The Wellington Tour: Masterpiece Theatre

The Wellington Tour is still nine months away and so I do not dwell on it. Much. It would be folly for me to think on the prospect of seeing England again this far ahead of our departure. So I've decided that the best thing to do is to put the Tour as far from my mind as possible. You would think it would be relatively easy to accomplish this state of enforced amnesia, but it is not. Reminders seem to be round every bend. Rory Muir's new biography of the Duke of Wellington was just published in December and so I've been reading reviews of it whilst awaiting the arrival of my own copy (oh, Joy!). And then there are the gossip items one can't help reading lately regarding the engagement of the present Duke of Wellington's granddaughter, Sofia Wellesley, to ex-guardsman and current crooner James Blunt, pictured below. Lately, one can hardly turn around without encountering the Duke of Wellington. And there was the diorama of the Duke of Wellington's funeral procession, with rolls of handcoloured pictures of all the dignitaries and their carriages, which I found recently on eBay. It looked something like a thicker Etch-A-Sketch, the pictures moved along rollers that were controlled by the two knobs beneath the glass window. Alas, I was forced to stop bidding when the price flew above four hundred dollars, more's the pity. It would have been a grand addition to my future Wellington Museum.

And then there's Masterpiece Theatre, which seems to be on a mission to remind me of the Wellington Tour on a regular basis. I watch a lot of PBS, and thus have been treated to the spate of commercials and programs running up to the premiere of the new season of Downtown Abbey. PBS has been running Season Three episodes of Downton Abbey almost non-stop. Hubby has even gotten into the spirit of things, though unwittingly.

"Hey, Hon!"
"Yeah?"
"You watching your PBS?" (Hubby watches his shows in the living room - I in the bedroom).
"No. Why?"
"That woman's on again. You know, the one who's in every British program ever made."

I switched over to our PBS channel, where I saw the Dowager Countess of Grantham on the screen. "Maggie Smith," I yelled."It's Downton Abbey. I'm going there."
"Riiight."
"Downton is really Highclere Castle and we're going there on the Wellington Tour."
"Better you than me. My good man," answered Hubby.

In fact, I'm watching The Secrets of Highclere Castle - again - as I write this.  Once more I hear that Highclere Castle costs roughly a million pounds a year to maintain. And that within it's walls is the priceless Van Dyck of Charles I, visible in the photo below.

I wonder if the family will be at breakfast when we arrive . . . . . . Once more, I'm told that in 1839 Highclere House was remodeled in the Gothic style. And that Capability Brown redesigned the landscape, which features a ruin-like folly and various temples, including the Temple of Diana, below.

In fact, the more I think on it, the more I realize that what I want to see most at Highclere are the grounds.

In the photo above, we see one of the fifty-six Cedars of Lebanon planted by the first Earl. I'm glad that Victoria and I have blocked out an entire day for our visit to Highclere, so that we'll all have the time to take it in at our leisure. You can click this think for a map of the grounds.

This will also leave us plenty of time to visit the Tea Rooms

Highclere Castle Afternoon Tea Menu Tea and Coffee A glass of Sparkling Elderflower/Champagne Selection of sandwiches that may include; Roasted Chicken and Stuffing Smoked Salmon and Horseradish Honey Baked Ham Egg and Cress Freshly Baked Scones Clotted Cream and Homemade Jam A selection of cakes: Victoria Sponge, Carrot Cake or a Coffee and Cream Cake

and, naturally, the Gift Shop. But returning to the house . . . .

I do want to see Lady Mary's bedroom . . . . . . .

where Mr. Pamuk died. 

It's part of the tour, as is the gallery along which the ladies of the house carried the body.

I know, I know - with all that's happened on Downton Abbey, why do I keep going back to that episode? Could it be because it was strangely comedic?

Of course, I'll be tuning into Downton Abbey this Sunday since I can't wait to find out what Thomas the Footman has up his sneaky sleeve this season. That should keep me from thinking about The Wellington Tour. Much.

Why not consider joining Victoria and me on our Tour?  We'd love to have you with us as we experience all the fun of Highclere Castle, as well as the exciting feast of additional sites we have planned.

The Wellington Tour - Tea, Anyone?

Once Victoria and I had hammered out the itinerary for The Wellington Tour, we handed it over to Patty Suchy of Novel Explorations and asked her to work her travel agent magic as far as pricing and logistics were concerned. Before long, it was time for Victoria and I to call Patty and learn how she'd made out with the plans.

Patty:  Hello?

Victoria: Hey, Patty, it's Kristine and Vicky.

Patty:  Well hello! You're together?

Victoria: Yes, we're together and ready to hear how you made out.

Patty:  I've got to tell you, this hasn't been easy. You two picked several spots that are terribly difficult to get into.

Kristine: What do you mean, difficult to get into? Are you referring to Stratfield Saye, which seems as though it's only open one day a year?

Patty: Yes, and Frogmore House, which is also rarely open. Not to mention Highclere Castle.

Victoria:  What about Highclere Castle?

Patty: It seems that since the all the Downton Abbey hoopla reached a fever pitch, they've been inundated with visitor and tour requests. They've had to limit visiting times and then there's having to work around the shooting schedule for the show itself. They're having to restrict admissions and they're already booked up for months ahead of time. It's very difficult.

Kristine: Are you saying we can't get in?

Patty: No. I'm telling you that I'm still working on getting all the stars to line up as far as opening days for several of the places you want to include. The rest of the tour is no problem, but these three places are tricky. I'm still waiting to hear back from the people at Highclere.

Kristine: I was thinking it might be nice to have tea while we're there.

Patty: Tea? You can have all the tea you like. They have tea rooms on site. Tea shouldn't be problem.

