The Third Uncle

Chapter Nine: The Marquess of Wellington

Chapter Nine: The Marquess of Wellington

Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington had his eyes closed. A rare, and warm ray of sun had found its way through the thin clouds scudding across the summer sky and into his new offices over-looking the Thames. He savoured the sensation of the golden light illuminating his eye-lids from without, and leant forward into the glow, so that he had his head pressed up against the imperfect glass. Down below, among the barges and dock workers, he could hear them, the unmistakable broken, and heavily accented orders, being barked by self important officers and the laughter of sailors as they worked. He was loathe to open his eyes. To open them would reveal the hullabaloo of the French soldiers as they continued in their transport of goods from the Empire to London's doorstep.

London was being rapidly transformed by his defeat, not only by the obvious change of Government and the exile of the King, but in the architecture, the fashion, and the whole damned feel of the place! This was no longer his Britain, this generation was quickly turning the other cheek, putting the conflict behind them, and the people of Britain, young and old didn't seem to mind very much that they had fallen under the Tyrant. Why, some outwardly welcomed it! To them Britain was no longer the Island removed from the great goings on in the Continent, but a far greater thing, a Province, part and parcel of Glorious France, and the greatest Empire since the time of Rome.

He grimaced and massaged his temples against the confusion below, and then snorted with irritation at this humiliating pretence of keeping him in the public eye. Napoleon had no intention of allowing him any real power within the military, Devil take him! He was now a figurehead of all that had been lost, a fallen leader left to oversee the transition of his beloved troops to those of Bonaparte. He was being made to capitulate, and all he wanted to do was fight back.

Turning away, he glared at the equestrian portrait of a smug Napoleon upon the wall, and then smacked at a pile of documents that had been laying idle upon his desk, scattering them over the gleaming hardwood beneath his boots.

'Damn Bonaparte, and damn this situation! God, I could use a drink.'

He ran a frustrated hand up over his chin, rough with stubble, and into his brown hair, digging his nails into his scalp. Staring off into space, he glanced at the clock on the mantle, and made a sudden, violent gesture at no one in particular. 'Damn the man!' He swore under his breath. His mind had been made up. He strode to the door, and yanked upon the great brass handle.

Bother.

He was blocked by a set of strong backs clothed in dark blue cotton. These backs were as curiously alike from behind, as they were from the front. They belonged to guards, French guards, with faces that were unique in their shared noses of distinction. The noses were both screwed on at such awkward, and exact, angles that only a shared calamity could account for the coincidence ... the rumour among the men, being that they had both sneaked off during battle when a cannonball did a clever ricochet off a nearby wall, and skipped across their faces at the exact same angle. Much like a stone might across a country pond, thought Wellington with a little smile.

Wellington raised his hand to his mouth, and coughed to get their attention. The guard on his left glanced over his shoulder and squinted at him through long, dark, unusually feminine lashes. That one was called Francois, and was the kinder of the two. The second, perhaps slightly shorter, but no less feminine in his manner, was Louis. Louis shrugged and muttered something to his colleague under his breath without so much as an acknowledgement of the man behind him. Wellington coughed again, and this time cleared his throat, not once, but three times, so violently he worried himself with sudden thoughts of Egyptian malaria, but the two held their ground.