Wellington on Tinder

Wellington on Tinder came about as the result of a recent conversation on Twitter about how the Iron Duke would have coped with modern dating apps, and follows on from my entirely frivolous look at Wellington on Twitter. My thanks to Andrew Bamford, Tansy Kelly Robson and Rohan Gandhy for giving me the idea. You’re all to blame.

No actual history was harmed, or indeed involved, in the writing of this post.

 

Freneida, Portugal, 1813

 “Ah, Fitzroy, come in. Where the devil have you been?”

“Working, my Lord. You gave me…”

“Never mind, never mind. I require your help with something of a personal nature.”

“My Lord?”

“With a few months in one place, I am in need of relaxation, Fitzroy. I have my hunting of course, and dinners with my ADCs and staff members, and there are plenty of social events, most of which I would gladly avoid. But I require more. Something of a more intimate nature. In short, I am in need of…I would like…I wish for…”

“Are you looking for a girl, sir?”

“Possibly. I mean, yes. Definitely. I am aware that a number of my young officers, you included, have had some success on Tinder.”

“You want to set up a Tinder profile, my Lord?”

“If that is what it is called.” Pause. “You have an expression on your face, Fitzroy.”

“Do I, my Lord?”

“Yes. Explain it or remove it.”

“Well…Tinder is a dating app, my Lord. And it occurs to me that you are…well, I mean, you have a…”

“A wife?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Who is not here, Fitzroy, nor likely to be. Do not tell me that every one of my officers who have been hooking up with the local beauties through Tinder is a single man. I happen to know for a fact…”

“Don’t tell me, my Lord.”

“Why not?”

“If it’s the story about Colonel Cadogan, I’ve already heard it once, and I don’t need to think about it again.”

“As for Lieutenant-Colonel Barnard…”

“He isn’t married, my Lord.”

“Just as well. If even half those stories are true, he would not have the energy for a wife. Anyway, how do I go about meeting an attractive female on Tinder?”

“Well…first you have to set up your profile. Are you sure I’m the best person to help you with this, my Lord? I wondered if General van Daan…”

“Certainly not. He is definitely a married man in every sense of the word, and has no reason to know anything about Tinder or any other way of meeting women, it would be most inappropriate! What do I need for a profile?”

“Well, you need an image. More than one is best.”

“Hmm. There are very few satisfactory portraits of me, but I suppose I could use the Goya sketch, although it makes me look somewhat wooden.”

“It’s generally considered best to have a picture where you’re smiling, my Lord.”

Pause.

“Smiling.”

“Yes, my Lord. I read in GQ that it makes you look more friendly and approachable.”

“Fitzroy, are you feeling quite well?”

“That’s a very good point, my Lord. Let’s just work with what we have.”

“What other advice about portraits?”

“I seem to remember reading that it is not a good idea to take your shirt off.”

“TAKE MY SHIRT OFF? Have these people gone completely mad?”

“Well, as I said, my Lord, best not to. The thing to do in images on Tinder is always to be yourself.”

“Who else am I supposed to be, in God’s name? This is nonsense, Fitzroy. Let’s get on with this.”

“Yes, my Lord. Right, I think that will do. Now, I’ve been told that it is often a winning strategy with the ladies to show your softer side. Are there any portraits with children, or animals?”

“I have several on horseback.”

“I was thinking of more sweet, cuddly animals, my Lord.”

“So not Copenhagen, then?”

“Best not, I think. Why don’t we move on to your bio? Now the article I read said to keep it short and to the point.”

“Like my correspondence?”

“Perhaps not exactly like that. What would you like the ladies to know about you?”

“My name. My station. Possibly my titles, although we should leave out the tedious Spanish ones, they go on for ever.”

“What about your interests, my Lord? What do you enjoy?”

“Hunting.”

“Anything else?”

“I have no time for anything else, I command an army. What else do they need to know?”

“What do you look for in a woman, my Lord?”

“Attractiveness, intelligence and availability.”

“Right. Possibly we won’t include that. We could put in something about your family.”

“The marital history of my family would make them run for the hills, Fitzroy, it has the same effect on me from time to time. And we can hardly mention my wife. Let us leave it at that.”

“Very good, my Lord. After that, it is simple. You can look at the profiles of girls on the app and if you like them, swipe this way. If not, swipe the opposite way.”

“And then?”

“Women will do the same. If two of you swipe right, you have a match, and you can send them a message.”

“That sounds very simple. Thank you, Fitzroy. I have a number of letters to write, and I have a meeting with Dr McGrigor and then I shall try my fortune. I will let you know how I get on.”

 

Later that day…

 

“So how did you get on with Tinder, my Lord?”

“Utterly ridiculous process, Fitzroy, I intend to delete the app.”

“I’m sorry to hear that, my Lord. Did you not get any matches?”