Victoria: No, we meant an afternoon tea in the house or gardens. You know, little sandwiches and cakes and things.

Patty: Well, I'll ask when I speak to them, but a special, dedicated tea service for the tour group might be costly.

Kristine: We'll just tack it on to the tour price. It's something Vicky and I would like to do and I think everyone would really enjoy it. It's one of those once in a lifetime things.

Patty: I agree, it would be fantastic. Alright then, I'll ask when I speak to their representative. Do you have any idea on dates for the tour?

I looked at Victoria, who shrugged her shoulders in reply.

Kristine: Let's try to shoot for sometime when it won't be freezing cold.

Patty: I'll keep that in mind, but remember that one of the tours you and I did together a few years ago was in June and we all froze.

Kristine: Who could forget? Why don't you see how the opening times work out and we'll talk again in a few days?

And so a few days went by, with Victoria and I waiting on pins and needles, before we called Patty again.

Patty:  Hello?

Kristine: Hey, it's Kristine and Vicky.

Patty:  Well, I have to tell you, I've had a rough few days trying to work all of this out. It's been a struggle.

Victoria: I can appreciate that and we do appreciate all you've done, Patty.

Kristine: What's the bottom line?

Patty: Bottom line is we keep Frogmore, Stratfield Saye and Highclere Castle on the itinerary.

Kristine: You're a star!

Patty: But there isn't going to be a Downton Abbey tea.

Victoria: There's isn't?

Patty: No. It's just too expensive.

Kristine: How expensive?

Patty: Over a thousand dollars.

Kristine: So? What's that, like fifty dollars added to the tour price per person?

Patty: That is the per person price.

Victoria: What's the per person price?

Patty: Nearly a thousand dollars. Per person. Not in total.

Kristine: Are you telling me they're charging at least twenty thousand dollars for afternoon tea? Who's serving it, Bates and Mr. Carson themselves?

Patty: Mr. Bates can't serve tea. He's got a gimpy leg.

Victoria: For twenty thousand dollars, I'd better be seated next to Maggie Smith.

Patty: There are always the tea rooms.

Kristine: I suppose. More importantly, what did you hear from Stratfield Saye?

Victoria: Maybe we can have tea there with the Duke of Wellington. He'd probably charge less than twenty thousand dollars.

Patty: We can get into Stratfield Saye. Not a problem. However, in order to get into all of these places on the same tour, we'd have to schedule the Tour for September."

Victoria and I looked at one another, trying to work out the pitfalls of a September Tour. We couldn't come up with any.

Victoria: What's wrong with September?

Patty: Nothing's wrong with September. It's really an excellent time to visit England. It just means that you two wouldn't have a choice of the other months.

Kristine: You got anything planned for next September?

Victoria: Not that I can think of at the moment. And if I did, I'd rearrange it.

Kristine: We have no problem with September.

Patty: Good. I've blocked the tour out for the fourth through the fourteenth.

Victoria: Sounds good.

Patty: Okay. Now that we have our dates, I'll work on firming up all the details.

We hung up and it wasn't till much later that I realized the last day of the Tour would coincide with the last day of the Duke of Wellington's life - September 14, 1852.

Click Here For Complete Details on

THE WELLINGTON TOUR

The Wellington Connection: Lord Londonderry

From The Despatches, Correspondence, and Memoranda of Field Marshal Arthur, Duke of Wellington

 

Robert Stewart, Viscount Castlereagh, Lord Londonderry

Wellington's letter to Mr. Bankhead
 London, 9th Aug.. 1822

Dear Sir: I called upon you with the intention of talking to you about Lord Londonderry, and of requesting you would call upon him. He promised me that he would send for you, but, lest he should not, I entreat you to find some pretence for going down to him. I entertain no doubt that he is very unwell. It appears that he has been overworked during the session, and that his mind is overpowered for the moment and labours under a delusion. I state the impression made upon me in the interview I have just had with him. I told him that this was my impression, and I think it is his own, and he will probably communicate it to you; but, lest he should not, I tell you what I think, begging you never to mention to anybody what I have told you.  I am setting out this moment for the Netherlands; I would have stayed with Lord Londonderry, but he would not allow me. I shall be very much obliged to you if you will write me a line and have it left at my house to let me know how you find him, and particularly if you think I am mistaken.

Ever, dear Sir, yours most faithfully,
Wellington


Mr. Bankhead to Field Marshall the Duke of Wellington
Lower Brook Street, 9th Aug., 1822
My Lord,

I am this moment (8 o'clock) returned to my own house from Lord Londonderry's, where I have been for two hours; and I lose not a moment in answering the letter which your Grace has condescended to write to me. Thirty years intimacy with Lord Londonderry makes me know his peculiarities intimately. His nerves are never unstrung unless when he has some bodily indisposition. I conceive that at this moment he has a preternatural fullness of the vessels of the head, and that this (rather than the wear and tear of work) makes him nervous. I have had him cupped, and he experiences the greatest possible relief in the feelings of his head and of his mental competency.

He is gone down to Cray with Lady Castlereagh, and I purpose to see him there to-morrow. Perhaps a feverish affection of a few days may follow this casual derangement of the system, but knowing the natural soundness of Lord Londonderry's constitution, I have no doubt but that by quietness and ordinary care of a few days he is likely soon again to be reinstated in his general health.

I know that Lady Londonderry has written a few lines to your Grace before she left St. James's Square.

I have the honour to be,

your Grace's most obedient humble servant,

Charles Bankhead

 

 

Lady Amelia Anne Hobart, Marchioness of Londonderry

To the Duke of Wellington from the Marchioness of Londonderry

London, 9th Aug., 1822.

