Rosings Park preview #4 and cover reveal

Rosings Park preview #4 and cover reveal, by Jack Caldwell

Greetings, everyone. Jack Caldwell here.

I’m a generous guy. back with Chapter 3 of ROSINGS PARK: A Story of Jane Austen’s Fighting Men. Post one may be found HERE, post two HERE, and post three HERE.

You’ll remember from last time that things are not all roses at Rosings Park. But you ain’t seen nothing yet.

You will notice I’m following the lives of three families. Two you’ve met: the Darcys and the Fitzwilliams. Now I turn my attention to my best known original character, Colonel Sir John Buford, and his wife, my best known transformation, Lady Caroline Bingley Buford.

In THE THREE COLONELS, Caroline labored to repair her character while negotiating the treacherous ballrooms of the Congress of Vienna. Now, Lady Buford faces her greatest challenge, one today too many wives and mothers must deal with on a daily basis.

Oh, by the way, how do you like the cover?

Here is Chapter 3.

---

October, London

Mr. Macmillan, the eminent London physician, bent over the undressed man on the bed and firmly squeezed his left thigh. “Does this cause you any discomfort?”

“No,” answered Sir John Buford.

“Good, good,” mumbled the man of medicine as he continued his probing examination of a long scar on the outside of the thigh. “The muscles have knit well in the last year. I am pleased with the progress.” Mr. Macmillan straightened up. “I have seen enough. You may dress.”

There were two others in attendance—a dark-haired lady and a servant. The lady made a gesture and the servant moved to hand Buford a pair of trousers. The physician shrugged on his coat while speaking to the lady.

“It is important for Sir John to exercise that leg, madam. Nothing too strenuous, mind you. A good walk in the park each day would do very well for the present.”

“What of riding, sir?” she asked.

“In moderation, I have no objection as long as Sir John gets in his walks. Different muscles, you see.” Mr. Macmillan turned back to his patient, who was now sitting up in trousers while his man helped him with his shirt. “We cannot allow the muscles to decline due to lack of use. You must walk, Sir John, and use your cane.” A rare smile grew on the older man’s face. “We cannot have a knight of the realm falling onto the street, now can we?”

“I suppose not,” answered Buford curtly.

Mr. Macmillan ignored his rudeness. “I should like to see him again in a few months.”

“Of course. Thank you, sir,” said the lady. “I shall see you out.”

“Very good,” he returned. “Good day, Sir John.”

The pair left the bedroom and walked down the stairs. “Mr. Macmillan, is there anything else I need to know?”

The physician glanced at her. “He may experience discomfort in the beginning, but the exercise is vital. Thus, he must use the cane.” He paused. “And what of you, Lady Buford?”

Caroline Buford (née Bingley) was surprised at the question. “I have no idea what you mean. I am quite well.”

“I have dealt with war wounds before, my lady. Far too often, I am afraid. I speak not of the physical injuries but of the emotional ones. A depression of the spirit is not uncommon in cases like this, and the weight of it often falls to the family.” He stopped only a few steps from the bottom of the stairs and looked at her closely. “Has he been cross and angry?”

Caroline’s green eyes were focused on her clenched hands. “Only on occasion. It is to be expected with his pain. He has been grievously wounded.”

Mr. Macmillan shook his head. “I should not like to disagree with you. I do not have ladies attend my examinations as a rule, but I make an exception for you. You have chosen to be his nursemaid and have been an excellent one. You have followed each of my instructions to the letter. Much of Sir John’s present recovery can be attributed to you. It is a very noble thing you have done, but it can drain one’s spirit just as completely as any illness. You must take care and see to your own health.”

“He is my husband!”

“It would not harm you or Sir John to have assistance. The servant—he is a former soldier, is he not?”

“Corporal Frost was his batman in the army.”

“Let him take some of this burden off your shoulders, madam. Surely, your husband would not object to that.”

“I shall consider it,” Caroline allowed.

Mr. Macmillan gently took her hand. “You must take care, for there are others who depend on you. And how is Miss Beatrice faring?”

“My daughter is very well, I thank you.” Caroline smiled. “I see your meaning, sir. You are very insistent.”

“Only to those I care for.” Mr. Macmillan glanced at the footman at the bottom of the stairs. “I shall see myself out. Do not hesitate to contact me for any reason.”

Caroline gave his hand a firm squeeze. “You have been a godsend, sir.”

The old man snorted. “Such twaddle! I bid you good day, Lady Buford.”

