The Knights of Derbyshire

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The Knights of Derbyshire Page 8

by Marsha Altman


  Eton’s start and end were off schedule. It was not until the first thaw began that Geoffrey and Charlie returned from the winter term at Eton. Charlie still had an additional year before University, and Edmund had not started yet. Elizabeth decided to hold an open celebration at Pemberley for their tenants and servants, not a usual custom of spring, but certainly well appreciated after the harsh winter. The people flocked to Pemberley on a bright day in early March and feasted in the great hall on many bottles of wine and all sorts of things that had been stored for winter – cheese, pastries, stews and white bread. Darcy presided over it with a quiet pride and an obvious relief; only two of his tenants had died, both of them advanced in years, from the cold.

  “Mr. Darcy,” Old Man Jenkins, whose wife had sadly passed away the year before, not of bad conditions but of a heart attack, took the opportunity to personally shake his landlord’s hand. “Without your kindness, I would not have seen this day.”

  Darcy nodded his thanks. He did not speak much at social gatherings, but that was either already well known by the people of Derbyshire, and now his reticence was balanced by his wife. There were inquiries after Lady Kincaid, the former Miss Darcy, and Elizabeth said she was well in Scotland with her husband and son. She did not include that another child was expected in the fall; that was not for public knowledge. Elizabeth played hostess to perfection. Her daughters were too young to stay at the event for long, as it lasted until well past their usual bedtime, so most of the attention went to young Master Geoffrey. Geoffrey, like his mother, took hosting in stride, and for that, Darcy was silently grateful as he stood in a corner. He was grateful for many things that day, but most of all, that Geoffrey was becoming the man he needed to be, and with greater ease than Darcy had.

  The celebrations were called to a close before anyone got truly or embarrassingly drunk, though a few men needed the help of their wives or fellow workers to walk home, as they left with many thanks to the Darcys. The Bingleys stayed for a while longer, eager to see their long-lost relatives, and the boys retreated to their own rooms, where they could drink from Geoffrey’s stash without the watchful eyes of the servants. They dropped off quickly; Edmund and Charlie were sleeping on the couch and the girls were still chatting in another room. Only Geoffrey and Georgie remained awake, quite tipsy, sitting across from each other at the card table, the bottle of whiskey between them.

  “This’ll be you someday,” Georgiana Bingley said with a wave of her hand to sort of gesture to Pemberley at large. “Feedin’ the poor an’ hosting parties. And grey. Grey hair.”

  “My father’s not all grey. Not like Grandfather Bennet.”

  “Grandpapa’s hair is white. Don’t you know colors?”

  “Aren’t you a lush?”

  Georgie giggled. “Compared to my brothers, no.” They glanced over at Charlie snoring on the couch, Edmund leaning on his shoulder. “Couple shots put ‘em out.”

  “So what did you do all winter?” he said.

  “What? Lady things. Painting. Drawing. Buyin’ ribbons. What do you think.” She pointed at him. “Don’t you look at me like that, Mr. Darcy!”

  “I heard you had a cold every other week.”

  “You heard wrong.”

  “I heard – “

  “You’ve never been barefoot in the snow?”

  He stared. “What? That must be painful.”

  “Builds strength. You place your feet in very cold water right before you go out, then cold water right when you come in, then hot water again. Aunt Nadi-sama told me.”

  “How does she know?”

  “Uncle Brian does it. Samurai training. They have to be tough.”

  She pushed her glass away. “I think I shall be sick.”

  “You will?”

  “Not – now.” She swallowed very distinctively. “If I drink anymore though.” She leaned her head against the wall.

  Geoffrey stood up, steadied himself and picked her up, to which she gave no protest, and set her down more comfortably in the armchair. “You don’t have to be tough, you know.”

  “You don’t – you’ll see,” she said, before dropping off into sleep.