My Lord: From your kind feeling with respect to Lord Londonderry I am sure you will be glad to hear that he saw Bankhead, who ordered him to be cupped. The blood resembled jelly, and he was instantly relieved, and I have hopes that he will be well in a few days; but I really think he was upon the verge of a brain fever.
 

Yours most sincerely,

A.Londonderry

 

 

Lord Fitzroy Somerset, afterwards 1st Baron Raglan

Lord Fitzroy Somerset to Field Marshal the Duke of Wellington.

London, 12th August, 1822.

My Dear Lord

It is with great concern that I have to announce to you the melancholy intelligence of the death of Lord Londonderry, which took place, by his own hands, this morning between seven and eight o'clock.

I enclose a copy of Bankhead's statement, which will show you what occurred from the time you first sent him to attend Lord Londonderry, and will prove to you that you were right in the apprehensions you expressed to Bankhcad that his mind was not what it ought to be.

Lord Liverpool, whom I saw as soon as he arrived from Combe Wood, desired me to communicate this lamentable event to you, and to express to you his wish that you should return to England immediately. He is in the greatest distress. His first idea was to set off for Scotland immediately, and break the intelligence to his Majesty himself; but upon reflection he has thought it best not to leave London, but to depute Mr. Peel to do that office for him. He laments your absence amazingly, and would have requested you to go to the King if you had been in the way. As it is, however, his Majesty is better prepared for the shock than anybody else, for he mentioned to Lord Liverpool on Saturday, that he had seen Lord Londonderry the day before, and was quite convinced that he was not right in his mind, and that he felt great alarm for the consequences of the break up of such a mind as Lord Londonderry's.

    Lord Liverpool has written to the King, and entreated his Majesty not to make any arrangement for filling Lord Londonderry's office till his return from Scotland, assuring him that he will keep the machine going till that time in the best way he can.

I understand from Bankhead that Lady Londonderry apprehended the possibility of Lord Londonderry's making away with himself, and placed everything out of his reach that she thought him likely to make use of; but unfortunately he had in one of his despatch-boxes the knife with which eventually he put an end to his life. He had got up in the night and gone into the dressing-room to wash his face, and then returned quietly to his bed.

I presume you will be able to arrive here between Thursday and Friday. Lord Liverpool looks forward to your return with great anxiety. Lord Westmorland and Lord Maryborough are the only ministers in town. The latter would have written to you, but Lord Liverpool has employed him to write to Lord Harrowby and Lord Wellesley; and as I am writing, he thinks it unnecessary to do so.

Your most faithful and affectionate,

Fitzroy Somerset

 

Enclosure-

 

Fife House, 12th Aug., 1822.

From the time Dr. Bankhead first saw Lord Londonderry on Friday evening last he was satisfied that his head was seriously affected, and that he laboured under very general mental delusion. He had been cupped in his house in St. James's Square on that evening, from which he seemed much relieved; and in the quiet of the evening Lord and Lady Londonderry went down to Cray, Dr. Bankhead promising to follow them the next day, and to stay at Cray all Sunday. On Friday night Lord Londonderry was restless, and asking many questions during the night, which manifested incoherence and delirium. On Saturday morning he took some opening medicine which Dr. Bankhead had sent him, remained in his bed all the day, and was kept particularly quiet, using slops only as nourishment, and barley-water as drink.
 

When Dr. Bankhead arrived at Cray in the afternoon of Saturday he found Lord Londonderry rather better from the favourable operation of the cooling medicine, but still there was heat and fever, great thirst, and an unusual watchfulness and suspicion of manner, and a constant anxiety lest he should not be well enough to go abroad in the appointed time. He asked several questions very irrelevant and quite at variance with his usual calm manner. In the night of Saturday he had some refreshing sleep, but on the whole of Sunday his fever still continued, as well as the delirium and unhappiness of mind and manner. Dr. Bankhead quitted his room about midnight, leaving his Lordship tolerably comfortable, and Lady Londonderry in the room with him, both retiring to rest. Dr. Bankhead slept in a room close to his Lordship, and on the morning of this day, about 7 o'clock, Lady Londonderry's maid called him, saying that Lord Londonderry wished to see him. Dr. Bankhead instantly repaired to the bedroom, but found that his Lordship had that moment gone into the dressing-room adjoining to the bedroom. On entering this instantly, the Doctor saw Lord Londonderry standing opposite to the window with his face to the ceiling, having on his dressing-gown. The Doctor immediately ran towards him, saying, "My dear Lord, why do you stand so?" upon which, without turning, he answered, "Bankhead, let me fall upon your arm; it is all over." In the agony of the moment, Dr. Bankhead caught him on his arm, and, dreadful to relate, saw a short-bladed knife in his right hand fiercely clenched, with which he had deeply divided the carotid artery; and from the sudden effusion of blood he fell instantly from Dr. Bankhead's arms on his face upon the floor, and was instantly dead without a struggle.

 

The Duke then wrote:

 

13th Aug., 1822.

I saw Lord Londonderry frequently during the last days of his life.

I dined with him on Saturday, the 3rd of August, at Cray, and sat next to him at dinner. There was a very large party, and I thought Lord Londonderry was in particularly good spirits at dinner.

I had occasion, both before and after dinner, to talk to him on subjects on which the delusions of his mind would have appeared, if he had at that time laboured under any. They related to certain anonymous letters received by Mr. Arbuthnot and others of the Treasury, which were known to come from a person by the name of Jennings, who had been under examination before a committee of the House of Commons; and although I thought Lord Londonderry was cold in his manner on the subject of some of these letters, which was not unusual with him, I never saw him more decided or more clear in his opinion. I saw a letter from him to Mr. Arbuthnot on the same subject the next day, Sunday, the 4th of August, in which he expressed himself with more than usual clearness and decision.

