12th June, evening: Another kind of piquet

Edward looked around his tent. Not quite White's, but he hoped it would do. His batman had been running in and out of the tent for the last hour, laying the table (shaky though it was), bringing water, helping him in his uniform, cleaning up, and generally reminding Torrington once more of these curious storms that were said to occur in the Americas. At least when Rottländer left, things appeared to fall down in a more orderly fashion.

But now that his guest was actually expected, the lad kept out of sight, shyly tending to the pot where he was preparing the food. Well, Edward certainly wouldn't fault him for that.

Taking out his notebook and idly sketching the set table, Edward waited for his guest to appear.

George paused before knocking on the tent flap. Under one arm he carried a bottle of brandy he'd gotten from one of his fellow lieutenants in return for two cigars. The cigars he'd been given by a local farmer who had seen his red coat and though he was some sort of hero.

"Evening, milord," he said as he pulled aside the flap. "It's Lieutenant Wickham." True, he could have just called him Edward as he had at Almack's. However, you never knew when some ruffian might be listening. If one assumed easy familiarity with one's betters, throwing first names with no consideration of social status, who knew what chaos would result?

"I thought I would bring a bit of refreshment," he added, showing the bottle. "For after dinner."

Edward laid his notebook aside and stood, giving a polite half-bow.

"Wickham! I hope you are quite recovered from your recent experience?"

He affected the slightly bored drawl custom in London drawing rooms, but couldn't quite keep the real pleasure he felt out of his face. Indicating the second chair, he said:

"Do sit down! My batman will bring dinner momentarily."

George smiled. "Recovering quite well, thank you, milord." He placed the brandy on a nearby table, then took the offered chair.

"I trust your day has been a bit more exciting than mine?" He'd spent his watching marching drills and inspecting equipment. Necessary, but deadly dull. "Though I suspect almost anything would be more exciting than checking to see if Private Lennox's boots have the appropriate level of shine."

Edward chuckled.

"It would appear that this is the downside of being a guards' officer. There's a price to being always so shiny. We engineers never have to inspect boots. You have my deepest sympathies!"

As his batman Rottländer peeped in through the tent flaps, he waved him in. The young rifleman placed two plates filled with side dishes on the table, then set down a larger one laden with what appeared to be an enormous trout. After an awkward bow, the batman fled again, leaving it to Edward to fill the glasses with wine.

Handing one to Wickham, he said:

"I had wondered where he had been, but I would guess our pièce de résistance had still been gracing the local waters this morning. Will you carve?"

George took the glass, raising his eyebrows at the young man's hasty entrance and exit.

"Your batman seems to be the rather bashful type, though he does seem to do well fishing." He stood, then picked up the carving knife and fork that had been laid out.

"Of course I can carve." He took a long look at the fish, wondering where to begin. The obviously offending bits had been removed, leaving him to wonder if he needed to take the bones out. Finally, he sliced into the thing, hoping he'd get the majority of the bones out.

"So where did you find your batman. I realise, yes, the ranks, but why him, if you don't mind my asking?"

Eventually George would have to find his own batman, though he was considering saving a few pennies and hiring Briggs on.

After an initial glance, Edward politely didn't look at the slaughter of the fish, but busied himself with lightening a second candle.

"Actually, I didn't find him. He came to me on Captain Vickery's orders, who in turn had Rottländer suggested by his sergeant, I believe. I have to say, though, that I have yet to find fault with their recommendation. He is young, but apparently not completely untrained, although I have yet to discover where his experience comes from."

He placed the candlestick on the other side of the fish. As much as Rottländer amused him, he would have preferred to learn about Wickham's recent encounter with the French. But as the host it befitted him to keep the conversation within those limits comfortable to his guest, and he wasn't sure whether the guardsman would welcome any question in that direction.

Accepting a bit of fish, he inquired in a bantering tone:
"Am I to assume that your current batman isn't giving satisfaction or has some darker fate deprived you of his services?"

George nodded at Torrington's last statement.

"Unfortunately, my man was killed in our last battle. Right nightmare that was, too." He'd spent part of the day yesterday looking for old Corporal March, and was surprised to find that he was indeed dead. The old man had reminded him of his father. Well, except for the fact his father had disowned him, but that wasn't relevant.

"I was thinking of sharing a friend's batman, but dear God, that boy would burn water if you let him. I'll have to muck about and see if there's anyone else available."

George picked out another of the better looking pieces he'd hacked off and put it on a plate. Then he took a sip of the wine.

"I'm rather hoping we go up against the French again soon. They did quite a job of trouncing us back in May." He wasn't sure if Torrington wanted to hear more about that fiasco, but he'd talk if he did.

Serving himself some carrots, then handing the plate to Wickham, Edward nodded.

"That seems to be a general wish around here. May I ask what happened? I was already at sea when the dispatch would have reached London and what news I got in Lisbon was rather confused. I hope you yourself weren't wounded?"