  Geoffrey, who was not in much better condition than his cousin, managed to put the glasses away and cap the whiskey before he settled into his own chair. He did not fall asleep, but he was lost in thought until the servants came to collect the Bingleys for departure.

  ******************************************

  “Welcome to our home,” Dr. Maddox said upon the Wickhams’ arrival in January. “I hope you find it to your liking.”

  He knew perfectly well that that there was nothing to dislike. Lady Maddox had gone to extensive lengths to renovate the house, now called Maddox Hall, as it had no name, nor deserved one, prior to the renovations. It was tastefully done and in the latest styles, with all of the draperies and elegant tapestries well-placed and pleasing to the eye. George and Isabel’s chambers were palatial compared to their house in Gracechurch Street, and when their clothing and other items arrived from London some weeks later, they hardly filled their own closets and wardrobes. The Christmas guests (the Townsends and the Bertrands) had already left, so George and Isabel passed the time with their cousins, when George wasn’t studying for his exams. He studied often, even though Dr. Maddox was more than sure he would pass without trouble.

  “The boy worries too much,” Maddox said to his wife in private.

  “His worrying, as you call it, saved his sister, so I am not one to question him about it,” she answered.

  Still strictly in the royal service, Dr. Maddox taught only two lectures, one on surgical basics and one on anatomy, neither of which would be in George’s curriculum as a first-year student. His studies would be almost exclusively the classics and mathematics, with some logic on the side. As for George losing a semester at Oxford, Dr. Maddox replied, “No harm done. I was always more of a Cambridge man anyway.”

  Frederick Maddox was a year behind Charlie at Eton, and would leave for spring term about the same time the term would begin at Cambridge. Emily Maddox was not yet out like Isabel, but probably would be within a year or two. The two were nearly the same age, and became fast friends almost instantly, to George’s great relief. He himself tried to get along with the Maddox boys as well as he could, but found it a challenge. Daniel Maddox Junior was not yet old enough for Eton, and had not had his growth spurt, but he was obsessed with martial activities anyway, and would fence his brother at any opportunity. He was most disappointed to learn that George was not a fencer.

  “He is a wimp,” Frederick whispered, but not quietly enough. In response, George stood silently, towering over him, until Frederick backed down and apologized.

  Although George did not easily take to Frederick, he was surprised by the younger boy’s intellect. While not inclined to his studies, when he chose to apply himself, Frederick Maddox took to learning with shocking ease and always had the highest marks in his class (despite the poorest attendance record and the worst reports about his behavior). He could talk at length about art, architecture, or any of the liberal arts and sciences, and he spoke four languages. The fact that he was more interested in booze and women (or more accurately, the prospect of them) was another matter. Even though he was well past the age that he might have expected to need them, Frederick also did not seem to need glasses as his father did. Neither did Emily, and Danny was still much younger than Dr. Maddox had been when he began losing his sight. But the thought of it made George notice what he had never had much cause to notice before: Frederick did not resemble either of his parents. He was a twin, so he ought to resemble the family, but by some happenstance of nature he had brown hair while his parents had black and red hair and his siblings were both fair-haired. His facial features were also different, with a more distinct and almost crooked nose, and he had not the height of his father even though he was close to the age where he should be attaining it. But this, like most things, George kept to himself. />
  George visited Cambridge as weather permitted, to collect books for study or simply to get out of the house. He had been a monk, as far as he was concerned, since mid-December, and that was quite long enough. It was not long before he knew the best (and cleanest) house in Cambridge, and the most discreet, to take care of his needs. Unlike his father’s much-maligned habits, he leaned toward monogamy. He found a woman he liked by the name of Lucille, who seemed to be both talented and free of disease, and made sporadic appointments that would increase to regular sessions once his school schedule was set and he was safely housed at Cambridge itself. He did it with no guilt; it was his only major expenditure of his fortune beyond books, and he lived so sparsely that it was hardly a dent in his income. He was a man, and he had needs. He came to that realization at sixteen and never looked back. His only great desire was to keep it from his sister and the family at large, and so far, anyone who knew had not raised issue.