I did not see Lord Londonderry on Monday the 5th, but on Tuesday the 6th he came to the Ordnance office early, to a meeting of certain persons to consider of the means of reforming the commissariat in Canada. Upon this occasion I thought him very low. He took no part in the discussion, and manifested no interest in it. After the meeting had broken up he waited to talk to Mr. Arbuthnot and me about Jennings's letters, about which he showed that he felt more than I thought he had on the preceding Saturday, but there was no appearance of agitation respecting them.

I met Lord Londonderry at the Cabinet on Wednesday the 7th of August. The subject of discussion was the instructions for himself on his mission to Vienna. Lord Liverpool read them to the Cabinet, and there was some discussion upon them; but Lord Londonderry took no part in the discussion, and he appeared very low, out of spirits, and unwell. There was, however, no appearance of agitation. After the Cabinet was over I went into Mr. Beckett's, and after leaving him I met Lord Londonderry as he was coming out by the back door of his office. We walked together through the Park and the Ordnance office to his own house. Lord Londonderry was remarkably low and silent. He held me by the arm, but scarcely said a word; but there was no symptom of agitation.

After leaving him at his door I returned to my office, and in about half an hour went to Carlton House to take leave of the King previous to my departure for the Netherlands. I found Lord Londonderry at Carlton House. The King was gone out, and I walked with Lord Londonderry back to his own house, where I left him. He was equally low as before.

I had occasion, in about an hour afterwards, to go to my own house, and as I was returning down the Park I stopped to speak to his Royal Highness the Duke of York, who was in his buggy. Lord Londonderry came up the Park on horseback, and joined us, and in a few seconds I left him and the Duke of York together; he then appeared very low and out of spirits.

I did not see him on Thursday the 8th of August.

On Friday the 9th I was proceeding on horseback through St James's Square from the Ordnance office to my own house, to set out for the Continent at about four o'clock in the afternoon. Lady Londonderry called to me, and was talking to me from her window, when Lord Londonderry passed me in rather a quick and hurried pace, and told me he wanted to speak to me. I followed him into his house and his room.

I cannot give a better account of what passed in this interview than by copying a letter which I wrote to Mr. Arbuthnot (who had left London that evening) immediately after it was concluded, before I set out for Dover:—

 

London, 9th August, 1822.
My Dear Arbuthnot
"I am just setting off, but I cannot go without making you acquainted with the impression made upon my mind by an interview I have just had with Lord Londonderry.

"It appears to me that his mind and body have been overpowered by the work of the session, and that he is at this moment in a state of mental delusion. He took me into his house to talk to me about the same story that he told to you and to Lord Liverpool; and, strange to say, he imagined from my manner at the last Cabinet and afterwards walking home with him that I had heard of something against him and believed it. He thought the same of the Duke of York; and he told me some strange story of a man telling him this day that his horses were waiting for him when he was coming out of Carlton House, of his not having ordered his horses to town, and of the arrival of the horses, and of his being informed of their arrival, as proofs that the person who had ordered up his horses, and that the person who informed him they were waiting, thought there was so much against him that he ought to fly the country. This impression was so strong upon his mind that he rung the bell to desire that inquiry might be made as to who had ordered up his horses, and the delusion was not removed till he was informed that the horses were not in town.

"He is certainly very unwell, and I did not conceal from him my opinion that he was so, and that his mind was not in its usual and proper state. I offered to stay with him, but he would not allow me, as he said it would make people believe that there was some reason for it. I begged him to send for Dr. Bankhead, and, between ourselves, I have informed Dr. Bankhead that it is my opinion that he is labouring under a temporary delusion. He cried excessively while talking to me, and appeared relieved by it and by his conversation with me, and he promised me to see Bankhead.

"I am afraid that he has mentioned the story above referred to, to more persons than Lord Liverpool, you, and me. I have entreated him to say no more about it to anybody, but I fear he will.

"I write you all this in order to urge you to see him as soon as you can after you will return to London and observe him well, and see if his mind is quite right. If it is not, and he should go abroad, I think you ought to make him take Bankhead with him; and, if that is not accomplished, I think you ought to mention the matter to Planta. Otherwise, it is my opinion that this impression of mine should never go beyond ourselves.

"He is quite clear and right about public matters, but agreed with me that his mind had been overpowered by the work of the session, and that he was labouring under a delusion.

"Destroy this letter, and believe me, etc. Wellington."


The remains of the noble Marquess, after lying in state for several days, were removed from his house in St. James's Square, followed by the Ministers of State, principal Nobility, and private friends of his Lordship, in carriages, and interred, with funeral pomp, in Westminster Abbey, on Thursday, the 22d of August, 1822.

The Wellington Connection - Chad & Jeremy

You may recall that when Hubby and I were in London recently we did the Hop On, Hop Off bus tour, during which I learned that Jeremy Clyde, one half of the musical duo Chad and Jeremy, was related to the Duke of Wellington. This was news to me, so of course I had to do further research on the subject. It turns out that Jeremy's mother is Lady Elizabeth Clyde (b. 1918), the daughter of Gerald Wellesley, 7th Duke of Wellington, and Dorothy Violet Ashton, and is thus a great-great-granddaughter of Arthur Wellesley, 1st Duke of Wellington. Jeremy Clyde, born Michael Thomas Jeremy Clyde, is an actor as well as a musician and made his first public appearance as a pageboy to his grandfather, the Duke of Wellington, at the coronation of Queen Elizabeth II of the United Kingdom in 1953.