George took the carrots, then set the plate aside.

"It was a mess, pretty much. I had part of the light company. We went out with the Rifles to take a look about." He paused to take a sip of wine.

"The French surprised us with cavalry. It turned into a total rout, from what I remember. I got a nasty knock on the head, though the surgeon says it should heal up quickly. Tried to bleed me, but I told him no. I left enough blood back on the field." Well, it was just a scraped knee, but it had still bled.

He knew he was being a bit vague, but there was no sense frightening the man with tales of gore and grue.

"So how is dear old England? Any news?"

Edward chewed slowly. He was not sure what kind of news Wickham referred to. If it was, as he suspected, to those that ought more aptly be termed 'gossip', the Edward was ill-equipped to provide them. He had never been much interested in it, and only a younger sister who had devoured any piece of gossip that came her way and insisted on telling it to him saved him now from being completely ignorant. There were some more serious matters, however, which - with the right dressing and in connection with some of Isabella's titbits - might serve the purpose.

"Animosities between Mr. Canning and Lord Castlereagh have reached new heights. Good manners have so far prevented any outbreak, but it appears to be only a matter of time now."

He took another bite and searched his memory for another bit of news that might interest his guest.

"There was some fear that ships from Swedish ports may carry a contagious disease. When I left, all such ships were to observe a quarantine and the street vendors were selling bags of lavender against the 'Swedish Fever', but as far as I know, no outbreak had yet occurred. Lady Turnhill however quitted town immediately, taking with her most of those bags, I presume. Sweden isn't very well liked at the moment, now that they have deposed their king."

What else? Ah, yes:
"There's a new race in Newmarket; 2.000 Guineas, for three-year-olds. Wizard won, but it was a close-run thing. Bets had been 3:1 on Hurricane. Lord Grosvenor was livid."

"Bloody hell," George said. "That Hurricane's a fine horse too. Have you heard anything else about this Wizard?" Mind, he had no mare to put to stud or anything, but one could always dream, no? He took a sip of his wine.

He'd heard of the falling out of Canning and Lord Castlereagh, but hadn't paid much attention to it. Politicians were the same everywhere - a few spats, some paper being pushed about and nothing ever accomplished.

"A chestnut from Mr. Wilson's stable, by Sorcerer. The dam was a daughter of Precipitate, I think. Perren trained the horse for Wilson, of course, but it was bought from Mr. Goodison. It appears that he thinks about retiring."

Edward took the last bite of fish on his plate, then set his cutlery aside. Refilling his guest's and his own glass, he continued:

"You might want to consider Sorcerer's other offspring as well. Those running did all rather well: Thunderbolt won the Newmarket Stakes, and his Grace of Grafton's Doleful and General Gower's new foal, the Maid of New Orleans, won as well. I instructed my agent to keep an eye out when Morton's stud is put up for auction this year. He has two or three dams with foals by Sorcerer. Are you a breeder yourself, Sir?"

"No, merely one who wishes he was," George replied. If it hadn't been for D'arcy's sanctimoniousness, he probably would have been. How was he to know he had eyes on that black mare - Jinx, her name had been, and Jinx she had been for George. However, the possibilities for loot, fame and fortune were high on the Peninsula.

"Do you think your agent would be willing to act on my behalf?" he asked. Perhaps not, but it did not hurt to ask. "I may be interested in something out of Sorceror myself."

His credit was good, and if need be, well, he could get the money somehow. Perhaps a trip to Bath, or if he wanted the exotic, Baden in whatever principality it was in.

OOC: George means what is today Baden-Baden in Germany.

Edward was little taken aback by the question. He usually didn't share. Since he had had to come out of the relative anonymity of being the strange, quiet second son, people often asked, but after he had found out that most people only wanted and gave because of what he was, he usually did not even listen anymore before declining. He had imparted what information he had in the knowledge that his agent was one of the best at what he did and that here was little chance of Wickham interfering with his own plans. He didn't buy too many horses, but those he did were carefully selected and usually he wasn't beaten at Tattersall's once his decision was made.

A curtly polite refusal had been already on his lips, but he took a moment to reconsider. It was not as easy to tell Wickham to go and find his own agent; they were no longer in England where he could look candidates over for himself, but a continent away where only recommendations would help to find trustworthy people. He didn't doubt that before long he would need the same assistance.

Yet he didn't doubt that Wickham would go like him for the best horses. Who wouldn't? But this would leave his agent in a quandary or, as he preferred to believe, him unable to assure his fellow officer that the agent would put his best efforts forward to assist Wickham. Well, perhaps the best was simply to point the facts out. With a slightly cynical voice, but also with not inconsiderable self mockery, he replied:

"Perhaps, but I fear that it would be rather unfair to you. I hope of course that my longer patronage might make him decide in my favour should our wishes clash."

OOC: It's less then 30km from where I live. I'm there quite frequently, although it must have been much more splendid back then.