  At the Maddox home, he was quiet and observant, and there were other things he noticed. Lady Maddox loved to host, and they met most of the local families of note, most of them associated in some way with the university. A few girls at the table cast their eyes on George, but he reserved his energy for staring down anyone who cast eyes at his sister. When the invitations were returned, they saw the other manors and halls of the area, and George noticed that Dr. Maddox took his walking stick with him. He did not have a massive gentlemanly one – his had a smaller handle with a leather string as a handle, and a ball at the tip. Sometimes when they went to places he had never been before, he carried it around when he was inside, not using it for support but instead to find the floor and the steps. He never gave indication that his sight was fading, and could still read and write and obviously see people, but objects in the distance bothered him, or unfamiliar houses. There was a strict rule at the Maddox house not to move any of the furniture without prior permission; George figured that this was as much for Dr. Maddox to know where all the furniture was as it was in keeping with Lady Maddox’s insistence on perfect décor.

  Dr. Maddox showed him to the lab more than once, and for the first time, George was allowed to use the famous microscope, and to see how opium was harvested and many of the tinctures were made. He discovered that he liked it more than learning classics. He enjoyed his academic studies, but there was something to be said for learning with a practical application.

  “We assumed you would go into law or the church,” Dr. Maddox said to him in the laboratory one day, “but would you perhaps be interested in medicine?”

  “Perhaps,” George said. “I heard about your surgical lectures.”

  “The ones with the dissections? Well, the challenge is not to see if you can make it through the first one without being ill, young master Wickham. The challenge is to make it to the second one.”

  “I’ll try to remember that,” George said, and the lesson in tonics continued.

  Chapter 8 – Tenant Troubles

  “The esteemed George Wickham,” Darcy announced to those at the supper table, “will be attending Cambridge at the start of the spring term, having passed all of his entrance exams.”

  “Bravo!” Bingley said, and they raised their glasses to the young man in question. “And Miss Wickham is ...?”

  “Staying with Sir and Lady Maddox until the end of his term, when they shall both return to Town.”

  “Capital news.”

  “Indeed,” Darcy said, and turned to his son. “If you are looking for a roommate – ”

  “I’ll room with George. Of course.” And he looked excited to do it. Geoffrey and George had always gotten along well. In fact, Geoffrey looked relieved that he would not be entering Cambridge alone, as he’d done with Eton. He would have George, who was older and more experienced.

  Darcy excused himself after dinner when his steward appeared, and they were gone a long time in the study before rejoining his wife and the Bingleys. Though the line was blurring as the children grew up, the adult Bingleys and Darcys, with Mr. Bennet, stayed together for separate conversation or entertainment after supper, while even the oldest children left, preferring to spend time with their younger siblings. “Excuse me,” Darcy said, reentering the room, where Elizabeth had just finished a sonata.

  “What kind of man is not present for his wife’s performances?” Mr. Bennet said. “Oh, I’ve grown forgetful. I am that sort of man. Well, you’re in good company, then.”

  “Did Mrs. Bennet play?” Bingley asked.

  “She did,” Mr. Bennet said, and shock registered on Elizabeth and Jane’s faces. “She had no time for it after Kitty came along – four children, and one more on the way. But when I said performances, Mr. Bingley, I meant the type that you were accustomed to.” He smiled and sipped his port. “She did play a lovely tune, though.” Even though it had been several years, Mr. Bennet had never removed his black band of mourning for his wife.

  “I assume Mr. Darcy only missed my performance because he was called out on important business,” Elizabeth said confidently of her husband.

  “Yes,” he said, and left it at that, taking his seat as she agreed to play another round for her husband.

  When it was time to retire, Jane went to round up her children, and in the hallway, Bingley found Darcy, who turned to him and said, “There may be some value to being in trade and not invested in land.”

  “I never thought I would hear you say that,” Bingley said. “So now you must explain.”

