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

by Hanna Hamilton

  In imitation of the surrounding landscape, the huge stately home jutted out arrogantly to the left and right in an unruly but eccentric style, with a central building and two wings. The edifice itself dated back to the early Georgian period and was built with Elizabethan grace. In a confused love affair with the past, the Gothic facade in some way resembled the Houses of Parliament in London. There were over one hundred rooms inside; each one decorated with such lavishness and opulence that some said it rivalled Buckingham Palace.

  After stepping out of the carriage, Stirling briefly turned to the member of staff that had accompanied him on his journey from London to Southampton. They had first travelled by train and then by horse and carriage to High Weald. For the latter part of the voyage, he had sat in the front with the coachman.

  Stirling’s manservant stepped down and walked up to his employer. “My Lord, shall I arrange for your belongings to be brought to the house.”

  “Let’s wait a moment with that, Karim. When I am here, I never know for how long I shall stay,” said Stirling, studying his Indian servant. He wore elegant livery in the form of a navy-blue tunic and a white turban. His face displayed intelligence and bravery. Before becoming Captain Whitt Whitaker’s man, he had been a sepoy, an Indian infantryman, in the British army.

  Karim who was a Muslim bowed reverently. He was fiercely loyal to the young captain because he had saved his life in a skirmish back in India. It was a bond that he would keep until he could return the favour.

  “Karim, do make sure that everything is arranged for a quick escape should my father decide to turn irksome. Should that not be the case, be so good as to coordinate your efforts with the staff here and deliver my things to the appointed room,” said Stirling.

  It was strange. Unlike his brothers, he never occupied the same chambers. It was probably another one of his father’s wiles to show him that he was a second-rate son and to his mind a non-achiever.

  Unlike a typical valet, Karim did not wear a dark jacket, waistcoat, pinstripe trousers, a white shirt, and black tie. Also known as a gentleman’s gentleman that type of servant would always accompany his master on his travels. His primary duties were to prepare and choose his master’s clothing, brush his hair, aid him with his morning and evening ablutions and, if need be, shave him. Karim did all of those things and more. He was also responsible for Stirling’s horse, Cloud. As an expert horseman, he was the perfect choice.

  Stirling nodded at Karim and turned to face the building that still haunted his mind. When he had left for India, he had never thought that he would see it again. The manor house’s heavy timbered door stood open. It was embellished with thick black iron studs that were laid out into perfect geometrical squares. Standing at the top of a flight of six steps leading up to it, stood the butler.

  Diagonally to one side of the entrance and in front of the steps, four members of the household staff stood assembled. Such an honour surprised Stirling. His father had thirty servants in total out of which four were footmen. And currently, they stood in honour of his son.

  Stirling took a few tentative steps toward the door. He scolded himself for his hesitancy. He had faced hordes of marauding Indians and never flinched. Now, he was worried about seeing an old man and his two brothers whose bravery amounted to no more than playing pranks on fellow peers at their club.

  Despite it only being a little past midday, the butler was already attired in his elegant evening livery, in preparation for his luncheon duties. His dress consisted of black trousers and a swallow-tail coat, under which he wore a black waistcoat and a crisp linen shirt, cuffed with unostentatious link buttons. His feet were clad in shoes of lustreless leather that didn’t make a sound when he moved.

  “My Lord, welcome back to High Weald. If I may say so, it is a pleasure to have you back.” The butler bowed respectfully.

  “You may, Faversham.” Stirling took a first step. He nodded at the footman, none of whom he recognized from his last visit over four years ago.

  “The duke offers you the services of one of his footmen during your stay here, My Lord. He shall act as gentleman’s gentleman and do whatever you require.”

  “I have no need of a valet, Faversham. I have brought my own man as is customary for an English gentleman.”

  Stirling grinned when he saw the butler flinch at the sight of a coloured man standing by the coach. The notion of him entering the house surely sickened him. Stirling never understood this. The British travelled all over the globe to civilize the so-called noble savage and when they finally managed to do so, the idea of such a man joining polite society, even in a servant’s capacity, revolted them.

  “I shall send word for you to arrange accommodation for Karim, if needed.”

  “Karim, My Lord?”

  “The name of my man, Faversham,” said Stirling with an amused tone in his voice. “His name is Karim.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  “Good, then make sure he has quarters and bring him and the driver a cup of tea while he waits. Being Indian, he does love the stuff.” Stirling chuckled as he followed the consternated butler into the house.

  After the six steps and the thick door, they walked into a vast hall that had a chequered black and white marble floor. Wood panelling lined the walls; the ceiling had a beautifully carved motif made of the same material. In the far reaches, there was an ornate staircase leading up to the many bedrooms up above. By now, the footmen had followed them inside and dispersed to do their various tasks.

  “The duke awaits you with your brothers in the dining room for luncheon, My Lord. Please follow me.”