Caroline watched as the distinguished gentleman took his overcoat and hat from the footman and walked out into a cold London morning. For the hundredth time, she blessed Mr. Darcy and his connections; Mr. Macmillan was the Darcy family physician. She turned and ascended, noting that her husband’s mother awaited her, wringing her hands.

“The doctor, what did he say, chérie?” Albertine Buford asked, her French accent pronounced even after thirty years in England.

“He is pleased with John’s recovery, Mother Buford. He wants him to walk out and exercise his leg.”

“Then, exercise he shall have!” the widow declared, revealing the steel beneath her motherly façade. “You shall walk out with him, yes? He can deny you nothing,” she added with a wink. By then the pair reached Buford’s bedroom door. Caroline opened it for both of them.

“Caroline!” cried her husband. “What if I were indecent?” He was not; he sat on the bed wearing his jacket, Corporal Frost tying his cravat.

“And what of it?” was her mischievous reply. “We are your closest relations. You have no secrets from either of us!”

In all the upheaval and drama of her two-year marriage to John Buford, Caroline had found her true character. She was a wife and mother and knew what it was to love and be loved, to depend on others as they depended on her. She discovered a strength she never knew she had and, sometimes, an engulfing serenity. She still owned a sharp tongue, but that she reserved for those who deserved it. Such was the difference between five-and-twenty and seven-and-twenty.

“Leave off, Frost. That will do.” Buford struggled slightly to rise to his feet, and Caroline forced herself to hold back rather than help him.

Waterloo had been very hard on Sir John Buford, former colonel of Hussars. Her husband, for all his sterling characteristics, was a prideful man. The scar on his face stood out in white relief against the redness on his cheeks. Caroline knew John hated his scar more than his other injuries—even his missing left arm. It was his vanity, and he feared Caroline would tire of the sight.

Foolish man—thinking she loved only his handsome features! He was still the John Buford she had come to love. His tender lips and bright blue eyes were undamaged, as were his impressive mental faculties. He retained his strong right arm. And he loved her more than she deserved.

In a very even voice, she said, “Mr. Macmillan said you should walk out each day, and I believe now is a capital time to do so.” She smiled to soften what was indeed an order.

Buford was not deceived. “I have just suffered being prodded and mishandled for almost an hour without complaint. And you say my reward for my good behavior is to slap on a heavy coat, leave this warm house, and traipse about in the cold? I thought I had left the army!”

Caroline kissed his cheek. “I shall be waiting for you downstairs. Corporal Frost, pray accompany us.”

“Frost can stay here,” Buford grumbled. “I can manage without him.”

“I think he can use the exercise as well. Can you not, Corporal?” she said over her shoulder as she made for the door.

“I’ll have him downstairs as soon as may be, ma’am,” Frost vowed.

“You are supposed to be on my side, Frost!” Buford cried.

