The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  Thus, persuaded by his cunning young wife that his wayward daughter could benefit from a ladies academy, Georgiana's father sent her away to school. Having done the best he could to improve her prospects and assure his own peaceful existence, he was promptly enabled to forget about her again.

  When the dreadful miscreant was officially informed of her fate, she defiantly declared herself happy to go, proclaiming, "To be sure, the only thing I shall miss is the damnable cat."

  Chapter Two

  Excerpt from “His Lordship's Trousers” (censored)

  Printed in The Gentleman's Weekly, May 1817

  Yesterday evening's attire: Ivory silk knee breeches. On their return, badly marked with wine and candle wax, three buttons adrift.

  This morning's attire: (Eventually) Kerseymere trousers with stirrups and slackly tied gusset laces. Padded seat a necessity.

  Today his lordship awoke earlier than usual, before the midday sun had quite reached its zenith. As a regular visitor to this column you will be surprised by the hour of my master's rising, but perhaps not by the curious array in which he was decorated. We shall come to that presently.

  The gentleman declared his head to be both vibrating and rotating, as he lifted the bulbous mass from its drool-encrusted pillow. There was little to be done to ameliorate his agony until an elixir of raw egg, vinegar and minced garlic, prepared to my own special recipe, was dropped into a mug of ale and swiftly sucked down into his lordship's gullet.

  I did my best to reassemble the pieces of his sprawling anatomy, to wipe them down with a wet rag, shave the parts most overgrown and least unsightly, and then hoist him into another new pair of calf-clingers. Throughout this endeavor, he honored me with a tale of his evening spent in the company of a certain lady — whom we shall call 'Loose Garters', on account of the fact that she left hers around his lordship's wrists and bedposts. The lady, it seems, has a preference for trussing my master up like a stuffed goose, and indeed he shall begin to resemble one if he continues to indulge his fondness for treacle tart and marzipan. One cannot retain the well-sprung, racing form of a fine curricle unless one maintains it well with exercise, as I am constantly reminding his lordship.

  Alas, his ears are open far less often than his mouth.

  "The lady enjoys both the infliction of pain and of pleasure," he informed me between yawns that, if I were of lesser heft, would surely have swept me into the dank abyss beyond his epiglottis. "She performs wonders for a man's filberts, and does enjoy a well hung pair," added the gentleman, congratulating himself on those aforementioned objects in his possession.

  Dear reader, during the course of the previous evening, I was occasionally roused from my own light sleep by a loud clapping sound, much like that of a freshly caught pike being wielded with wild force against an empty, round-bellied, iron pot. This morning the cause was clear to me, as I observed the scarlet marks of a riding crop, and possibly a butter paddle, slathered generously across his lordship's posterior.

  It was, he confessed to me, Lady Loose Garters' desire to deliver a stern spanking— amongst other punishments— while she had him tied prone to his own bed.

  "Ah," said I, "that would explain the clothes peg upon your nose, sir, and the dried candle wax upon your manly nipples. About which I did not like to inquire."

  He had, apparently, forgotten these remnants of the lady's passion. Perhaps due to the numbness in those protuberances. His buttocks were not so devoid of feeling, and I fear all his lordship's trousers will require a cushioned seat, should this affair continue long.

  As I observed to the gentleman, I do hope his latest amour— in her zest for punitive measures— never procures a pair of nutcrackers for those proud filberts in his possession.

  But there was scant time for more warnings. His lordship soon faced the arrival of another lady, rapping at his door in thoroughly unaccountable eagerness for his company.

  The necessarily hasty removal of wax from his lordship's chest not only eliminated much of the hair growing upon it, but also elicited from my master a curious noise not unlike the mating call of the great crested grebe...

  * * * *

  Harry Thrasher was about to laugh out loud, when he noticed the shadowy shape moving about in his peripheral vision. He straightened his lips, rustled the paper and shook his head. The tut-tutting he then exhaled on several terse breaths drew his housekeeper's closer attention as she hovered by the table to be sure he ate his breakfast.