During the 1960s, he was one half of the folk duo Chad and Jeremy, who had little success in the UK but were an object of interest to American audiences. He has enjoyed a long television acting career, and continues to appear regularly on the tube, usually playing upper-middle class or aristocratic characters. Most recently, Jeremy appeared in Season 2, Episode 1 of Downton Abbey playing, coincidentally, a military general. Another coincidence, or not, is the uncanny resemblance Jeremy has to his ancestor, the first Duke of Wellington.

To learn more about Chad and Jeremy, the backstory of their partnership and what they're doing now, you can visit their website here.

The Wellington Connection: Creevey and Waterloo

 

 

 

The following is diarist Thomas Creevey's account of his meeting with the Duke of Wellington after the Battle of Waterloo originally published in The Creevey Papers (1909):

 

"About eleven o'clock, upon going out again, I heard a report that the Duke (of Wellington) was in Bruxelles; and I went from curiosity to see whether there was any appearance of him or any of his staff at his residence in the Park. As I approached, I saw people collected in the street about the house; and when I got amongst them, the first thing I saw was the Duke upstairs alone at his window. Upon his recognising me, he immediately beckoned to me with his finger to come up.*

 

"I met Lord Arthur Hill in the ante-room below, who, after shaking hands and congratulation, told me I could not go up to the Duke, as he was then occupied in writing his dispatch; but as I had been invited, I of course proceeded. The first thing I did, of course, was to put out my hand and congratulate him [the Duke] upon his victory. He made a variety of observations in his short, natural, blunt way, but with the greatest gravity all the time, and without the least approach to anything like triumph or joy. —' It has been a damned serious business,' he said. 'Blucher and I have lost 30,000 men. It has been a damned nice thing—the nearest run thing you ever saw in your life. Blucher lost 14,000 on Friday night, and got so damnably licked I could not find him on Saturday morning; so I was obliged to fall back to keep up [regain ?] my communications with him.'

 

"—Then, as he walked about, he praised greatly those Guards who kept the farm (meaning Hugomont) against the repeated attacks of the French; and then he praised all our troops, uttering repeated expressions of astonishment at our men's courage. He repeated so often its being so nice a thing—so nearly run a thing, that I asked him if the French had fought better than he had ever seen them do before.—' No,' he said, 'they have always fought the same since I first saw them at Vimeira.' Then he said:—'By God! I don't think it would have done if I had not been there.'

 

"When I left the Duke, I went instantly home and wrote to England by the same courier who carried his dispatch. I sent the very conversation I have just related to Bennet.  I think, however, I omitted the Duke's observation that he did not think the battle would have been won had he not been there, and I remember my reason for omitting this sentence. It did not seem fair to the Duke to state it without full explanation. There was nothing like vanity in the observation in the way he made it. I considered it only as meaning that the battle was so hardly and equally fought that nothing but confidence of our army in himself as their general could have brought them thro'. Now that seven years have elapsed since that battle, and tho' the Duke has become—very foolishly, in my opinion—a politician, and has done many wrong and foolish things since that time, yet I think of his conversation and whole conduct on the l9th—the day after the battle—exactly the same as I did then: namely—that nothing could do a conqueror more honor than his gravity and seriousness at the loss of lives he had sustained, his admission of his great danger, and the justice he did his enemy.

 

"I may add that, before I left him, I asked whether he thought the French would be able to take the field again; and he said he thought certainly not, giving as his reason that every corps of France, but one, had been in the battle, and that the whole army had gone off in such perfect rout and confusion he thought it quite impossible for them to give battle again before the Allies reached Paris."

* It may seem improbable that the Duke should have made himself so accessible to a mere civilian on such a momentous morning; but there is ample confirmation of Mr. Creevey's narrative from the Duke's own lips. In 1836 he described the circumstance to Lady Salisbury, who noted it in her journal (unpublished) as follows :—

"' I was called,' said the Duke, 'about 3 in the morning by Hume to go and see poor Gordon' (in the same inn at Waterloo),' but he was dead before I got there. Then I came back, had a cup of tea and some toast, wrote my dispatch, and then rode into Brussels. At the door of my own hotel I met Creevey: they had no certain accounts at Brussels, and he called out to me :—" What news?" I said :— "Why I think we've done for 'em this time." '"

The dispatch was begun at Waterloo and finished at Brussels, evidence of which remains in the draft of the original now at Apsley House, which is headed first "Waterloo," that is struck out and "Bruxelles " substituted.

A Couple In England - Day Five - Part Three

Finally, and all at once, taxi's drew up at the Station and I left Hubby to choose one and get our luggage into the boot while I climbed into the back seat. Okay, I fell into the back seat.  And I have to tell you that I have no memory of the drive to the hotel. It's all a feverish blur. But before long, we pulled up in front of Duke's Hotel - the place I had been longing to be for months.

I peered out the back passenger window at the building and could have cried. Literally. It was perfect; just as I'd imagined it would be. And here I was, arriving as a hot, feverish mess. Sigh. Hubby climbed out of the cab and went around to the boot in order to wrestle our bags to the sidewalk, while the taxi driver came around to open my door. I was still cognizant enough to know that this was my signal to exit the taxi and I tried my best to comply, rocking myself back and forth in an effort to propel myself from the rear seat. At least I think I rocked, but in any case I made no headway at all. The driver stooped to peer into the cab at me.

"Look," I told him, "If you want me out of this cab, you're going to have to pull me out. I haven't got  the strength to do it myself."

 

Somehow, Hubby and the cabby together got me out of the taxi and into the hotel, where we were greeted by a lovely young woman named Eliza. Duke's Hotel is nestled within the confines of a Georgian townhouse, with a lovely staircase in the entry and a reception room to the left. It is furnished like a gentleman's townhouse and filled with comfortable furniture, period fittings and artwork. What I recall most is that Duke's was filled with warmth and a feeling of home.