“And he is, my dear son,” said Mrs. Buford as she reached up to kiss his cheek. “So am I, and so is Caroline. Now go and be a good boy, yes?”

~~~

Buford House, on Berkeley Street, was just outside the more fashionable streets of Mayfair. It was Buford’s assertion that since he must walk, he ought to have a destination. Caroline’s proposal that they call upon the Tuckers was accepted. She kept to herself her concern that the distance might be too much for her husband’s first excursion.

It turned out it was, and Corporal Frost was sent back for the carriage while his employers took their ease on a park bench. Within a half an hour, the party was off again and soon arrived at the steps of a smart little dwelling outside of Cheapside. Buford’s limp was pronounced, which did nothing to lighten his mood. The maid knew the couple on sight, Lady Buford being a regular visitor, and she escorted them directly to the sitting room.

“Caroline! Sir John!” was Mary Tucker’s delighted cry. Instantly the two friends were embracing, sharing kisses on the cheek. Mary gave the same welcome to Buford and led him to a chair near the fire.

“I am not an invalid,” Buford complained.

“Of course, you are not,” Mary returned, “but it is the most comfortable chair in the house. Caroline and I shall make do on the settee.” She turned to the maid and told her to see to Buford’s people and ordered tea. “What brings you here today?” she asked as she took her place beside Caroline.

“We went for a walk and decided we had to call on you, my dear,” was Lady Buford’s reply to the woman she loved like a sister.

“Walk!” Mary cried. “Surely, you did not walk all the way here!”

“No, we took to our carriage after walking partway,” Caroline assured her, “but Sir John is much recovered, and Mr. Macmillan requires him to walk.”

“He is a hard, old tyrant,” grumbled Buford.

Caroline ignored him. “We trust Mr. Tucker is well.”

“He is and will be very sorry he missed you. But he must be at his office at this time of day.”

“Of course. Pray give him our regards. And is Miss Rosanna in good health?”

Mary’s plain features lit up. “She is very well.” It was clear she was elated with her baby niece. “We can look in on her later, if you like.”

Caroline gave Mary a disapproving look. “What? You will make us wait to see your little angel? You are very cruel, Mary!”

The very serious Mary Bennet had mellowed considerably since her marriage to Thomas Tucker, but she never owned a particularly good sense of humor. Therefore, it took a moment before she realized her friend was teasing her. “Would you like her brought down now?” she asked carefully.

“If it is no bother.” Caroline softened her request with a smile.

Mary nodded and excused herself. Meanwhile, Caroline noted the puzzled expression on her husband’s face. “I thought the stairs might be too much for you today,” she whispered, guessing Buford’s question.

“I could have managed.”

Stung, Caroline flinched. “John, I do not want you to overdo.”

“I know I am a damned cripple, but I am not totally helpless.” He stared at the fire.

Caroline bit back a sigh. There was no moving her husband when the Black Dog was upon him. Most of the spells were brief, and his later expressions of regret and apology genuine. Caroline had been advised to disregard any harsh words when those moods appeared.

However, Corporal Frost confided that not all soldiers overcame this melancholy. They sought refuge in drink or opium, falling into lives of depredation and illness before suffering early deaths. Frost saw no evidence of this with Sir John, for the colonel had steadfastly refused laudanum during his recovery.

What was troubling to Caroline was that John’s spells were recurring more often lately, paradoxically as he physically improved. She would help her husband if she knew how. All she could do was pray, and she was not convinced it was enough.

At least, Mary had not heard his language.

Caroline brightened when her friend returned, carrying an infant. Rosanna Wickham was a lovely, healthy girl of ten months. Mary beamed as she presented her.

“My, how she has grown!” Caroline exclaimed. “And her hair! I have never seen such beautiful golden hair on so young a babe. It took forever for Bea’s hair to grow out.”

“And how is Beatrice today?”

Caroline smiled as she spoke of her daughter. “She is very well.” Rosanna’s response was a strong wiggle. “Goodness, she has strong legs!”

“To the nurses’ sorrow!” Mary laughed. “She must run after her. Is Bea walking yet?” She gave over the child to Caroline’s embrace. Dark blue eyes studied her green ones before the child gave a giggle.

“She is just starting. My goodness, Miss Rosanna has a great deal to say,” Caroline observed. Indeed, the baby babbled incessantly while waving her hands.

Mary bit her lip. “Yes…well, she is my sister’s child, and Lydia took after my mother—”

“And her father was George Wickham,” Buford pointed out. “Let me see her.”

Caroline was more surprised at her husband’s request than his brusque manner. Still wary of his mood, she carefully handed over the wiggling Rosanna. Buford settled the child in his lap using his right hand, placing her head against his stump of a left arm. He did it quickly with no assistance, obviously a result of much practice with his own child. Rosanna instantly quieted, to the wonder of the ladies.

Buford’s features softened. “She is nothing to Bea, of course, but she is very pretty.”

“John!” Caroline was mortified.

“It is quite all right,” said Mary. “I would expect a father to favor his own over others.”

Buford turned to Mary. “I meant no insult, Mrs. Tucker.” He returned his attention to the babe.

“You could be civil about it,” Caroline pointed out with a frown.

“I did apologize, my dear,” Buford said levelly while he kept his eye fixed on Rosanna, who was clearly captivated. “You will be a sweet girl, yes? You must not give your papa and mama any trouble, for they love you. They chose you. That is a special thing.”

Caroline turned to Mary. “You may not know this, but John’s sister, Lady Suzanne Douglas, is actually his cousin. Her parents fell victim to the influenza when she was a baby. Not only did the Bufords take her in, they adopted her.”

