Remember That Day

The streets of London were arrayed in full glory. Flags fluttered from every building, and multi-colored ribbons streamed from every railing, pillar and post and even human hands. The pavements were crowded with people jostling one another for the best possible view of the parade when it marched past, though that would not happen for a while yet. No one showed any noticeable impatience at the long wait ahead of them, however. The June sun beamed down from a clear blue sky, erasing all the anxieties of the past few days, when the gloom-and-doomers among them had predicted clouds, wind, rain, and even, in a few extreme cases, snow. The air was warm without being oppressively hot.

Who could have asked for a better day?

When King George IV ascended the throne four years earlier, his love of pomp and circumstance had prompted him to revive the public celebration of his official birthday in June with the ceremony of the Trooping of the Colors. Various British regiments, both infantry and cavalry, gorgeously clad in full dress uniform, would parade their regimental colors before the king at Horse Guards’ Parade on Whitehall before processing along a pre-determined route to the lively music of their regimental bands and the vast delight of the cheering London populace that awaited them.

A privileged few had been invited to watch the full ceremony from the grandstands that had been erected for the occasion about the inner perimeter of Horse Guards’ Parade itself. Incredibly—she still could not quite believe it was so—Winifred Cunningham was among them. She, who had begun life as a nameless orphan, abandoned on the doorstep of an orphanage in Bath and finally adopted at the age of nine by parents who were themselves either orphans or born illegitimate, was now seated with the elite of British society, waiting to behold the king and the full visual splendor of the Trooping of the Colors.

To be strictly accurate, she was not exactly seated. She was standing beside one section of the grandstands, having complained that the man who had come to sit in front of her was wearing a hat at least a mile high and the ladies on either side of him had gone out of their way to outdo each other and every other lady present with the size of their bonnet brims and the lavish display of flowers and bows that adorned them and plumes that waved above them. She had never seen anything more ridiculous in her life. Or anything more frustrating under present circumstances.

She would not be able to see a thing, she had complained to the companions on either side of her, laughter in her voice. It was not strictly accurate if she was willing to duck and stretch and bob and weave to find a gap through which she could peer. If they would only keep still!

So, they were going to watch from ground level, Winifred and her two companions, unless some official came along to shoo them back up to their seats in the stands. She had one hand drawn through the reassuringly steady arm of Bertrand Lamarr, Viscount Watley, her sort-of step-uncle, and the other through that of the Honorable Owen Ware, youngest brother of the Earl of Stratton and a friend of Bertrand’s from their university days. Actually, though, the relationship between her and Bertrand was not sort-of anything. It was a real one, complicated as it was to explain. Winifred’s adoptive mother was the daughter of the Marchioness of Dorchester, who had married the marquess, Bertrand’s father, a few years ago. Bertrand and Estelle, his twin sister, were therefore her mother’s stepsiblings and her step uncle and step aunt. Yet they were only seven years older than Winifred.

Bertrand was also gorgeous—tall, dark and handsome, that age-old stereotype of the perfect man. It would be hard to find any fault with his appearance. He was also amiable and charming and modest, seemingly unaware of just how very attractive he was or of how many females of all ages sighed over him and daydreamed about him and set their caps at him. Fortunately, Winifred was not one of them. She was a very practical and sensible young lady and had always been aware that Bertrand was far outside her orbit in every imaginable way. She liked him immensely, however. She felt comfortable in his company. But she was not attracted to him.

The same could not be said of her feelings for Owen Ware, who was tall and fair-haired and good looking without being startlingly handsome. He was invariably cheerful and amiable. He claimed to be rootless. He was approaching the end of his twenties without any clear idea of what he was going to do with the rest of his life. As a boy and the third son of a noble father—the third legitimate son, anyway—he had been designated for the church and had been duly packed off to university when he turned eighteen. He had done well there, though he had had lots of fun too. He was still toying with the idea of taking holy orders, but—to use his own words—he was somewhat put off by the religious stuff he would have to involve himself in when all he really wanted to do was serve people who needed a helping hand to get them through hard times and their lives in order. It was no pie in the sky dream. He spent much of his time performing all sorts of volunteer work, most of it grueling and quite unglamorous and unsung.