“On the contrary, I was inundated. That was not the problem.”

“Then what…”

“The first one was a French actress, currently touring Europe. She was definitely enthusiastic, and not at all worried about my reticence concerning my previous connections. A very attractive woman.”

“But not local, sir.”

“Oh, I have a feeling she might be at some point, Fitzroy. She, however, was not at all reticent, naming several previous lovers, including Napoleon Bonaparte. She is either deluded or highly problematic.”

“How unfortunate.”

“Then there was a pretty girl called Maria. She was very happy to converse and seemed genuinely interested in my views on the Spanish government, but it would appear that to enjoy her company I would need to be willing to rescue her from the convent in which she is currently incarcerated. I suspect her motives.”

“Interesting, my Lord.”

“There were a number of other brief conversations, which convinced me that the women who frequent this app have no grasp of reality, are afflicted with melancholy or in some cases, actually insane. Finally, as I was about to give up, I struck up a conversation with a young woman who lives in Ciudad Rodrigo. She seemed a delightful person. Attractive, if her portrait is to be believed, intelligent, and understanding. I confessed that I was married, and she admitted that she was in a similar condition, although her husband deserted her many years ago.”

“That sounds ideal, my Lord. What went wrong?”

“She is far too sensitive. We were engaged in a conversation about horse-riding, when a letter arrived from the Duke of York regarding my provisional battalions. I read it while still talking to her, and it infuriated me. He has no understanding of the difficulties I face out here, and writes utter nonsense about the integrity of the regimental system, going so far to suggest that it is my own understanding that is at fault. Naturally I was obliged to end the conversation in order to write to him, to correct his impression that he is dealing with an imbecile. I was perfectly polite about it.”

“What did she say, my Lord.”

“I will read it to you. Wait – here it is. ‘Oh but surely you can talk a little longer. What can be more important than flirting with me?’ There are then rows of emojis, very few of which seemed relevant to the conversation. I replied, and she has unmatched me.”

“What did you reply, my Lord?”

“Nothing offensive. Should I read it to you?”

“Yes, my Lord.”

“Forgive my bluntness, ma’am, but a large number of things are more important, and if we are to develop a romantic attachment, it is vitally important that you understand that from the beginning. I am in the middle of reorganising my army, after the most appalling end to the previous campaign. I need to secure my supplies, obtain reinforcements and bully London into providing me with enough money to pay my army. The generals they send me are frequently incompetent, and in at least one case, completely mad. The Portuguese have no money and the Spanish do not seem able to get themselves organised, and in the middle of it all, I have the Commander-in-Chief in London trying to take large numbers of my veteran troops and replace them with raw recruits, as though there was no difference in quality. I am sorry if I cannot always be available to pay you compliments, but you will need to understand that my work comes first. I will message you again when I have time to arrange a meeting. Yours, in haste, Wellington.”

“And that caused her to un-match you? I’m shocked, my Lord.”

“Exactly. I cannot have a female with such unrealistic expectations. I shall delete the app and resign myself to a single life until I have more time. Now, enough of this nonsense. Pass me the letter from Hill, I need to reply immediately.”

 

 

 

Love Letters, 1813

Love letters, 1813 is something I wrote last week, in between preliminary reading for book seven of the Peninsular War Saga, which covers the Battle of Vitoria. It’s early days, but I suspect the title will be an Indomitable Brigade. Occasionally, I like to imagine correspondence between some of my characters, as I did with Paul and Hugh during the Walcheren campaign, it can be an excellent way of setting the scene in my mind, and getting in touch with my character’s current feelings. It’s not exactly a short story, but it definitely tells a story, and I liked this one, so I thought I’d share it with you all, to whet your appetite for the next book…

For the first time ever, I am struggling to decide which book to write next. My original intention was to write the next book in the Manxman series, and I’ve done some reading for that as well, but at the moment, it appears that my head and heart are very firmly rooted in Spain with the Light Division, so I’m going to go with that and see where it leads me.

I wrote a short story in 2019 for Valentine’s Day, A Winter Idyll, which showed Johnny Wheeler going home during winter quarters to settle his uncle’s affairs, and discovering that his land agent’s daughter has been running the estate. There was the hint of a romance, although Johnny was clear at that point that he still felt bound to his lost love, Caroline Longford. Johnny is back in Spain now, and on the march towards Vitoria with the rest of the third brigade…

Quinta de Santo Antonio, May, 1813

 Dear Miss Ludlow

Thank you for your letter. I’m very glad your father continues to improve, and that he is able to get out and about a little, and I’m sure you are right that the fresh air and exercise will do him good. I have to scold you a little, however, since I hear from Mrs Green that you have made no use of the barouche as I instructed. You cannot expect him to go far either on foot or on horseback, and he will quickly grow tired of strolling through the village.

