The Grand Review - 17th May

[This is the general thread for the Grand Review. Preparations before the review are takling place before dawn.

The order of inspection for the named regiments will go as;

5th Foot
27th Foot
33rd Foot
62nd Foot
60th Rifles
95th Rifles
1st KGL Hussars
15th Hussars
Engineers (Is there a proper Regimental number?).

Lieutenant Jaegar is entertaining Miss Blacklock here.]

George stumbled out of bed just as the sun began to rise. He breakfasted and dressed himself, his uniform looking impeccable. The early morning preparations for the review went smoothly enough but he was nonetheless in a foul mood: his nose was bruised and hurt like hell, and he was regretting not having killed the bastard who was responsible for it.

Making sure that his horse was ready and saddled, George made his way to meet the General and other Staff Officers.

"Good morning, Hunter," Wellesley said, as he caught sight of the young aide arriving. In honour of the occassion Wellesley had donned his dress uniform, his bright red coat gorgeous with gold lace and the sash of his Order across his chest, his officers' sash neatly around his slender waist overwhich his sword belt was fastened. If anyone had thought Wellesley looked formidable in just his plain blue coat, then he was certainly impressive in uniform. The General regarded Hunter's bruised nose and raised an eyebrow.

"Have a rough night, did you?"

'Yes, sir, but not as rough as the other man,' answered George a little grumpily. That fact did not lift his spirits at all.

"So long as I do not end up with a complaint on my desk later today," Wellesley said gruffly, bending down and tightening the girth on Hercules' saddle with a sudden yank. The horse snorted in protest, disappointed that he had been caught out.

"Use your hat to shade your face."

George's lips thinned in annoyance, as he put on his hat.
'I doubt that spys will have the audacity to complain to you, sir, about being hurt in the line of duty.'
He sensed the residual dislike in Firebird towards the General's horse, but she seemed happy to ignore him for the moment.

Wellesley straightened up and gave Hunter a very hard stare.

"Spies?" He said distastefully. "Who in God's name would be spying on you?"

The rest of the Staff were looking at Hunter now as well, expressions of impatience, disbelief and faint amusement directed at him.

George nearly said 'you' but instead he shrugged.
'How am I to know, sir? The man managed to get away while I was taking him to Major Hogan, who by the way told me he would report this incident to you, sir. One would think that he was not spying on me, because I am me, but rather on account of who I serve, sir.' George was getting very annoyed: he did not care how others looked at him, but the General's pretence was starting to become intolerable for George in his current mood.

Wellesley snorted dismissively, putting on his white gloves.

"When Hogan informs me of something is rather left to his own discretion," he said bitterly. "I will ask him what progress he has made, if any."

And tell him to damn whichever of his men had been stupid enough to get caught out.

"You are certain it was not just some footpad?"

George looked down onto his horse's neck, the shade from his hat hiding his scowl partly.
'I am quite certain he was not, sir.' George hated being ridiculed almost more than anything. 'I hope he has not bled to death, maybe then there'll be some proof to my words.'

"Let us hope so," Wellesley said coldly, placing his foot in the stirrup and mounting Hercules gracefully. Once seated comfortably in the saddle he turned to Hunter again.

"And if any bodies of suspected footpads turn up I shall invite you to identify them."

Later George would kick himself for letting his bad mood take over and making him hint rather heavily that he knew the spy's 'provenance', but now he turned to Wellesley, his eyes narrowing slightly.
'I am sure my presence would not be necessary to make an identification, sir.'

Wellesley's expression, though not changing in the least, seemed to become far more stony than before.

"Then I shall be certain when the report of a dead Portguese footpad comes in to me from the civilian authorities to not waste time with an inquiry as to who killed him," he said coolly.

He glanced around at the remaining Staff officers.

"Gentlemen, are we ready?"

George's scowl deepened. I fancy I know what the outcome of the trial would be, he thought to himself, mounting. Whatever he thought of the General before, now he was certain of one thing: he did not like the man, not one bit. He did not even have the decency to admit he had him watched, when George all but said he suspected as much. As if George planned on doing anything 'shady' while there were spys on his tail.

Firebird as if sensing the anger and dislike emanating from her rider, snorted disdainfully, flicking her tail.

On his part Sir Arthur was furious that Hunter had chosen such a moment to bring up this subject. Had Hunter asked him in private, after the Review, he most likely would have owned-up to the fact that he was having the boy watched - after all, he had not received any information to compromise him. But to admit such a thing in public, to even suggest that he would spy on the other members of his Family who he knew and trusted, was to jeopardise his working relationship with them. He would speak to Hunter later; he had to after this - but for now there was a Review to hold.

"Walk on," he said softly to Hercules, touching his heels back and the stallion started off in a walk across the stable yard.

George let the other Staff Officers move past him as they followed the General and only then, muttering a few choice curses in Russian, he allowed Firebird to move.