“Suzanne is sister to me and daughter to my parents,” Buford insisted. “We raised her from infancy. She is a Buford, and I will not hear anything differently.”

Caroline caressed his shoulder. “And now she is a Douglas.”

“Yes, well…I might allow that Lord Frederick is good enough for her.”

She kissed the top of his head. “You are all generosity.”

Buford smiled slightly and cooed at the baby. Meanwhile, the tea service arrived, and the ladies crossed over to the far side of the room and busied themselves with it, talking in low tones.

“Mary, I am so sorry for—”

Mary touched her arm. “Say no more. We have talked of this. We must show Christian charity for those who suffered so grievously while in service to the country. I am not offended. Pray, how is Sir John faring?”

“He recovers more of his strength every day, and Mr. Macmillan is pleased. But the Black Dog is always around the corner.”

“Such trying spells! My sympathies, dear. Have you any relief?”

“Relief? What do you mean?”

“Caroline, you have been nursemaid to your husband for over a year. What aid have you received? And I do not speak of servants.”

“Mother Buford has been beside us all this time. I hate to think of what may have been if she had not. John’s brother and sister, Phillip and Rebecca, have been a great help, but they are not always in town. They have duties to the estate in Wales. After the harvest, we may see them. Corporal Frost has been a godsend.”

“And Louisa?”

Caroline shrugged. “She would do more, but she cannot abide a sickroom. She and Hurst are in Scarborough until Twelfth Night when they return for the Season. Charles and Jane have their own family. They will be returning to town from Mayfield in January, as well.”

Mary spoke louder. “Lizzy and Darcy are ensconced at Pemberley. Nothing could induce them to leave Derbyshire, I am sure. We shall not see them before the Season, depend upon it!”

“What was that, Mrs. Tucker?” came Buford’s voice from across the room.

“I was saying that the Darcys remain in Derbyshire, Sir John.”

Buford huffed. “Darcy and Pemberley! Upon my word, I am surprised he has not dug a moat about the place and pulled up the drawbridge!”

“There are few who do not enjoy Pemberley, my dear.” Caroline brought him a cup of tea.

“Thank you. Well I, for one, like London better.” He placed the cup and saucer on a small table by his elbow. “Living in the country all year would surely drive me mad.” He chuckled as he took his first sip.

Caroline laughed, pleased to see that his morose spell had vanished for the time being.

The visit passed in pleasant conversation, taken up mostly by Mary answering Caroline’s questions about the Llewellyn wedding. Mary assured her that Georgiana adored their gift of a figurine.

Just then, Mr. Tucker was announced. “Good afternoon, my dear,” cried Mary, “but what brings you home so early?”

“I have spent much of the day occupied with some sad business and decided to hurry home to you.” He then greeted the Bufords.

“Was it the Elliot business, dear?”

“Yes. Mr. Elliot was buried today.” Tucker glanced at Sir John. “Are you familiar with the Elliots of Kellynch Hall?”

Sir John demurred, but Caroline spoke up. “I take it you speak of that terrible attack on Mr. William Elliot. It was in all the papers this summer. When did he pass?” Caroline’s one remaining vice from her earlier days was her love of gossip.

“Two days ago. As the funeral was small, a notice will be printed tomorrow.”

“And that horrible woman who poisoned him. Does she remain unpunished?”

Tucker nodded. “We learned Mrs. Clay has fled the country in the company of her personal maid. At first, it was thought she sailed to America. It is now believed she is somewhere on the Continent. In any case, she is currently beyond British justice.”

“I do not wish to speak ill of the dead, but I have heard some things about this Mr. Elliot,” Buford said carefully.

“Say no more, Sir John. The stories about the late Mr. Elliot are all too true. I represent his heir’s family—that of Captain Wentworth.”

“Captain Wentworth, famous for the Laconia?” Assured it was so, Buford turned to the ladies. “He is cousin to George Blakeney’s bride. You recall Dorothy Blakeney, do you not, Caroline?”

“You are acquainted with the Blakeneys, Sir John?” asked Tucker.

“Only in passing with the baronet and his lady, but George is a good friend. His sister married another of my comrades, Major Tilney.”

“The George Blakeneys called on us this summer,” explained Caroline, “and the Tilneys have been regular visitors.”

“Fine friends to have,” Tucker pronounced significantly. Everyone in London knew the wealthy Blakeneys were very close to the Regent.

“But what do the Wentworths have to do with the late Mr. Elliot?” asked Caroline.

“Mr. William Elliot was heir to Sir Walter Elliot of Kellynch Hall. As Mr. Eliot left no issue, the estate and the title will descend upon Sir Walter’s passing to the firstborn son of his eldest daughter. Miss Elliot is yet unmarried, so the heir presumptive is the son of his second daughter, Anne Wentworth, wife of the captain.”

“A sad business, to be sure,” observed Mary, “but one should be happy for Master Wentworth.”

Later, as they prepared to take their leave, Buford surprised his wife while waiting for the carriage by inviting the Tuckers to dinner the week following.

“I am certain we should be happy to do so, Sir John,” Mary said carefully, her eye on Caroline.

“It is a wonderful idea,” said Caroline smoothly, covering her husband’s faux pas. “I shall send a note to determine which night would be agreeable to you.” The ladies shared a kiss on the cheek, and the Bufords left.

“Well, Corporal Frost,” said Caroline, tugging at her gloves as the carriage rolled down the street, “you must make sure Sir John has a suitable coat for next week as we shall have guests for dinner.” She would not look up.

Caroline was upset. There were certain duties reserved for the wives of gentlemen, and she jealously guarded them for herself. For Sir John to usurp her role could be considered an insult to her abilities to manage his house. But it would not do to have a disagreement with Corporal Frost in attendance.

Buford was insensitive to it. “Frost knows his business, Caroline.”

“You are right, my dear. We shall say no more,” she allowed, not meaning a word of it.