 

"Are you not feeling well?" Eliza asked kindly as I collapsed, all loose limbs, onto a sofa.

 

"I'm not. In fact, I think I may have died on the train somewhere around Didcot. Or it might have been Swindon."

 

"You came on the train?" Eliza refrained from adding in that condition? "Perhaps some tea would help?"

 

Oh, Eliza, you angel. I nodded.

 

"What kind of tea would you like?"

 

"Hot." I still felt as though my bone marrow had been removed and replaced with ice. I could not get warm.

 

Eliza bustled efficiently out of the sitting room in order to fetch the tea and I gazed around as Hubby put a hand to my forehead.

 

"You don't look so good, Hon. And you have a fever."

 

I nodded, expressionless.

 

"This is a nice place, huh?"

 

I nodded again.

 

Hubby went to peer out of a window. "Looks like there's a nice garden back here."

 

I continued to nod. A wooden Indian had nothing on me.

 

Eliza came back with the tea tray. "Shall I pour it for you?"

 

More nodding.

 

"Sugar?"

 

Nod.

 

"Milk?"

 

A raised hand. She gave me the cup and saucer and I sipped gratefully. Oh, joy! The tea felt wonderful going down my throat. It was hot and sweet and just the ticket.

 

 

 

 

"Thank you."

 

"My pleasure. We've all been looking forward to your stay with us. We've been reading and enjoying your blog."

 

"Thank you."

 

"I'm amazed at how much you know about British history."

 

Nod.

 

"And the content. It's excellent."

 

"Thank you," I repeated, taking a long pull at my cup of tea. I was dimly aware of the fact that this was the point at which I should probably mention Victoria's equal contribution to our blog, but I wasn't up to the task. Sorry, Vic.

 

"And you know so much about the Duke of Wellington. He was a fascinating man, wasn't he?"

 

Nod. Nod, mind you.  Now, as you are well aware, I would normally have welcomed nothing more than a relatively captive audience who displayed an interest in Georgian and Regency history, not to mention one who was also at least familiar with the Duke of Wellington. At any other time, I would have settled in for a nice chin wag about all manner of period topics. And all I could do in the moment was to nod.

 

"Let's get you upstairs, hmmmm? The Wellington Suite, yes?"

 

Oh, Eliza, you angel!

 

"This is a listed building and I'm afraid there's no lift," Eliza told us over her shoulder as we headed towards the stairs. I climbed the first three or four treads before I realized that I just might not be able to make it any further. I felt as though I might pass out. Good thing Hubby was bringing up the rear, I could use his body to break my fall should it become necessary.

 

We got to the second landing and I had to rest. My coat now felt has though it weighed three stone (forty-two pounds), at least.

 

"Give me your bag," Eliza said, taking my traveling shoulder bag from me and thus lightening my load by what felt like twenty pounds (or roughly one and half stone). Up we trudged until, finally, before us was a door marked "Wellington."

 

We entered a sitting room complete with a sofa, desk and television and then went through a set of French doors into the bedroom.

 

The Wellington Suite, at last! Eliza was giving us an overview of the room, where the hair dryer was, the tea making facilities, etc. etc. etc. but I heard none of it. As she spoke, I pulled off coat and scarf and threw them on a chair. I caught a glimpse of the townhouses across the street through a window but only marginally registered the fact that I was, at long last, in Bath. Sitting on the edge of the bed, and with poor, kind Eliza still speaking, I pulled off my boots, pulled down the bed clothes and climbed between the sheets with the blanket and duvet pulled up to my chin.

After a time, I realized that I no longer heard Eliza's voice. "Is she gone?"

"Yeah. This is some room, huh? Even nicer than London. It's huge, Hon. Look, we have a living room."

"Are there bath robes in the bathroom?" I asked. "There are supposed to be bathrobes."

"You feel like crap and you're worried about the amenities?"

"Only the bathrobes. Go and see. Please." Hubby came out of the bathroom with a terry cloth robe in each hand and stood holding them out to me like some two fisted corner man at a boxing match.

"Can you cover me with them?"

"You're under all the covers already."

"Freezing. Lay them one on top of the other over me. Please."

I felt the warmth and weight of the robes as hubby tucked them around me and that's all I remember. My head sunk gratefully into the crisp, clean and very comfortable pillows and I promptly passed out.

Sometime later, it could have been an hour or a month, I woke to find Hubby offering me orange juice. He'd gone out into Bath, all on his own, and found a nearby newsagents where he bought juice. There was even ice in the glass. I sipped. Nectar!

"They didn't have your usual orange, pineapple and banana juice, so I got this. I think it's orange and mango."

I drank some more and looked at my surroundings - huge windows, a desk, even a window seat. The Wellington Suite. I fell back upon the bed.

"Medicine," . . . croaked I, and passed out again.

The next time I woke up, it was growing dark outside and Hubby was sitting on the side of the bed and handing me a chicken wrap.

"Where'd you find that? I croaked.

"There's this great take-out place over that bridge up the street."

Pulteney Bridge, I thought.

"I've been walking all around Bath. You were right, this is a great City. And not half as crowded as London."  Well, at least one of us was getting something out of Bath. If only Hubby's personal scavenger hunt would include something more practical. Again I collapsed upon my pillow and croaked, somewhat more forcefully, I hoped, "Medicine."

The next time I surfaced, Hubby had indeed found me some sort of vile tasting cough and cold syrup and a packet of throat lozenges. As I sucked on one, I noted that it was well and truly dark outside now. Our first day in Bath was gone and I had spent it bed, barely on this side of living. Cholera might have been an improvement.

