke of Wellington pub.”

  “I won’t be doing any of that. I got to get back to the missus. She’ll be waiting for the coin I earned to feed our children. The money I take has been falling on a weekly basis as the work shrivels. It’s been hard for them. As of late, the professional restructuring of the dock gangs has really taken a hold. Soon, only licensed stevedores will be allowed to operate. And then what of the likes of us, eh?”

  “You got to wet your whistle after all this and with all of those worries clouding yer head. What else is there? And besides, do you think Johnnie will go down fighting? Nah, he has some trick up his sleeve. Don’t ye doubt it.” Rory’s hulking companion lifted a thick sack with his muscular arms. Afterwards, he unceremoniously hurled it onto the cart.

  “What do ye think Johnnie can do about it? Squat, that’s what. When the government gets involved, it’s over. There are so many ships coming to port now as the empire grows. Men like Johnnie just don’t have the clout and the brains to deal with it,” snapped Rory imitating his new friend--whose name he did not know yet-- with the cargo.

  “Ye listen here, mate. If this work doesn’t work out for us, we’ll find something else to do. You’ll see.”

  “And why would I want to find something else to do. I have been doing this for years. Also, I don’t even bloody know ye name and ye talking to me like an old mate.” Rory grunted something inaudible and then turned away to make his way back up the boarding plank to the ship to collect more cargo.

  Behind him, the other man grunted his disapproval and soon followed. When Rory Bennett got back to the quayside, he took a moment to scan the ship berthed at St. Kathrin’s Dock that was close to Tower Bridge. It was a Blackwall frigate recently returned from India, that ever-expanding British possession in the orient. Hundreds of these vessels made the perilous journey to and from the home country. They even went as far as Australia, which was another growing colony that was still used as a penal colony.

  This new ship had replaced the traditional East Indiaman that had been doing the work efficiently for hundreds of years. Whereas the traditional Indiaman had double stern galleries, the Blackwall frigate had a single gallery. It had obtained its name because it was superficially similar to a frigate of the Royal Navy.

  With only a single gallery, the hull-lines at the stern could be very fine and combined with relatively fine underwater lines at the bow, Blackwall frigates were fast sailing ships, although not as fast as a clipper that had appeared in the late 1840s and now sailed the Pacific Ocean. Another feature of the Blackwall was a highly rounded hull at the bow and above the waterline, making the dockworkers refer to them as “apple-cheeked”.

  Especially designed to carry as much cargo as possible, they brought with them spices, rice, coffee, sugar, cotton and silk. London was their final destination. There, the goods would go to the weaving mills, markets and warehouses. Some of the finished products would go back to India and the rest would swamp the continental European market. Furthermore, the ever-thirsty colonies were in dire need of working utensils that could only be produced in Britain. This, t
oo, left London by the ton.

  Thanks to Great Britain’s technological advancements, particularly in steam power, in the past years, the nation had no economic rival. More than a quarter of the world’s GDP was produced by the small island nation. Most of it found its way through the docks of London. Now, with the development by James Watt of the steam engine and the propeller propulsion system for steam liners, the Blackwall frigate was vanishing more and more into obscurity – soon, not wind, but steam would transport all of the goods of empire. Like a giant spider sitting on the sea, Great Britain disgorged its web of power, influence, culture and military might over the sea-lanes to all corners of the globe.

  Rory hardly noticed the swampy stink of the River Thames that hung in the air like a foul rumour. It mingled with the stench of rotten fish, men’s sweat and human and animal waste. The sky was overcast like most days. The colossal mass of the white and dark grey clouds appeared more powerful due to the continuous belching of the factory chimneys on the dockside. The cobbled stones thereon were hardly visible under the thick coating of grime that populated the surface.