Winifred, listening to accounts of some of these experiences, found herself wanting to share them with him. Her motive was not piety or a silly image of herself as a ministering angel to the poor and infirm and underprivileged. She knew all the frustrations of trying to help people who rejected help, often with fierce hostility. She had had practice. Her parents had adopted her when they married, but she was only the first adoptee—she and Sarah. They had adopted several more children after that, most of them with problems no one else was able or willing to take on. They included a deaf boy, another with behavior problems that made him anti-social and often vicious to anyone who tried to be kind to him, and twin girls, who suffered from massive insecurities resulting from having been separated for several months to live with couples who did not wish to take both or perhaps were unable for some reason. Winifred had a special love for those siblings though she had no illusions about the ease of solving their problems.

She fancied working with Owen and perhaps…marrying him, presumptuous as such a private dream might be. He was, after all, the son of an earl. He definitely liked her, however, though to be fair, he tended to like everyone. They had talked endlessly, the two of them, since meeting a few weeks ago. Winifred loved serious, meaningful conversation between equals. Empty chit-chat designed specifically for the delicate sensibilities of a lady soon irritated her or outright bored her. Owen treated her like a person. Whether he was also attracted to her was another matter, of course.

“Better?” he asked her now.

“Standing down here instead of sitting up there?” she asked. “Yes indeed. Thank you. Though just to be in this place at all on such an occasion, even stuck behind an enormous black hat, is…indescribable. I want to pinch myself.”

“It sounds painful,” Bertrand said. “Best not to do it, Winnie.”

“I will take your advice.” She twinkled up at him before turning back to Owen. “You must be so looking forward to seeing your brother in the parade.”

His elder brother was a cavalry colonel and would be leading one group of cavalry—what was the official word? Battalion? Regiment? Troop? Anyway, he would be leading them onto the parade ground. Winifred had never met him, but she was looking forward to seeing him today.

“Nick?” Owen said. “Yes. I wonder if I will even recognize him, though, all spruced up in his dress uniform as he will be, everything spotless and gleaming. He usually favors an old uniform, which looks rather as though he had been living in it for the past five years or so. As he probably has, though I hasten to add that his batman keeps it in pristine condition, and I am forever in envy of the shine on the boots he usually wears, old and worn though the leather is.”

Colonel the Honorable Nicholas Ware was a career officer. He had spent many years fighting in the thick of combat, most notably in the Battle of Waterloo eight years ago. But more recently he had worked at the Horse Guards in a largely administrative capacity.

“How fortunate it is that you happen to be in London today of all days,” Owen said.

“I would prefer to be in Bath,” she said. “Or, rather, in our home in the hills above Bath, where I can make myself useful with the children or with any classes or workshops or retreats that are happening there. I generally find London too…big. And too bewildering.” Not to mention dirty.

Her papa had inherited a large old mansion from the grandfather he had discovered only very shortly before the latter’s death, having grown up in the orphanage where Winifred too had lived until the age of nine. Papa, annoyed that the old man had chosen to keep his identity secret all those years, had not wanted to accept his inheritance, but at the time he was a struggling artist who also volunteered his services at the orphanage school, where Mama had recently taken employment. Mama had persuaded him that the house would be perfect for his studio and for all sorts of events associated with the arts, and even for school concerts and dramas. They had ended up marrying, and Mama had asked Winifred if she would like to go with them as their adopted daughter. What a glorious day that had been. The best day ever!

The house was always bustling with life and activity. Even when there was no event in progress, there was the family, a mingling of Mama and Papa’s own children and the ones they had adopted—nine of them altogether, not counting Mama and Papa.

“I do too, Winnie,” Bertrand said in response to her remark about London. “I am always tempted to become a hermit and shut myself up in Elm Court. I often force myself to spend a few weeks of the Season in London, however. It keeps Estelle quiet if nothing else. And I must confess to being glad I am here today.”

Elm Court was Bertrand’s home in Sussex.

