EllenChapter 18 Noblesse oblige
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Dynasty And Destiny; Book 6 Of Poacher's ProgressChapter 8: Noblesse Oblige free porn video
September 3rd 1826. Monmouth House. London
We had returned from Grantham the previous evening, Jean-Woodrow was enrolled as a day boy at The King’s School and had remained behind. Mimi shed a few tears when we left him, but knew it was for the best. The Allens were only too happy to have their grandson stay with them, and John Renoir Blanchard Allen, as he was entered on the school register, was already friends with many of those boys of the town who would now be his school companions.
We had finished breakfast, and I was debating whether to visit Colonel Nettlefold at MI5, when there came a loud knocking at the front door.
The butler, retained by the Monmouths to look after the house during their frequent absences, returned from the entrance hall accompanied by a young cornet of Life Guards.
“This gentlemen wishes to speak to you, Colonel.”
“What is it you want, Cornet... ?”
He saluted. “Carter, sir. Cornet James Earl Carter, at your service, Colonel.”
I could see that the man, boy more like, was embarrassed and could hardly meet my eye.
“Well?” I prompted him.
He took a deep breath. “Colonel Greenaway, by order of the Commander in Chief, you are to accompany me to Saint James’s Palace.”
Surprise coloured my voice. “What on earth does His Grace the Duke of York want with me?”
It was superfluous question. A mere cornet, even an ADC, as Carter appeared to be, would not be in the confidences of the Commander in Chief of the British Army, and Cornet Carter wisely ignored my question.
“If I am to appear before the C in C I need to in a more fitting style of dress than at present.” I said.
Cornet Carter nodded. “Your appointment is for eleven thirty, Sir, and your wife may accompany you if you wish.”
Curiouser and curiouser. The Duke of York, although a womaniser and well-known libertine, as were all the sons of George III, did not usually invite the wives or mistresses of those he summoned to his – a thought then struck me. I was summoned to Saint James’s Palace, rather than Horse Guards where the Duke of York had his office.
I shrugged, and supposed the Duke had business at the palace and wanted to kill two birds with one stone, which is probably an unfortunate choice of phrase.
“I shall be ready to leave when you are, Jacques,” Mimi said, and rose from the breakfast table and made her way to the door. She turned, and gave Cornet Carter a brilliant smile.
“I assure you I will not take too long and keep you waiting, James.” She swept out of the room, leaving young James Carter blushing like a virgin bride.
I heard the clock of Holy Trinity strike half past ten as the landau bearing Mimi and myself, escorted by six Life Guards commanded by Cornet Carter, ADC to the C in C, clattered away from Monmouth House along Grosvenor Road.
Not knowing the reason for the coming meeting I refused to worry, instead my thoughts went back to the time Mimi and I had spent in Grantham.
It was as happy and pleasant a visit as I had hoped. My family, and the Allens, fell in love with Mimi and the two girls at first sight. The Allens took to their grandson as only grandparents can, and Arlow Allen, Woodrow’s brother, became Jean-Woodrow’s constant companion. Josh Chamberlain had driven us to Grantham, and I allowed him a month’s absence to visit his parents in Sleaford, although he was reluctant to leave the side of Claudette, who of course accompanied us.
I smiled in remembrance at how quickly Josh Chamberlain had become intimate with Claudette; although as far as I knew nothing sexual had yet taken place between them.
The carriage and escort swung into Pall Mall, bringing me back to the present, and to a subject I needed to discuss with Mimi.
“What did you think of Grantham, Mimi.”
“It is a lovely place, Jacques. The people are so friendly, and the countryside is verdant and beautiful.”
“Could you see yourself living there part of the year?”
She nodded “Yes indeed. We could spend time there when Jean–Woodrow is at school, but I hope we would return to Blanchards frequently.”
“Of course we will. But when Jean–Woodrow is of age he will be Master of Blanchards and we will be his lodgers, probably residing in the Dower House.”
“I have many happy memories of the Dower House, Jacques.”
“As do I, my love.” I said, and gave her a warm kiss, which was returned in full measure.