It was exactly twenty minutes to nine as the Staff party rode out from Headquarters towards the outlying fields where the army was formed up, waiting already for ten minutes. They would reach their destination in five minutes, then next Sir Arthur would have to exchange pleasantries with the Dignitaries along with any notables present - an operation which in its turn would take probably another ten minutes, which would then leave five minutes to get into position and then start the Review at nine. Of all the gentlefolk left in Coimbra nearly all had turned out to see the spectacle of the British forces lined up on parade - fine ladies and gentlemen in their carriages with picnics, the ladies questioning why such an event had to take place so early in the day and not be later to their convenience.

A speckle of dust got up George's nose. He managed to smother the following sneeze, but the resulting wave of pain made him wince and swear quietly.
They were next to the group of Dignitaries now. George threw a glance towards the gentlefolk spectators and scowled.

From his place amongst the the well-dressed men and women of Coimbra's upper class, sitting in a open carriage, Fandorin could see the General and the Staff officers arrive and stop to make polite conversation with the dignitaries. He heard Professor Brotero, his host, so to speak, heave a sigh, as the women twittered and giggled at the appearance of the gold-laced group: one of the women who giggled and hid her smile behind the fan, was Brotero's daughter. Brotero was right to be cautious: his daughter was a good-looking girl and a little too fiery for her father's comfort, already she made eyes at Widmayer over the top of her fan.

Josef was sitting next to him in the carriage, an unsual place for a servant, but Fandorin passed him off as his personal secretary to Brotero, and the man accepted it easily enough.

Feeling as a spectator instead of a participant, had felt rather odd in the past weeks. It had changed little when Fandorin brought him to see the spectacle that was the review. Seated at his side, he'd contained the professional interest that he had for the army's presentation. With a slightly submissive, shy look that he'd put on for just the occasion, he was any ounce a loyal secretary and servant.

Looking about, when an interesting conversation had drawn his attention, he caught the flirtatious look of Brotero's young daughter, Amalia. She was just of the age when her father would have to worry about her suitors and when she might throw cation to the wind, dreaming of making true what she'd read in her books.

He'd seen her a couple of times, when coming or going for Fandorin's errands and remembered her introduced at an occasion. There was no doubt of her beauty, as was clear with what looks she recieved by some of the young gentry. He smiled very subtly at the girl and lowered his gaze.

'I shall be glad when they leave Coimbra, even though they are here to fight the French.' Remarked Brotero with a glance at Amalia. 'They do so disturb the life of the city.' Amalia almost succeded in hiding her pout but it was obvious that she was of a rather different opinion.

Fandorin smiled: 'Sometimes a little disturbance is good for us.' Leaning forward, he flicked his wrist and suddenly there was a cut bloom of a flower, that he prepared earlier, knowing that Amalia was to accompany them. Amalia gasped and giggled taking the offering, while Fandorin threw a reassuring glance at her father: he had no intention to get entangled with the young lady, however beautiful she was. Besides, he was too old to interest her: indeed she already was throwing glances at Widmayer as she sniffed the flower, wanting to see if Fandorin's action caused any feelings on Josef's part.

Widmayer looked away from Fandorin, as cooly as he could master. After a brief moment though, feeling the eyes of the girl on him, he allowed himself a small glance. He dropped his eyes quickly, as if just caught in the act, his lips pursed in a thin line. There was some tension on his face, looking at the flower with a small bit of displeasure. It was all a play after all, but one he'd been starting to enjoy.

Brotero looked at the flower in his daughter's hands and turned to Fandorin.
'That is a very good specimen of iris xiphium. The yellow colouring is particularly striking. I have always preffered it to iris latifolia, there is only a mark of yellow in the centre of it's petals...' and off the man went. Fandorin listened to his monologue on irises, thinking that the University could not have made a better choice for the chair of botany.

Amalia, seeing her father preoccupied with his favourite topic of conversation, threw a more daring glance at Josef. The man might be a secretary, but he was very handsome and not much older than her. And his shyness and annoyance at Fandorin's gesture was very endearing.

He had to keep up with his act and not even a lady could woo him to betray the image they both have so finely created. Still, she was a lovely looking girl, and she was a daring little vixen. He had no doubt many a man might find his heart broken once she turned her back on them. The beauty, he thought, that she might some day curse. Hopefully it wouldn't be a day that the French come, or that she might find herself in a wrong place at the wrong time, what with drunken redcoats were concerned.

Lost in his thoughts he just caught another look she had given him. He smiled at her, this time, more boldly, as if the Botero's distraction had given him right for it. With a gentle gesture he might have indicated a greeting as well as a silent flattery to her presence.

Amalia twirled the iris in her hand thoughtfully and threw another, studying glance over Widmayer. Secretary he may be, but then she was not exactly an aristocrat, through dressed modestly, his clothes were of good quality and he was handsome enough to be a Count's son. Her father and his German friend seemed to be deep in conversation.

'Papa, I think I shall take a small walk. Would you allow Senhor Widmayer to accompany me?'
Brotero too preoccupied by discussing the growing conditions of a certain breed of iris, nodded without turning to Amalia. It was Fandorin who threw a glance at her and then at Widmayer, to him he nodded his permission.

Amalia smiled coyly at Widmayer and waited for him to help her out of the carriage.