Estelle Wiley, Countess of Brandon, lived at Everleigh Park in Hertfordshire with her husband. Their first child was on the way, an impending event that had kept them at home this year. Estelle was eager to see her brother as happily married as she.

The stands had filled up, Winifred could see as she gazed around in awe. The only empty seats must be the three she and her two companions had vacated. Everyone, man and woman alike, it seemed to her, had donned their very best finery for the occasion. She must look like someone’s country cousin in contrast, though Papa had offered to send her shopping for something new and fashionable. She had assured him she did not need anything new. And the trouble with fashion was that it became unfashionable in the blink of an eye. One would need a vast fortune just to keep up. But why do it at all?

“Bertrand tells me that the Duchess of Netherby’s ball at Archer House next week is to be in your honor, Winifred,” Owen said. “You did not tell me that, you modest creature. It is sure to be a grand squeeze. Those balls are rare events even when they are not celebrating the come-out of a new debutante.”

Winifred grimaced. “It was Aunt Anna’s idea,” she said. “But when I assured her I would really rather the ball not be specifically for me, Uncle Avery fixed me with one of those bored expressions he is so good at and told me not to be tiresome.”

Owen grinned and Bertrand chuckled. “That would do it,” he said.

The Duchess of Netherby really was Winifred’s aunt—in the complicated way that characterized their family. She was Mama’s half-sister, though they had been unaware of each other’s existence until they were both adults.  Aunt Anna had also grown up at the orphanage in Bath and then remained there to teach until she was called away to London one bleak day—bleak for Winifred, that was—to be informed of her real identity as Lady Anastasia Westcott, only legitimate child of the late Earl of Riverdale and inheritor of all he had possessed except his title and principal seat. Though that last asset had been no treasure at the time, the late earl having allowed it to sink into shabby disrepair. The woman Winifred had always known simply as Miss Snow had not greeted the startling announcement gladly. She had wanted to give up everything and return to her familiar life in Bath. But the Duke of Netherby had had other ideas. He had promptly married her and thus persuaded her to change her mind. He had probably given her one of his looks to persuade her. Winifred did not know how else he had done it. Mama meanwhile and her brother and sister as well as Grandmama had been abruptly disinherited of what they had always considered their own. Mama had ended up reacting with what Winifred thought of as her great defiance and taking Aunt Anna’s place as teacher at the orphanage.

Now Papa had come to London to paint Lady Jewell’s portrait and had been invited to stay at Archer House on Hanover Square with his old friend Anna, now also his sister-in-law, and the Duke of Netherby. Mama and Papa could rarely travel anywhere together. There were too many children and pets to be organized and too many events booked at the arts center that was their house. On this occasion Winifred had been persuaded to accompany Papa. Not that much persuasion had been needed. She liked to spend time alone with him, talking about his art, watching how he worked. And she loved her aunt, once her beloved teacher, and her five cousins. She even loved her uncle, formidable as he was and intimidating as he could be. For all his air of ennui, he could not hide from her the fact that he adored Aunt Anna and all his children too. She would forgive him any number of eccentricities just for those facts.

“You will be going to the ball?” she asked Owen.

“Absolutely,” he said. “I hope your dance card is not quite full yet.”

“What a silly idea,” she said and was aware of the two men grinning at each other over her head. She had no illusions about her attractions, though. She was not pretty, she did not have any alluring curves, she had no feminine wiles, nor did she want any, and she had no birth or fortune to entice even the most desperate of suitors. She could only hope eventually to attract someone who looked for more depth of character than the average woman had on offer, someone who was looking more for a companion and helpmeet than an adornment for his home. Someone like Owen himself, perhaps, though it was altogether possible he would be beguiled one of these days by a pretty face.

She would not be brokenhearted if it never happened for her. If she did not find anyone, well… Then she would remain at home, where she was always happy and always useful. There were worse things to be than a spinster in a happy home.

“Indulge my silliness,” Owen said. “The duchess is bound to have arranged for some highly respectable partner to lead you into the first set. Reserve the second for me.”

“You are too kind,” she said.

“You will be kinder if you say yes,” he told her. “Imagine the humiliation of having Bertrand witness your rejecting me.”