  "Not reading that scandalous fiction again, are you?" she demanded.

  "It is not fiction, Parkes. It is the true and unabridged diary of a gentleman's valet. A shocking commentary on our times, the sinful, decadent ways of society, and the idiots who abound in it."

  "You must realize it's made up— every word— to titillate the masses."

  He squinted over the top edge of his newspaper as it wilted toward his chin. "They wouldn't print it, if it wasn't true."

  Hands clasped primly, she glowered down at him. "How can you, a Naval Master and Commander, granted a Knighthood for services in war, get the fleece pulled over your eyes by a daft bit of penmanship? Whoever writes that wicked fluff must have a colorful imagination, to be sure." She sighed. "But if the adventures of this imaginary lordship keep you amused and entertained, they deserve a medal."

  "Parkes, I do not read this for entertainment."

  "I heard you laughing at it last week. Laughing fit to burst a lung. I thought you must be reading the obituaries again."

  Harry closed the paper and tossed it to the breakfast tray. "I read that column to remain informed."

  "About what style of pantaloon is favored by this year's dandies?" she scoffed. "Fat lot of good that'll do you since you never go out anywhere, if it can be avoided. You have no interest in fashion or style."

  "One cannot turn a blind eye to the horrors of the world, Parkes. This," he jabbed a finger at the paper, "wastrel's misadventures serve to highlight the utter foolishness prevalent in today's society. His behavior is held up for censure, not for amusement."

  "And there was I, thinking that you — having shut yourself away in this nowhere place — were simply living vicariously through those wicked stories."

  "This is Surrey, Parkes. I repeat—Surrey. Not the end of the known world."

  "It might as well be Timbuctoo. You discourage visitors and you never leave this estate anymore unless your aunt forces you out for an airing in daylight. And then it's not a pretty sight, I can tell you."

  "I have everything I need here." He banged a fist on the table. "Why would I need to leave this estate, woman? They'll take me out in a box soon enough. And no elm, brass and black velvet, if you please. Plain, worm-holed wood will do me— unlined and undecorated. No cause to waste the coin since it all rots into the ground anyway. In fact, toss me from the mail coach in a winding sheet and have done with it."

  "Are you sure even a sheet can be spared?"

  "Just being practical. Shed no tears for me, when I finally shuffle off the mortal coil, Parkes. Remember, I've cheated death too many times already." He sighed. "And then you will have this house to yourself without me cluttering the place up, making it all untidy and giving you work to do. That ought to make you and my aunt happy, since you're both constantly conspiring to get me out through the door of my own house for any inane reason. Once I'm truly dead I shan't be able to argue, shall I? Then I'll be the perfect man in the eyes of you two harridans."

  Parkes remained unmoved by his insults and unimpressed with what she called his "dramaticals". Of course he had to go out of his house occasionally; they both knew that. But he enjoyed complaining about it nonetheless.

  "As for welcoming guests, I've told you before, strangers pry. They make a habit of it. I don't like people knowing my business and so I prefer to lead a very private life. I fail to see the sin in that."

  "Ever since you gave up your naval command," she said firmly, "you've retreated into a shell, like a hermit crab. If it wasn't
for that good lady, your aunt, you'd never see the light of day."

  Ah, but he had not given anything up, had he? His career was taken away from him and he had no say in the matter. But Harry clamped his lips shut rather than correct her. The wound was still raw after two years and he feared what he might say when pushed. Parkes, for all her faults, did not deserve his tirade directed at her.

  She now drew his attention to the breakfast tray, pushing the paper aside and pointing to the metal form of a severed hand, poised there like grotesque art. "By the by, I found that hellish thing on the kitchen table this morning." It lay on its back beside the toast, its fingers clawed upward and inward, a gesture of silent anguish. "I assume it fell off one of your unholy creations."