  “It is merely rent dispute after rent dispute. I allowed so many tenants to forego their rent during the winter and now they seem to have forgotten that and are wondering why I am charging them double the month’s rent now. But none of this should be unexpected. People are very good at forgetting when they owe money.”

  “You’re not charging them interest?”

  “I’d make a fortune if I did, but this was not a loan – it was an allowance for a delay in payment.”

  “So being too good has gotten you into some trouble?”

  Darcy shrugged. “So it seems.”

  ******************************************

  Geoffrey Darcy often lamented that some of his time at home between terms was always spent watching his father settle disputes, but he knew it was important. Important, but often boring, nonetheless.

  In the morning Darcy saw two tenants, both of whom lived on grazing land that they rented to shepherds and then helped shear the wool in the spring. Why Darcy was seeing them both at once, Geoffrey had no idea. Scheduling, he supposed. The two men were Mr. Peters and Mr. Wallace, brothers by marriage, who had farms side-by-side and had done equally poorly in the harsh winter. They had done so badly that they asked for the postponement of their rent, and Darcy had granted it. All this the steward made note of before the two tenants entered, worn men, field laborers, with soiled boots and clothing that had been re-sewn too many times. Nonetheless Darcy greeted them with his customary civility and bowed to his tenants. Very rarely did he let them into his study, and he had a purpose. In his ledgers he had marked off February, the month they had failed to make their rents, and next to his own signatures, Mr. Peters had signed and Mr. Wallace had made his mark. So it was there, in writing, that they owed this and last month’s rent, and Mr. Peters could read.

  “So there we have it,” Mr. Darcy said. “It was a hard winter for everyone in Derbyshire, including those with sheep, but I understand that Mr. MacDonald purchased a new flock and will be using both of your fields for it.”

  “He has,” Mr. Peters said, “though that’s none of your business.”

  “As your landlord, the state of your land is my business. It is the town’s business as well, as one only has to stop in a tavern to hear about Mr. MacDonald and his new flock. But the point is, you are in a much more favorable position now than you were on the first of February, and yet are still five days late on the rent.”

  “My lord, I admit that – ”

  “Don’ be callin’ ‘im that,” W
allace said. “e’s not a lord. Mr. Darcy, yes, we can make the rent. Just suppose we don’t want to.”

  Darcy paused, and with no display of emotion that either of them could detect, said, “It is your obligation by law to pay the rent due to the owner of that property.” Darcy wasn’t trying to raise the tension in the room, but he himself was tense. It was one thing to not have the money. It was another to refuse it when it was due.

  “What if we think the owner’s been unfair to us poor commoners?”

  “If you think the owner has been unfair, and was cruel and intolerant when he let you fully forego your rent when it was due, simply out of the kindness of his heart and against his own financial interests, then you may take me to court, and run up a large bill doing so before the judge tears apart your case.”

  Mr. Peters, an older man than his brother-in-law, rose from his seat. “John, just let him have – ”

  “No. I want the answer to the question,” Mr. Wallace said.

  “I believe I have answered it.”

  “Then I’ll rephrase. What if we think you’ve been unfair and I guess the law’s been unfair, protecting you and not us?” Even though Peters was tugging at his arm, he continued, “What says it tis’int our land that we been workin’ on our whole lives? Because you have a piece of paper that says it’s yours?”

  Geoffrey watched his father sigh. “Yes, Mr. Wallace. The only reason you have been working that land – legally – is because it was rented to your father-in-law, James Peters, when he came north to look for work some thirty years ago. I remember him quite well— a good man who worked hard to provide for his family, and so has provided portions for both his son and his daughter’s husband, when another man might only have collected enough to provide for the son. And with him I signed a contract of tenancy, and with you and your brother upon his death we renewed it. If you’d like me to produce the document, I would be happy to, if it is in some dispute. However, as to your larger question, these are the laws that govern our society; we would not have a society without them.”

 

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