Day Six Coming Soon!

A Couple In England - Day Five - Part Two

When last we met, I was sitting in the first class carriage of the Bath bound train shivering, coughing and feeling feverish. Beyond the windows, the English countryside sped by as I sat huddled beneath two coats, my gloved hands shoved deep into the pockets of the top coat. I tried to focus my mind . . . how long could this illness (cholera, typhus, the bird flu, whatever it was) possibly last? Was there even the ghost of a chance that it was but a passing fancy and I would recover by tomorrow? I took stock of my symptoms and decided that it was highly unlikely.

 

The ticket guy came through the car at this point. What is the ticket guy actually called? The conductor? Wasn't the conductor the guy who drove the train? Was he a ticket taker? Nah, that didn't sound right. Does anyone actually drive trains anymore, or are they all on auto-pilot like the airplanes? Remember when you could actually smoke on an airplane? What were they thinking?

 

"Tickets, please." The ticket guy's voice interrupted this fascinating stream of thought. I pulled my bag towards me, fished around for my wallet and finally presented my credit card along with the required tickets. 

 

The ticket guy/ticket taker/conductor upgraded us for the aforementioned fifteen pounds each, sliding my credit card through his hand-held credit card thingy before handing me two new tickets and moving on.

 

Hubby was looking at me expectantly. "Done and dusted," I told him.

 

"Huh?  How much did he charge us? Did it work? Speak English, will ya?"

 

Sigh. Cough. Shiver. "Yes, just like the woman told me. We're now officially first class passengers for only fifteen pounds more. You can relax."

 

"Done and dusted? Where do you get this stuff? What was that thing you said to me when we were first dating? Remember? That English thing you threw at me?"

 

"Behoove."

 

"Yeah. Behoove, that's it. I mean, who talks like that? And our wedding ceremony, oh brother!"

 

"I told you to read through the vows beforehand. I encouraged your participation. You couldn't be bothered. You left it all up to me, remember?"

 

"Who knew you were going to go with I pledge you my troth? What in the Hell was that? What in the Hell is a troth?"

 

I chose to interpret Hubby's question as being rhetorical and closed my eyes. The next thing I remember is pulling into Bath Spa Station. I got up, unsteadily, from my seat and took a few steps towards our luggage.

 

"I've got it," Hubby said, in a brook no argument sort of way.

 

"You can't manage it all," I told him.

 

"I can. You just worry about yourself." God, I must look even worse than I feel. I directed Hubby to the elevator and we went down a flight.

Coming out of the lift, I marshaled what little strength I had to hand, took one of the bags from Hubby, headed towards the exit turnstiles and tried to get through.

The bar wouldn't budge. Again I tried. Again the bar wouldn't move. After my fourth attempt, and just before I was ready to duck beneath the arm and get the Hell out, a nice young man in a Great Western uniform approached.

"May I help you?" he asked. "Do you have your ticket?"

My ticket? What's my ticket got to do with the price of turnstiles? Not in the mood to argue, I felt in my coat pocket and produced our tickets, which the nice man took from me and inserted into the little slot on the top of the turnstile, which then magically slid open. Yes, Reader, that's how sick I was. Imagine my forgetting the reason for keeping one's ticket handy.

Outside, it was a miserable day - grey and wet with a dash of blowing wind. I huddled under the awning and looked bleakly at the empty forecourt. Don't let the picture above fool you. I swiped it off the web. When Hubby and I arrived, there was not a cab in sight. You'd think the cabs would have the arrival times down pat, especially in such bad weather, but there we were, marooned at Bath Spa Station.

"Where do we get a cab?" Hubby asked.

"Here."

"But there aren't any."

"They'll be along in a minute," I told him, pulling my scarf up to my chin.

"Are you going to be okay?"

"I'm fine," I said, lying through my chattering teeth, whilst all the while thinking a cab, a cab, my kingdom for a cab. Sigh.

 

Part Three Coming Soon!

A Couple In England - Day Five - Part One

 

 

 

Or Bath In The Time Of Cholera . . . . . .

 

 

Hubby and I began our last day in London in the usual way - at Café Nero.

 

"Are you depressed because we're leaving London?" he asked me as we sipped our coffees at the outdoor table.

 

"Not exactly depressed," I answered, thinking his question a bit odd. "Why do you ask?"

 

"You don't look so good. I thought maybe you were depressed."

 

"No, not depressed." Sick, but not depressed. I had awoken that morning to the realization that I was well and truly coming down with something. You know that feeling you get where you just don't feel like yourself? Like your head's in a fog and you're not really present? Like you already have a somewhat sore throat and you're just waiting for the other symptoms to drop? Yeah, that's the feeling. And I had it. In spades.

We went back to the room, where I finished packing and then got us downstairs and into a cab.

 

"Paddington Station," I told the driver.

 

"You know where we're going?" Hubby asked.

 

"Yeah. To Paddington Station."

 

"But do you know how to get us to Bath?"

 

"Not really, but then I don't have to know. The guy who drives the train knows. All we have to do is buy a ticket and get on." I smiled at him. "It's okay, Hon. I've done this before. You've done it before, too."

"I've never been to Bath."

 

"No, but we went to Oxford on the train last time we were over, remember? Same station."

 

This seemed to reassure him and before long we pulled up in front of Paddington Station.

 

I paid off the cab and we got our luggage out of the boot and headed into the Station. I took a few steps and stopped.

 

"What's wrong?" asked Hubby.