  "Ah!" He yawned, scratching his unshaven cheek. "I wondered where that went."

  "I wish you'd keep them confined to your study. It does no good for my heart, nor for Brown's, walking into the kitchen half awake in the cold light of morning and finding dismembered joints all over."

  "You know I am often restless at night." He grinned slowly, in a manner he'd been assured was suitably menacing. "My creatures take after me it seems. Perhaps they gather in the moonlight and plot mutiny. Take care, Parkes! You'll be the first overboard, since they know you don't like them."

  She rolled her eyes. "Whether you slept last night, or sat up working till all hours on those ghastly mechanical contraptions, your aunt expects you at her garden party this afternoon in Mayfair. It's a three-hour ride, need I remind you, and at this rate you'll barely arrive before it's over. No doubt that's your plan."

  He pushed the silver lid from a small glass dish on the tray and, ignoring the dainty little spoon provided, collected a blob of sweet, sticky preserves on his fingertip. "How you do enlarge the facts until they enter the realm of pure fiction, Parkes. The journey takes an hour and a half at most." He delivered the jam directly to his tongue via his finger, much to her evident disgust.

  "At reckless speed, it may be. If you don't give a thought for anybody else on the road! Or for what poor Lady Bramley will say when they bring your broken, lifeless body to her door."

  "I know exactly what she'll say. How damnably inopportune of the fellow to die a third time, and at the onset of warm weather. Now I must wear mourning again, which does nothing for my complexion and is a great discomfort in summer." He paused, sweeping impatient fingers back through his hair. "Kindly refer to my previous statement in regard to the disposal of my corpse and assure the lady not to put herself out."

  "Nonsense. You know very well how she worries about you. That's why I'm here to keep you in some semblance of civil order."

  "If you wish to maintain that pretense, by all means do so, but we both know my aunt sent you here to spy upon me, Parkes."

  "Somebody has to keep you in order when she cannot. Now, eat your breakfast. Two glasses of brandy and half a cold lamb chop is all I've seen you consume since Wednesday."

  "Any other orders for me, Parkes?"

  "Yes. For pity's sake brush your hair properly, not just with your fingers— or a fork, as I have witnessed more than once! Now you've got jam in it, I daresay! And put on some decent clothing."

  He looked fondly down at his tattered, infinitely comfortable dressing gown and wondered if he might suddenly come up with an illness and send his regrets. But no, the horror of attending one of his aunt's dire social events loomed without possibility of reprieve. Lady Bramley could find vulnerable parts in a man's excuses as effectively as the spikes of an iron maiden could find them in his body. He often thought she would have been quite at home leading the Spanish Inquisition.

  "There will be young ladies present from that academy she supports, and she wants you on your best behavior. Not in one of your difficult moods to embarrass her."

  Harry winced. "Young ladies? What foul deeds have they been accused of that they must endure such an afternoon?"

  "Your aunt says it's their chance to practice their behavior in polite society before they're officially launched upon the world. Don't pull that face! It'll be a good chance for you to practice some manners too. You won't be expected to do anything with a bunch of well-bred girls, but smile and nod without terrifying them too much. Keep the curse words to a minimum and try not to refer to anything that might make a lady blush. You can do that, can't you?"

  "I give no guarantees. Lady Bramley surely knows the risks of wheeling me out in public. One of these days, she will see the futility and stop doing it." But he knew why his aunt continually poked and pried him into these awkward situations. The woman was a crazed optimist who thought Harry would, eventually, find a woman desperate enough to marry him.He had a fiancée once, but she moved swiftly on with her own life when she thought him lost at sea forever. When he returned to civilization, Harry felt no inclination to put himself through another courtship. It was all a rather bizarre performance, in his opinion, and he'd always thought how much easier it would be if one could simply find a woman one liked, lift her over one's shoulder and have done with it. Like purchasing a roll of carpet in a souk. But that sort of thing was frowned upon, apparently. People had to complicate matters with bloody silly balls and 'codes of conduct'. Hold her hand only— sometimes don't hold her hand at all— never say damn— don't look at her bosom— don't stamp on her feet— don't scratch yourself— never mention money, flatulence, or the blanket hornpipe. Just a lot of meaningless fluff.