I imagine this is due to your scruples with regard to the horses, so I have made arrangements through friends in Leicestershire, for the purchase of two carriage horses. It is high time that Jed and Carney were put out to grass, and I hope they enjoy their retirement in the meadow as much as I intend to when I come home. Write to me, to tell me that they have arrived safely. There is also a new mare, the one we went to see just before I left, whom I hope to breed. I know I can trust you to exercise her.

Your report of the home farm and the tenancies is excellent, and very detailed. I feel as though I’m there, watching the improvements happen. I wish I was, it must be very pretty at this time of year. I realise I’ve no idea what grows in my gardens as it was under snow for half the time I was there, and barely shooting up as I left.

My journey back was uneventful and it is good to be with my friends again, although I must tell you that I walked into a very difficult situation between two fellow officers, which I will not write in detail, but will save for when I see you again. In happier news, I was in time to assist at the wedding of my very good friend, Lieutenant-Colonel Swanson, and Miss Trenlow.

We have received orders that we shall be on the move again very soon. The postal service is always surprisingly reliable here, and letters seldom go astray. I am not accustomed to receive very many, so I look forward to yours, when you have time.

Your servant

Colonel John Wheeler

***

Aberly, Derbyshire, June 1813

Dear Colonel Wheeler

Thank you for your very prompt reply. I am delighted to hear that your return went well, and more than a little apprehensive that by the time you receive this, you will no doubt be on the move, probably into danger. I have paid very little attention to news of the current war until now, other than to listen to your uncle’s stories of you before he died, but now I find myself scanning the Gazette for the slightest mention of an action.

The new horses arrived safely, although I am shocked at how much you must have spent on them, considering you are not here to have the benefit. Cora and Millie, the carriage horses, are beautiful animals, very well matched, and according to Jimmy, they are a “dream to drive”. He is eager to take them out, so I have little choice but to follow your orders and take my father on various excursions. Aphrodite, the black mare, is perfect to ride, but a thoroughgoing aristocrat, turning up her nose at the least thing, so that it makes me laugh. I think it is the fault of her owners for giving her such a name, it has made her conceited. I have begun to call her Affie, in the hope of taking her down a peg or two.

We had a disaster with the hen house, I am sorry to say, since that infuriating fox found his way in and created havoc. I have replaced the birds with stock from Jennings’ farm and personally supervised the rebuilding of the coop, so I hope we will have no more trouble.

Father continues well. In fact, being able to get out in the barouche around the farms seems to have improved his memory, and we have talked very sensibly about estate matters, although I am afraid he sometimes forgets that your uncle is dead. Still, it is good to see him more like his old self. I will send you a summary of the quarterly return when I have made it up, but all is progressing just as it should, and I think you will be pleased.

I cannot find the words to express my gratitude that I have been allowed to continue as I have. Few men would have been willing to allow a female the management of their property, and I promise you that I will ensure that you don’t regret it. I’m very happy here, feeling more settled than I have for a long time. At the same time, would it be very impertinent to say that I have found it a little lonely since you left? It is good to have a like-minded person to talk with, about things one cares about. I’ve missed our talks and our rides together.

With warm regards

Mary Ludlow

***

San Munoz, May, 1813

My dearest Miss Ludlow

The postal service has surpassed itself, and I am dashing off this reply since we are camped here for two nights only, and I want this to go off with the headquarters mail before we march tomorrow. I’ll try to make it legible.

It is a very beautiful evening, and I have just feasted on roast pork and am seated outside my tent in a pensive mood. Just over six months ago, during the retreat from Madrid and Burgos, I lost my good friend Patrick Corrigan beside this river and I nearly died myself. The limp has gone now, and I’m back to full fitness, but I’ll never forget those days, believing I wouldn’t survive. I hadn’t realised at the time, but along with inheriting my uncle’s estate, it’s made me think differently about a number of things.

I walked up with some of the men to the woods where Pat fell. There’s nothing left now. I am told, and I’m choosing to believe it, that when both armies had moved on, the villagers came out to bury the dead. I think it is at least partly true, because our guide showed us several mounds which have been piled with rocks. It makes me feel better to think that Pat is lying there, and it makes me very thankful that I’m not.

I miss you. I miss talking with you and riding with you and laughing with you. It was only three months, and they passed very quickly, but I am left both restless and strangely content. I hadn’t intended to write this, since I have no idea when I’ll see you again, or even if, given that the general believes we’ll be engaging the French within the month, and none of us are invincible. But since you were very honest with me, I wanted to reciprocate. I miss you, Mary.

You would love this view. We’re camped on the heights, looking out over the river, and there are dozens of lanterns and campfires, pungent but very pretty in the gathering dusk. We’re marching out at dawn, so I’m going to finish this now. I don’t know when your next letter will reach me, but write it anyway, will you? I want to know that it’s on its way.