I heard chuckles from one or two of the accompanying escort.
“Eyes front, trooper!” Cornet Carter’s voice, more castrato than baritone, whipped through the air and all fell silent, save for the crunch of gravel under the iron-rimmed wheels of the carriage, and the jingle of harnesses.
Eventually the landau reached Saint James’s Palace, pulling into a courtyard at the rear. I noted several other carriages in the area, with a gaggle of females grouped by a double-doored entrance.
“Missus Greenaway may join those by the door to the public gallery, Colonel.” Cornet Carter said, indicating the waiting assembly by the double doors. “You will be shown to the anteroom of the throne room.”
He saluted as Mimi and I left the carriage.
A flunky in the Royal livery approached me.
“If you will kindly follow me, Colonel.” He said, and then set off across the quadrangle of the courtyard. Mimi shot me a worried look over her shoulder as she was led away to join the ladies.
I gave a nonchalant shrug, hoping to overcome her anxiety by my apparent sang-froid but in truth I was apprehensive of what was to happen. I squared my shoulders and followed the flunky through a door guarded by a Grenadier guardsman.
I could feel the coldness of the sword’s blade against my neck through the silk of my shirt collar. Looking up into the emotionless face of the man holding the sword I knew that what he was about to do he had done many times before. There was nothing personal in his actions; this was merely a duty.
The sword moved away from my exposed neck, and I tensed as the blade landed on my other shoulder.
“Arise, Colonel Sir Elijah John Greenaway.” King George IV said, in a lacklustre, bored, tone of voice.
I rose from the kneeling stool, bowed, and then took the mandatory fourteen rearward steps away from the throne.
I bowed again, turned to my right and approached the Grand Chamberlain, who draped a richly embroidered robe trimmed with ermine around my shoulders.
“Welcome to the Most Honourable Military Order of the Bath, Sir Elijah,” he said.
He noted the look of stupefaction and bewilderment on my face, and gave a slight smile.
“You were a last minute addition to today’s investiture, Sir Elijah. Your bravery, and quick thinking, in saving the life of their Royal Highnesses the Duchess of Kent and the Princess Alexandrina Victoria, had two Royal Dukes demanding you be made a Knight Commander of the Order for the deed, and so here you are.”
The thought came to me that had I turned left instead of right when leaving The Pig in a Poke I would still be plain Colonel Greenaway, and would now be having carnal knowledge of my wife, an exercise enjoyed most days before luncheon when the girls were having a nap. Instead, I was in a royal palace with a knighthood.
A voice at my shoulder brought me back to the present.
“You know we have to fork out our own cash for these damned expensive garments?” He indicated his robe. “The ermine is probably bleached rabbit fur, and the robe is not made with good English wool but manufactured from shoddy in a sweat shop in Macclesfield. Even so Fat George will charge us the going rate for the best materials.”
I stared at the fellow alongside of me. He also wore the ermine trimmed robe of a member of the Order of the Bath.
He continued his tirade. “Twenty guineas for the privilege of being inducted into the Order, and that don’t include the cost of the regalia and star. Fat George is a spendthrift with other folk’s cash, but keeps a tight hand on his own. He is the Commander of the Order and should by rights be responsible for the costs of the robes and other fripperies. All his predecessors were mindful of their duties and responsibilities, but not Fat George.”
I thought him rather disrespectful, as King George IV, the Fat George of whom the man spoke, was about to dub another worthy a Knight of the Realm.
“Err, no, I was not aware we had to fund our own robes and regalia, but surely the honour outweighs the expense?” I said.
I received an incredulous stare, in reply, followed by a world-weary shrug of his shoulders.
“Yes, you are right.It is a great honour to be knighted, it just sticks in my craw that Fat George extracts money from the proceedings.” He held out his hand. “Richard Sharpe, Ninety Fifth Rifles.”
I took his hand and shook it with vigour. Richard Sharpe’s name was well known to me. He was held in the highest respect by the rank and file of the army, although many senior officers were not as fulsome in their praises of him as were the general public.
Cheryl
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