“Oh, my dear, do you mean it? All of us—Joy’s nurse and the rest of the staff? It will take two carriages at least!”
“Two or two hundred—what is that to me when I have the opportunity to dance with you, my Marianne?”
She stroked his face with her hand. “You are too good, sir.”
“I am a poor fool saved by your love. You have given me joy—by giving me Joy. I shall spend the rest of my life proving myself worthy of you.”
As Marianne’s face beamed with affection for her husband, Christopher gathered her into his arms. There was little talking for a quarter-hour.
Elba
The emperor stood on the balcony of his palace surveying his domain, his arms behind his back in the classic at-ease position. After the customary hour-long bath he insisted on each morning, he was dressed in a uniform with the sash of the Legion of Honor peeking from under the coat. Of average height—he was four inches taller than the five feet two inches commonly believed—the casual observer would not think much of him unless he saw his eyes and the grim look on his face.
His wife, Marie-Louise, and son were guests—prisoners actually—of the Austrians in Parma. The Treaty of Fontainebleau had not given him much—this spit of land, a thousand soldiers, and two million francs. But it was enough—enough to start again. His lucky star would never desert him.
A servant interrupted his musings. “Your Excellency,” he announced, “déjeuner is ready.” Exactly on time—the emperor insisted on it. He had a passion for consistency and routine.
“Merci,” he replied in the Italian-accented French that he had not been able to overcome in thirty-five years. He returned inside and sat alone before the first of the two meals he would consume that day, this one of well-done sautéed chicken, croissants, and heavily watered Chambertin wine.
Such was the change in his life. A year ago, he would have been involved in the morning levee, with aides, generals, and diplomats scurrying about, carrying out orders that had shaken the world. As usual, the emperor left half his meal on the plate before retiring into his office.
The Allies thought they were kind to give him this empire—one hundred thousand souls on Elba—while they placed that fool of a Bourbon onto the throne of France. A lesser man either would have accepted his fate or despaired of his condition. But he was not like lesser men. Destiny was not through with him, he knew. His preparations were almost complete.
Soon, very soon, Napoleon Bonaparte knew it would be time.
Chapter 1
London
It was a night for memories.
An unsettled Caroline Bingley silently sat before her looking glass in a dress of fine ivory and peach silk while her maid finished her hair, her sisters, Louisa Hurst and Jane Bingley, smiling and observing. Tonight was the New Year’s Eve ball given by her brother at Bingley House in London in honor of her upcoming marriage to Colonel Sir John Buford. She had striven all her life for such a moment, and it had finally arrived.
“Oh, Caroline!” cried Louisa. “The dress is superb! I have never seen you in better looks. Does she not look well, Jane?”
With quiet sincerity, Jane agreed. “She does, indeed. But how can she not? This is a special night for you, Sister.”
“Sir John will be pleased, I am sure.” Louisa actually giggled, to Caroline’s mortification.
The maid halted her labors. “Are you pleased with your hair, miss?” she asked nervously.
Be kind, be kind, Caroline reminded herself. “Your efforts are to be commended, Abigail.” Caroline smiled a small smile to herself. Only she would have an abigail named Abigail.
The maid sighed in relief. “Just a few more minutes, miss.”
Caroline stared into her reflection. Is this the woman Sir John sees: a dark-haired lady, elegant and refined, yet with just a touch of the bloom of youth in her cheeks? Or does he see through the disguise to behold the woman desperately escaping her roots in trade? Everything my father wanted for me—everything my mother taught me—is now in my hands. Wife to a respected, landed gentleman and knight of the realm, as well. I am happy with my choice. I am.
But why am I uneasy?
Mixed with Caroline’s joy and anxiety was a bit of weariness, for she had just undergone the most trying four and twenty months in her life.
She recalled the preparations for her last large ball.
The late Mr. Bingley, embarrassed by his position in life, worked hard so that his children would not. He succeeded in improving his situation at the cost of his relationship with those for whom he sacrificed his health. His wife, accepting his goals but resentful of his attentions to business, had pined so much during his frequent absences that a relatively mild influenza finally took her to her reward. Unprepared to raise his children himself, he sent them to the finest schools in the land where they were taught many things. Some of those lessons were useful, and some were not, but love of a parent was not among either. Any interaction Mr. Bingley did have with his progeny in his last years—before overwork drove him to his grave—consisted of exhorting them to embrace their hard-won gentility. There was nothing as wonderful as being among the highest members of the London ton, he told them repeatedly.
However, he taught his children ill. Old Bingley saw only the outward appearances of respectability; he had no appreciation for the hard work and duty in which a truly responsible gentleman must engage. He left a tainted legacy.
Charles Bingley, his heir, was fortunate, for among the first he met at school was a remarkable older student from Derbyshire. Fitzwilliam Darcy was attracted to the open goodness of his new, young schoolmate, and they soon became fast friends.
Louisa and Caroline were not as lucky. Quickly falling into the society of the most superior of their fellow students, they learned all that was correct and fashionable but none that was kind. They perfected the art of the cutting remark and snide aside and developed a taste for gossip. At least Caroline had taken her studies seriously. While never a great reader, she found a natural affinity for mathematics and music. Caroline took pride in this, for the mistress of a great estate must both manage and entertain.
Acquiring a great estate was the Bingley sisters’ lifetime goal. The only way to bury their roots in trade forever was to marry into a family of some consequence. Louisa was able to attract the attentions of Mr. Geoffrey Hurst, a man of small estate and less sense. Caroline looked higher. If she needed a husband of respectability, who better to fill that requirement than her brother’s friend, Fitzwilliam Darcy? He had everything she had been taught to look for in a match: estate, fortune, fashionable manners, good taste, and eligibility. That he was handsome was very agreeable. That love might enter into the equation never crossed Caroline’s mind.
For almost three years, Caroline labored to attach herself to Mr. Darcy and his estate of Pemberley. All would end in failure on a summer’s night at Pemberley when Mr. Darcy responded to her ill-judged attack on Elizabeth Bennet with the declaration that, “…it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintance.” In her room that evening, Caroline wept in rage and frustration, her dreams shattered. She had been denied her rightful place by a mere country girl, a chit with no family or fortune to recommend her. Eliza was not even as pretty as her sister Jane, who had bewitched Charles. The unfairness of it all nearly consumed Caroline. It only grew worse a few months later when Charles married Jane, and Darcy married Elizabeth.