  Stirling had to stifle a chuckle. It was always the same. Despite knowing the place inside out, he was always treated like a stranger that had never roamed the halls of High Weald.

  Walking down a hallway lined with ancestral portraits, his leather shoes made light tapping sounds on the marble flooring. In contrast, the butler’s did not. It was a sign of Faversham’s unrivalled professionalism. To hear a butler approach by the tapping of his shoes on the parquetry or stone flooring was extremely bad form.

  Reaching a double door that the butler opened, they entered. The dining room was an elaborate affair. From the windows, he could see out onto the lush parklands beyond. The advent of spring had left the verdure in full blossom; the huge eighteenth-century Lebanese cedars stood like mighty coned pillars and off-and-on there was a sycamore tree splendid in the mantle of her first leaves that would soon develop into a thick dark green foliage.

  Studying the dining room more closely, Stirling saw the enormous Rubens painting he remembered so well. It depicted farmers going about their work under a meticulously portrayed rainbow that boasted splendiferous and myriad colours.

  “Son, if you please,” said the duke in a croaky voice.

  Stirling looked up at his father who still sat at the head of the long mahogany table that could seat at least thirty. He had aged a little. The increasing greying of his temples and the sides of his head only made him all the more intimidating. His head was that of a lion – big and shaggy with curls of hair. His eyes were a dark brown that almost bordered on the black. He had a strong jaw that was hidden by a bush of thick whiskers.

  On the seats to his father’s right and left sat William and Edward, Stirling’s brothers. William, the eldest, had matured a lot in the way that a wealthy merchantman would. His midriff was full and displayed the leisurely manner in which he lived. His face showed shrewdness and the eye for profit. It was William who ran all of the family’s businesses that ranged from railroad investments to vast property holdings in Britain and around the empire. They even had a few in the rookery of St. Giles. This was considered a prime investment in terms of return.

  Stirling’s other brother resembled a sparrow. Unlike William, he was thin. From the letters he had received, of which there had been few, he knew that he worked at one of the most reputed law firms in the city of London. Everything had been planned, as the duke woul
d want it. All that there was missing was somebody in a bank or the church.

  Stirling walked up. He stretched out his hand to his father. “Hello, Father, it is good to see you after such a long time,” he lied. In truth, he wanted nothing less than to be at his onetime home.

  The duke nodded. He shook his son’s hand without getting up. “Sit down, Stirling. We have much to discuss.”

  With a curt nod of the butler’s head, one of the footmen stepped forward and pulled a chair back. He did not say anything as he waited for the youngest son to sit.

  Stirling nodded at his brothers who scowled at him imperiously. He took his seat next to William. He spent a moment studying his family. There was no love or anything that resembled anything like sentiment or warmth. Before him sat arrayed some of the most arrogant men he had ever encountered. In some ways, they were even worse than Lord Cardigan.

  The duke grunted and promptly, the first of six courses was produced from the kitchens. Beverages in the form of white wine with the fish, red wine with the meat and sweet sherry with dessert accompanied each exquisitely presented dish.

  Totally void of appetite, Stirling stared at his main course of river trout, new potatoes, and beans as if it were a vile enemy. His heart burned as if he had molten iron in his chest. Never before had he felt such distaste for his fellow diners.

  Throughout luncheon, his brothers and father had discussed matters of which he was not privy to. He had picked up on some interesting facts concerning British companies building railroads on continental Europe and the Americas. Also, William had started investing in the White Star Line. It was on one of their ships that Stirling had returned back to England. They ran a fleet of clippers that predominantly ran between Liverpool and Australia. According to his brother, they were the future and would soon overtake Cunard in transatlantic travel.

  “So, Stirling, how was your time with the wogs in India?” asked the duke when he had finished his trout. His dark eyes bored into his son’s.

  Startled, Stirling blurted, “Wogs, sir?”

  The duke sneered. “The man’s been living with a bunch of darkies for the past years and he doesn’t know what the correct terminology for them is. Very bad form if you ask me.”

  Both William and Edward chuckled. “You’ve been to India, young man. You know the ins-and-outs of empire. What’s your view on this Napoleon chap’s project of constructing a canal connecting the Red Sea with the Mediterranean?” he said, referring to Napoleon the Third, Emperor of the French and nephew of the infamous Napoleon Bonaparte.

  “Yes, I think it is a fantastic idea. It will halve the travel time to our possessions in the east. As far as I know, Ferdinand de Lesseps, in the name of his emperor, has already obtained a concession from the Khedive of Egypt and the Sudan to lease the area required for the canal. It is only a matter of time until work starts.”

  Edward sniggered. “You actually think this is a good idea? The British government vehemently opposes it.”

  “As they should. If such a thing were ever built and it was in the hands of the French, control of trade to India would be in jeopardy,” said William, coming to his brother’s aid like he always did.