~~~

The argument started once they were alone in their private apartments. “What is wrong, Caroline? You are not upset over the invitation, are you?”

“It was my understanding that the lady of the house issued invitations,” she snapped at him, “but perhaps things are different in Wales.”

Buford harrumphed. “You cannot stand on ceremony with the Tuckers! They are practically family.”

“Family or not, it is not done!”

“They will not mind.”

“I mind! I mind!” With that, Caroline dissolved into tears.

Buford took his wife into his embrace, wrapping her as tightly as he could. At first, Caroline fought his touch but soon gave in.

“Now, now, there is no call for this. It is but a trifling matter.”

It was the wrong thing to say. “No, it is not!” she cried, roughly escaping his hold. “You have no appreciation for my position!”

“What is this? Of course, I respect you.”

“John, can you not see? A wife should be mistress of her house, but I am not! We live with your mother in Wales! We stay in your brother’s house in town! I am mistress of nothing!”

Stunned by her outburst, Buford stepped away.

Caroline began to pace. “The only responsibility I have left to maintain my respectability in society is to entertain guests! And now you take that away from me!”

“I am sorry. It was not my intention.” Buford pulled a face. “You are unhappy.”

“I am not unhappy. I would not trade places with anyone in the world. But all my life, I dreamt of being a great lady with my own home, entertaining my friends and acquaintances. I am a great lady, for I am married to you, and I have dear friends whom I love. But I am not mistress of any house.”

“But…but our house in Wales—”

“Is the dower house,” Caroline replied. “It belongs to Mother Buford. Do not mistake me. I truly love her and enjoy living with her. She asks for my opinions and assistance on household matters, and she has allowed our people to serve us. But do not deceive yourself into believing I forget for a moment it is her house. She will always have the last word on matters as long as she lives.”

Caroline gestured at the room. “And here in London! Your brother is the most generous man I know. But this is Rebecca Buford’s house, not Caroline Buford’s.

“I accept this, John. I have made my peace with it. I know we are not in a position to have our own house. Perhaps someday, when you are stronger. I can wait.”

During all this, Buford stood stock-still. He then dropped his head in despondency. “I have failed you.”

Caroline took Buford’s hand and kissed it, hoping her passionate defense of herself had not triggered her husband’s despondency. “No, you have not. You have given me your love. You have given me Bea. I do not yet have a house, but as long as we are together, I have a home.” She kissed his cheek. “I am content.”

Buford’s expression remained troubled. “I am sorry, Caro. You must know I love and respect you. I have been a blind fool.”

Caroline did not argue the point, for he had been a fool. “I want you to be proud of me,” she said.

“I am. I am proud of you.” His voice was firm. “I shall never presume to speak for you again.”

“Thank you, my dear.” Caroline kissed him again. “Now, come with me to the nursery. Bea has been wondering where we have been, I should not wonder.”

She knew a mention of his daughter would bring the brightness back to his eyes. “Yes, let us go to my little princess.” He then gave a roguish look. “Later, I must give my compliments to the queen of my heart.”

Caroline smiled. “I am certain she would welcome them, my good sir.”

---

Buford and Caroline have a tough row to hoe, and things just might get worse. Will they make it? You’ll have to read the book to find out!.

Wentworth? Tilney? Where did they come from? Oh yes, from the other books in the JANE AUSTEN FIGHTING MEN universe—THE LAST ADVENTURE OF THE SCARLET PIMPERNEL and PERSUADED TO SAIL. I told you this was the concluding chapters!

I hope you have enjoyed this preview of my upcoming novel, ROSINGS PARK: A Story of Jane Austen’s Fighting Men. It will be released in both paperback and Kindle.

Pre-order for the Kindle ebook is available! Go HERE!

The audiobook will take a little longer—with the huge cast of characters in this book, we’ll have to get the right narrator to tackle it!

Meanwhile, here’s a little preview:

 

Please leave your questions and comments below! Extra points if you can guess who are the images in the cameo.

Until next time, this has been the Cajun Cheesehead Chronicles.

It takes a real man to write historical romance, so let me tell you a story…