“I would never let you forget it,” Bertrand said.

“Well, of course I will reserve it for you,” Winifred said. “If I am not upstairs in my room hiding under the bed, that is. And thank you. But is it possible something is happening here?”

There was a noticeable swell in the volume of animated chatter from the packed stands, and all heads were turned in one direction, feathers waving and fluttering from hundreds of bonnets.

“Barely three minutes late,” Bertrand said, consulting a pocket watch. “Impressive. It makes one proud to be British.”

Large doors across the parade ground from them had opened. There were shouts of command from inside, and lines of foot soldiers, led by an officer on horseback, began to process out onto the parade grounds, all moving as one, their booted feet pounding the pavement like the single beat of a bass drum, their scarlet uniforms bright in the sunshine, their tall black beaver hats low on their heads and hiding all of their faces, it seemed, except noses and mouths and chins. How did they see? Their boots and their weapons gleamed in the sunshine. Arms and legs moved in perfect rhythm.

Winifred, clinging to the arms of her companions, was quite sure she had never seen anything more breathtaking in her life.

The soldiers marched past them to the lively music of their regimental band, turned at the end of the parade grounds in a complicated maneuver, never losing a beat or the perfect unison that made of them one unit rather than a collection of individual men, and marched back and into place at one side of the grounds, where they came to a stamping halt at the shouted command of the officer on horseback and stood perfectly still and at attention.

But that was not the end of it. More came, first infantry, and then cavalry, until the parade grounds were filled and there seemed to be no room for more. But there were more to come.

“Ah, here he is,” Owen said, his voice bursting with pride. And another troop entered the grounds, led by an officer on horseback, like all his men.

The officer, Winifred concluded, must be Colonel the Honorable Nicholas Ware, Owen’s brother. She watched his approach with interest, but it was impossible to detect any familial resemblance, if there was any. There was not enough of his face visible. His horse was enormous, its black coat sleek and gleaming. The man matched it. He looked massive to Winifred, with powerful thighs and broad chest, his beaver low over his brow, the sunshine twinkling off the gold of his epaulettes, the chin strap of the beaver, and the buttons on his coat and cuffs. He held a colorful pennant aloft in one hand.

He looked more than a bit menacing, she thought, his jaw set, his mouth in a thin, uncompromising line. And for the first time it occurred to Winifred that all these men, who were putting on such a magnificent display, were actually killers, that killing was what they were trained to do and what all of them had probably done multiple times. Colonel Ware had fought in Spain and Portugal during the wars against Napoleon Bonaparte, and at Waterloo.

She shivered, and Bertrand looked down at her and smiled.

“Formidable, are they not?” he said.

He—the colonel, that was—rode past them without turning his head or nodding acknowledgement of his brother’s presence, without any indication that he saw him, in fact. It was not surprising, of course. One could hardly expect these men to wave their hats to their relatives in the stands. The very thought brought a smile to Winifred’s face.

“A handsome devil, is he not?” Owen said.

“I will take your word for it,” she said. “I could see hardly anything of his face.” Not his eyes, not his hair. “But he looks very impressive.”

“Does he not?” he said rhetorically.

“He certainly has an impressive set of lungs,” Bertrand said as the colonel bellowed out orders to his men to turn and make their way back along the parade grounds to take up the remaining space at the center. He commanded them to halt, and halt they did, the horses as still as the men.

How did the men train them to do that? In her experience horses invariably tossed their manes and their tails and wiggled their hind quarters even when called to a halt.

The regimental bands fell silent. The regimental flags, also apparently known as the colors, held aloft by the officers who led the men, fluttered gaily in the breeze, the only movement on the parade grounds despite the presence there of dozens of horses and hundreds of men. The cheering and chatter among the spectators in the grandstands died away, to be replaced by an almost expectant hush.

Everyone awaited the main event of the morning, the parading of the colors past King George IV. Only one thing was missing.

“Trust the king to be late,” Owen murmured out of the side of his mouth.

“Did anyone expect him not to be?” Bertrand asked, his voice also lowered.

Winifred smiled. She was in no hurry. She was enjoying herself enormously.