Affectionately yours

Johnny Wheeler

***

Vitoria, June 20th, 1813

 My dearest Mary

I write Vitoria, since it is the nearest town I have a name for, but we are well outside the city, camped in a valley at the foot of a mountainous ridge, waiting for the rest of the army to complete its flanking manoeuvres. We have been engaged in several sharp skirmishes on the march, including an affair at San Millan, but we have come off very lightly and have given the French something to think about.

I have not received a letter, nor expected to in this time, but as I suspect I will be in battle tomorrow, I wanted to write this. I shall leave it with Mrs van Daan, and asked her to send it on to you. I confess that I have spoken of you to her a good deal, although to nobody else.

I want to be honest with you, dearest girl, since I have been honest from the first, to tell you that I have left two letters with Mrs van Daan, one to the lady I have spoken of. Our attachment was such, that I feel a duty to write to her in case of my death. If I survive, and I generally do, I will destroy that letter and write another.

This letter is for you. I realise that during those few months at Limm, I probably spent more time with you than in all the time I knew Caroline. I fell in love with her when we were both lonely, and had she not been committed to another, I think we could have been happy.

My time with you was different. There was no drama, no headlong rush, no real expectation of anything at all. And yet, looking back, I have the sense that I knew, even before I left, that I had found something that I’d been looking for all my life. Just thinking of you, brings me joy.

I wish I had spoken before I left. I told myself that it was too soon, that I needed to be sure of my own feelings and that it would be wrong to ask you to wait for a man wedded to his career and determined to see this war out. Now you are far away, and I miss you, and I want you to know how I feel.

I think, I hope, that you feel the same way, Mary. Will you be my wife? What a thing to do, asking you in a letter with no certainty that I will ever be able to honour my promise. Even after this battle, I have no hope of more leave for a long time, and will have to beg you to wait for me. I have tried to imagine how I would feel if our situations were reversed, though, and I decided that I would want to know.

Should anything happen to me, I have left my affairs in good order, and you will be very well taken care of, Mr Langley has all the details. Assuming that it goes well for me, I will write again very soon, and I hope you will forgive me and be kind, and tell me if I may hope.

With all my dearest love

Johnny

***

Aberly, Derbyshire, July 1813

My dearest Johnny,

It is the worst thing, writing to you without even knowing if you will receive this, but write I must. I comfort myself by thinking that if you are wounded, or exhausted or sorrowful, I may help a little to lift your spirits.

The answer is yes, of course, with all my heart. You must have known that it would be, as I do not suppose I ever made a good job of concealing my feelings. I had begun to hope, when you left, that your former attachment did not hold such complete sway over your heart, but I had not expected you to speak so soon, and under such difficult circumstances. I am so happy that you did.

All is well here. I have told nobody of your offer and will not do so until I am sure that you are safe, but know that you are in my prayers and in my heart, every hour of every day. Write soon, my dear, I cannot rest until I hear from you.

Yours, now and always

Mary

 

The Five by Hallie Rubenhold: a review

The Five by Hallie Rubenhold

The Five by Hallie Rubenhold is one of the most powerful books I’ve read in a very long time. It tells the stories of five women, Polly Nicholls, Annie Chapman, Elizabeth Stride, Catherine Eddowes and Mary-Jane Kelly. The five came from a variety of backgrounds and places, and lived varied and often painful and difficult lives, but little is known of them now, other than the manner of their death. They were the five victims of a Victorian serial killer called Jack the Ripper, and that is how history has remembered them.

In this extraordinary piece of historical research, Hallie Rubenhold has given these five women back their identities, their stories and their dignity. She follows the lives, from birth to death, of each woman, as far as it has been possible to establish it, and tells stories of temporary happiness, unbearable hardship and final tragedy.

The book is very well-written and immaculately researched. The author makes no attempt to see her subjects or their lives through rose-coloured spectacles, and the details of poverty, addiction and miserable hardship can make for very difficult reading. As a piece of social history, it is a masterpiece, but it is a very sad book.

I grew up in the East End, and knew the stories of Jack the Ripper from childhood. As a girl, learning to be aware my own safety, I came to view the story of these women differently long before this book came out, and as a history student who spent some time studying poverty and the position of women in Victorian London, I’ve always been aware that whatever their situation at the time of their murder, these women were victims not just of a serial killer but of the society they lived in. What I’d never really thought much about, is how much attention has been given to the unknown man who killed and how little to the women whose lives he cut short.

Hallie Rubenhold has done a fabulous job of giving these women back their humanity, as well as holding up a slightly uncomfortable picture of the way their deaths have been trivialised over the years. This is an excellent book, very easy to read despite its difficult subject matter. We’re no closer to knowing the identity of Jack the Ripper, and Rubenhold doesn’t care. We are, however, a lot closer to knowing his victims.

A triumph of historical research and writing.

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