 

"Nothing. I'm just trying to get my bearings," I said, leading us deeper into the crowd. Before long I spotted the coffee bar I'd sat at so many times before (often with Victoria) and knew that I was, indeed, heading in the right direction.

 

 

 

 

As I headed toward the ticket booths, I began to feel as though I were walking through thick, sucking mud, each step a monumental effort.

 

Oh, Jeez, I don't feel so good.

 

You're fine. You're going to Bath. You've been waiting for the Bath portion of this trip for ages now. The Wellington Suite! Come on, you can do it. That's it, one foot in front of the other. Good show!

 

Shut up, will ya?

 

 

 

 

Finally, the ticket office was in sight. I left Hubby guarding the luggage and approached a window.

 

 

 

 

"Two first class tickets to Bath Spa, please," I told the woman behind the glass partition, who was looking down at her monitor.

 

She punched a couple of buttons on her keyboard. "Two hundred and fifty four pounds," she said.

 

I leaned in closer to the speaking hole in the glass. "I'm sorry. You must have misunderstood me. I said to firsts to Bath, not two first class tickets on the Concord to Dubai." My good woman.

 

She looked up at me then and I swear she did a double-take. And gasped. Her entire demeanor suddenly changed. Did I look that bad?

 

"Look," she said, "Being as it's Sunday, I'll give you two regular singles and you get in the first class coach. When the man comes round for your tickets, he'll upgrade your tickets to first class for an extra fifteen pounds each. Sound good?"

 

"Sounds exactly right. How much are two regular singles?"

 

"Sixty-one pounds all together."

 

"Sold. Does that work everyday?"

 

She shook her head. "Just on Sundays and Bank Holidays." She slid the tickets through the window. "Track three."

 

I thanked her and made my way back to where Hubby was waiting.

 

"Let's go. We're on track three."

 

"Where's track three?"

 

I looked about as we neared the tracks. "Here it is."

 

"How do you know?"

 

I pointed to the sign that read "Track Three - Bath Spa."

 

"Where are you going? There's an open door on this car here."

 

"First Class. We're going to the First Class carriage. Just follow me."

We got to the First Class carriage, threw our selves and our luggage inside and set about choosing our seats.

 

"These are reserved," Hubby pointed out. "Look, the signs on the seats say reserved."

"They're reserved for First Class customers. That's us. Just pick a seat."

 

"Are you sure?"

 

I told Hubby all that had transpired at the ticket window. To which he said, "How do you know that will work? What happens if we have to pay full whack?"

 

Sigh. "I don't think she'd lie to me about it. If worse comes to worse, we'll move."

 

 

At long last and somewhat grudgingly Hubby chose a seat on one side of the aisle, while I took the empty seat on the opposite side of the aisle. We both had two seats and a table to ourselves. The remainder of the carriage was empty.

 

Our train pulled out of the station and it was just a few moments later that I was attacked. Someone, I didn't see what the blighter looked like, hit me with the sick stick. Full force. It began with the chills. Soon after the chills were replaced by the feeling that someone had filled my spine with a shaft of ice. I began to shiver in earnest and what little reserves of strength I'd previously had now completely deserted me.

 

"You okay?" asked Hubby.

 

I shook my head.

 

"You don't look good. Are you sick?"

 

I nodded, finally admitting what I'd tried to keep at bay by not speaking of it. The jig was indeed up. I tightened the scarf round my neck and drew on my gloves. "I'm freezing," I whispered.

 

"Here," Hubby said, taking off his coat and covering me with it.

 

"Now you'll be cold," I told him.

 

"No, I won't. It's not cold in here at all. The heat's on."

 

Bundled up as I was now, in my coat and Hubby's, I continued to shake with the cold.  My cough returned and my throat felt as though it was being slit by razor blades. The train soon entered a tunnel and I was able to see my reflection in the glass - I looked as though I'd died on Friday. Bear in mind that this was Sunday. . . . not a pretty sight.

 

Did I have the flu? The Norovirus? Some other virus? Bird Flu? Cholera? Did people still get cholera? What about malaria? Understand, I am by no means a hypochondriac. Really. But I hadn't been this sick for yonks. It was the type of total incapacitation one usually only sees in small children and that I can only recall having as a child, when doctors used to actually make house calls and mothers would wrap handkerchief's smothered in Vick's Vapo Rub round small patients necks. It had come on fast and hit me like a freight train, no pun intended. I thought fleetingly of dying, which served to cheer me up somewhat, for not only would the misery end, but I would have accomplished my hearts desire - to die in England. To die, with any luck, more specifically in Bath would be a real coup. If I made it that far. And to die in England, in Bath, in Duke's Hotel, whilst occupying the Wellington Suite would be the icing on the cake.

 

Typically, the highlight of a train trip in England for me was to look out the window at the surrounding countryside, to catch unexpected glimpses of quaint houses, sheep, cows, fields and hedgerows, not to mention snapshots of various towns along the way as glimpsed through the windows as one sped by. This time, I took little interest in the passing views. All I could think of was the irony  of my getting sick just as I was headed for Bath. And Duke's Hotel. And the Wellington Suite.  When first planning this trip, I'd meticulously done my research into Bath hotels. This portion of the trip was especially important, as we'd be spending New Year's Eve there. Imagine my joy when I found that there was a small hotel off Great Pulteney Street, not far from Laura Place, where they actually used a likeness of the Duke of Wellington as their logo. Where their suits were named after various dukes - including Wellington. I booked the suite on the spot and have been looking forward to it ever since.

 

Typhoid? Could I have typhoid? I seemed to recall something about one of the symptoms of thyphoid being a bloody nose. Or was I confusing the blood with consumption? I'd have to brush up on my 19th century illnesses. If I lived that long.

 

Part Two Coming Soon!