  “Firstly, the French are our allies. The emperor resided in London for many years. He is an anglophile through and through. Secondly, they will be in need of finance, and Great Britain has the money to buy up considerable shareholdings in such a venture.” Stirling sipped his wine in thought. “One day, England will have to expand its sphere of influence to the region if we want to maintain control of India.”

  “Balderdash! We have the Cape. That is enough. Building a canal will require sluices because the elevation between the two seas is different,” said the duke.

  Stirling smiled. “That is not correct, father. Napoleon Bonaparte, when he was in Egypt, didn’t follow through with the project for exactly that reason. However, he was misinformed. De Lesseps has discovered that all that has to be done is to dig it. No locks are required. In fact, the ancient Egyptians had man-made canals connecting the Nile with the Red sea as far back as 1850 BC. It is possible.”

  The duke grunted. Stirling’s brothers looked at him warily. Stirling had become a man they no longer recognized as the green cadet that left all of those years ago. Before them was somebody who had made his own way in life. As the brothers eyed each other like a trio of truculent lions, the next course of cheese and port was served.

  “Talk of canals will have to wait. We are at war with Russia, gentlemen. A large expeditionary force is being assembled. There are hints in parliament that it will be sent to the Crimea to thwart the Russian’s attempt in acquiring a place in the warmth. We must stop them from gaining access to the Mediterranean Sea.”

  “Yes, it’s all rather exciting. I have joined the 11th Hussars under the command of an acquaintance of yours, Father - the Earl of Cardigan,” said Stirling, tucking into a nicely aged piece of Stilton cheese. Finally having his father listen to him had spurred his appetite.

  “Yes, I know the arrogant fool. I hope they are not placing him in charge of the cavalry. We might as well stay here and leave the Russians to their own devises than dispatch such a man.” The duke shook his head, making his jowls and whiskers shudder.

  “Yes, he is a rather imperious type. But, he keeps his men in fine shape. We have the finest horses, equipment and clothing, Father. However, I would need you to write him a letter recommending me for a captaincy in his regiment. I had a bit of an altercation with one of his men. Poor chap got thrown off a horse…”

  “And you didn’t, I presume, Stirling.” The youngest son nodded at his father, making him hoot laughter. “Then why do you need a recommendation from me? It appears that you have everything very well under control.”

  “Well, I am considered an Indian reg in the earl’s view and not worthy of a place in his regiment.”

  “We will see whether that inflated old windbag has the guts to refuse a Whitt Whittaker. The arrogance of that man.” The duke lifted his bulk to his feet. Behind him, the footman and the butler hastened forward to help him up. “Fetch my secretary, I will write to this Cardigan fellow this very instant,” growled the duke.”

  “But, Father. What about that other matter?” interrupted William.

  The duke grunted as he sat back down again. “Yes, I almost forgot.” He turned his shaggy head to his youngest son. “I am afraid that you can no longer serve in the army. You are needed in London. You have had your fun and games galloping around the world. It is time you served the family, boy.”

  Stirling’s shoulders slumped. He did not notice his brothers exchange knowing and happy glances. “What would you have me do, Father?”

  “We have a lawyer in Edward and William represents the family’s commercial holdings. You will add your worth to this family by becoming a merchant banker. I have already spoken to Lord Wimple, the chairman of Wimple & Stokes Merchant Banking, and they are willing to make you a director in their fine institution. You shall of course have access to my Mayfair residence and all of the prestige and trimmings that entails. You leave on the morrow.”

  Chapter 6

  “Ugh, god what the hell happened last night,” grunted Stirling in agony.

  He winced when he tried to move. His head hurt, and it felt like someone was hammering their fist on the top of it in a staccato beat. He still had his eyes closed because he could feel the warmth of the spring sunshine stab through the slits of the untidily drawn curtains.

  “Where in God’s name am I?” he grunted not remembering anything.

  In pain, he decided not to move a muscle. He remained glued to his straw filled mattress as if it was the most pleasant place in the world. All the drinking he had done the night before had knocked his senses out. He neither smelt the foul acrid stench of his accommodation nor did he hear the ticking sound of the rats’ clawed feet as they scurried across the wooden flooring.

  For weeks since leaving his father’s home, he had succumbed to
a bout of depression. When he had resigned his commission in the army at his father’s behest, things had started to fall apart. As Britain was in a state of war, this was considered an act of cowardice that many of his colleagues and others had acted upon.

  He had tried to explain that it was no fault of his. When he had started work for Lord Wimple, he was told to leave the premises on those grounds. When he had written to his father in an attempt to explain, he had evicted him from the family’s London residence and disowned him as his son.

  There was a loud knock on the door. Stirling groaned and pulled on the coarse woollen blanket that would’ve been more suitable for transporting potatoes. He tried to cover his head, but he didn’t have the strength to free it from the weight of his body and so he gave up and remained still.

  The knocking on the door became more insistent. This time, the hammering lasted for far longer and did not cease. “Is Lord Whitt Whittaker in there?” shouted an authoritative voice.