  And always use flattery even if it is an outright lie. That, perhaps, was the hardest thing for Harry to manage. For instance, one assumed a lady would like to be informed if her breath was rank, but experience had taught him otherwise.

  Now, of course, it was just as well he had no wife. His mind was too unpredictable and sometimes he did not know who he was, where he was, or what he was meant to be doing.

  The housekeeper looked grim. "I'm surprised your aunt still makes an effort, since you do not. You won't even go to that tailor she recommended. I can't remember the last time you had a new coat made. But your aunt doesn't give up. She's a glutton for punishment, that dear lady."

  "Aren't we all rowing against the tide, Parkes? The good lord sends us challenges daily and yet we bravely continue striving forth. One must look to the sunny side. There are a great many souls in the world worse off than you or I. For instance, meddlesome housekeepers dismissed for impertinence and reduced to the workhouse..."

  She muttered under her breath, spun around on her heel and marched out. As soon as her complaints had faded a safe measure into the distance, Harry smiled, put his heels up, unfolded the paper again and opened it back to this week's riveting installment of His Lordship's Trousers.

  * * * *

  "Miss Hathaway! Where have you been? Today of all days!"

  The bellowing tones that chased her down the passage like a disgruntled cow overdue for milking, might have halted anyone of lesser determination in their tracks, but Georgiana was not about to pretend she'd heard. Besides, a girl could only hear her name shouted in despair a certain number of times before it became lost in the daily hum-drum racket of her life.

  "Her ladyship's carriage calls for us in half an hour, and inspection is in ten minutes. Ten minutes, Miss Hathaway!"

  The final moos were obscured by Georgiana's footsteps as she took the stairs in her usual graceless clatter.

  "I've never known a resident of mine produce so much dust and shake so many nails loose with her galumphing," the school proprietress, Mrs. Lightbody, frequently complained. Today, however, she was too busy and flustered to bother with further comment. Instead she lurched back to her private parlor and, very probably, to the gin flask she kept secreted inside a china shepherdess.

  One flight of stairs ascended at speed, Georgiana took the second at a slightly less rapid pace, breathing hard in her excitement and remembering that she could hardly attend a garden party with perspiration stains on her best printed muslin. Especially when it was a wretch to clean and the material cost seven shillings a
yard, purchased with money sent by her favorite brother, Guy.

  But Georgiana's moment of practical and sentimental concern had already passed again by the time she reached the door at the end of the third floor landing, and dashed in upon her friends to announce grandly, "I have, in my possession, the latest installment of His Lordship's Trousers!"

  Her two friends, in the midst of dressing for that very proper garden party, immediately abandoned their ribbons and hairbrushes, rushing to devour the latest edition of this naughty, anonymous rake's misadventures. Since his story was banned from the school premises, the popularity of his adventures had only increased.

  In order to present her friends with this forbidden entertainment, Georgiana was required to smuggle The Gentleman's Weekly into school in a place where it could not be discovered by the eagle-eyed Mrs. Lightbody.

  Now, while her friends looked on in deep respect for her daring, she rummaged under her skirt, tugged the folded publication out from the possessive grip of her best garter, and held it aloft with a cry of victory.

  Like seagulls finding a broken crab shell, they descended upon the paper, falling together to the nearest bed.

  Unlike the other two young women Georgiana already knew what the column contained, but she was obliged to feign ignorance, reading along with them as if discovering each word for the first time. Occasionally, pride and vanity tempted her to spill the secret of authorship to her friends, but with much inner suffering she restrained those demons. There were some secrets a lady had to keep to herself. Even her father didn't yet know that his least significant child was the mysterious author of the most popular feature in his newspaper.