The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  "Not too bad, your ladyship. I rub a bit of horse liniment on it from time to time, and that does wonders. Puts the spring back in my step." He stopped and squinted, apparently just realizing there was another figure huddled in the doorway. Lifting a candelabra in one shaky hand, he muttered, "You brought a guest, Lady Bramley. Oh dear, we weren't expecting another."

  "My companion, Miss Hathaway, requires nothing beyond the very simplest of rooms. I had already made a commitment to take her on before I heard of Henry's mishap, so I had to bring her with me. She will not get in anybody's way. She is here to observe and learn."

  The old man muttered doubtfully, "To learn, Ma'am?"

  "How to disport herself in a proper manner. Here in my nephew's house she can put some of her lessons into practice without embarrassing anybody too badly. The nearby villages of Upper and Little Flaxhill are just far enough away from London to prevent any disastrous public mishaps among finer society, yet there is surely some little bit of local culture, a few good families upon which she might hone her skills. People who aren't as particular."

  "I see, Ma'am." He blinked at Georgiana in a worried way and she gave him one of her best smiles, but it didn't seem to reassure the fellow.

  Lady Bramley continued, "Since I am always promising my nephew to visit for the summer, I thought this would be as good a time as any— now that he's hurt himself again with a nasty fall. He needs me here to get him in order, clearly."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "And while we're here he can learn to entertain guests graciously and stop being this curiously unsociable wretch he's become."

  The old man winced, and a small sigh of despair oozed forth from his chewing lips.

  "How do you do, Mr. Brown," Georgiana said politely, again hoping to enliven his spirits. "I promise I shall not cause you any trouble."

  His puzzled regard drifted back to her face, taking in her features with greater interest. Until then his grey eyes had seemed rather weary— fogged over like the carriage windows through which Georgiana had spent the last several hours trying to see her surroundings. But now, as the old man closely studied Georgiana's face, that misty apathy cleared, as if he had just rubbed sleep out of his eyes.

  "I don't know what the master will think of this one...Miss Hathaway, is it? If she were a horse, I wouldn't buy her. Not with that wildness in her eye. Looks like mischief to me."

  Before Georgiana could submit a word in her defense, Lady Bramley concurred matter-of-factly with his assessment, "Yes, I'm afraid she's a revolutionary, Brown my good man. Be warned. Miss Hathaway does not hesitate to speak her mind, as I have already discovered. And she has a great deal of mind to bespeak."

  He chuckled. "That'll go down well around here then." Leading them into the hall, he set his candelabra down on a narrow table beneath a rather ugly portrait of Queen Elizabeth. "You get those wet coats and bonnets off, Ma'am, and I'll get a bit of dinner together in the dining room."

  "That is very good of you, Brown. Nothing fancy, of course."

  "Aye, your ladyship. There's no other choice but plain."

  "Still no cook either, eh?"

  "No, Ma'am. I do what I can, but the master prefers to throw a tray together himself and hasn't had a hot meal in weeks. Not for want of my trying. My sister came to cook for him, but she gave up. Says it's insulting to see so much good food sent back uneaten. He won't keep to regular hours, of course, so three meals a day means naught to the master. He'll eat when he feels the need — even if 'tis the middle of the night—and not until."

  Having swept a gloved finger along the console table upon which he'd set the candelabra, Lady Bramley tut-tutted at the thick grey layer of dust she found there. "No maids, I see."

  "No, Ma'am."

  "This won't do at all, Brown. I did not expect to find the place so untended. I must send for some of my staff until a few can be hired from the village. It seems I must extend my stay beyond my original scheme."

  His shoulders sank. "Yes, Ma'am." And then he muttered under his breath, "I feared you might."

  Untying her sopping wet bonnet ribbons, Georgiana looked around at the impressively large hall and the other gloomy portraits hung along the wood-paneled walls. These must be the Thrasher family, she thought, for there was a resemblance in all of them— that strong jaw changing little through the generations.

  "Is the Commander quite well?" she ventured. "He looked a little...startled... when I saw him through the window."

  "Aye, Miss, that's the way he is. Perpetually startled. Poor feller. Something ought to be done—"

  "Yes, thank you, Brown," Lady Bramley quickly interjected. "That's why we're here. Now you needn't worry a moment longer about your master. I shall set everything to rights."

  He sighed. "Yes, Ma'am."

  "I suppose we must see Henry at once," Lady Bramley said, shifting her little dog under her other arm. "Best get all the protesting over with. Just like bathing a recalcitrant pup, getting a man in order must be done periodically for their own good and despite the growling."

  * * * *

  He stood with his back to the fire, assuming a pose of authority in readiness to deal with these guests. Best to let them know right away that he was in charge. Unfortunately tonight, because of his wounded wrist and the sling, he couldn't stand with both hands behind his back, only one, but he made the best of it, head up and feet shoulder-width apart so that he might rock on his heels as required. Yes, that was better. Normal, was it not? As "normal" as he could be.

  It had been his intention to let Parkes handle the matter of his unwanted guests, but she was nowhere to be found tonight, of course— practicing that typical feminine skill of vanishing at the most inopportune moment.

  So he was left alone to handle his aunt when she swept into his study with her voice already raised to soprano pitch. "Well, Henry, I have arrived, no thanks to the state of the roads around here."

  The damp and drooping Miss Hathaway followed close behind her. Harry drew a deep breath and was about to speak when Lady Bramley exclaimed, "Henry, what are you wearing? For goodness sake, put some clothes on."

  But he had clothes on, didn't he? Yes. He looked down to be sure. Breeches, shirt. Not as tidy as it should be, however—

  "You will remember my companion, perhaps," she added, too impatient to wait for Harry to adjust his garments. "This is Miss Georgiana Hathaway of the Particular Establishment for the Advantage of Respectable Ladies."

  "How could I fail to remember?" he muttered, looking again at the young woman beside his aunt. She was, in fact, impossible to forget, although he had suffered a momentary confusion at seeing her suddenly appear outside his window. "The Wickedest Chit that ever breathed air."

  Her eyes, he noted today, were fringed with such a preponderance of ebony lashes that they looked heavy. Centipedinous eye lashes, he mused, inventing the word on the spot, as was his tendency when nothing in existence suited.

  "Henry."

  Who? What?

  "Henry!"

  His gaze swept left and slightly downward to take in the sight of his aunt's round face. "Madam?"

  "Henry, tuck your shirt in and put on a jacket. We're going to eat dinner."

  "Not hungry." He looked around the room again, wishing Parkes might reappear and manage the situation in her usual way. Where the devil was she? "You can't stay," he blurted. Deliberately not looking at the woman with all the eyelashes again, he finally remembered to rock on his heels as previously planned. Ah, that was better. He regained command over his own vessel, no matter how distracting this stowaway's eyelashes.

  "There's been a mistake, you see. I haven't anywhere suitable to put you. The house isn't equipped for females, we're infested with mice and the roof leaks like a colander. Sorry, but there it is."

  Parkes abruptly whispered in his ear, "Surely your aunt can take your mother's old bedchamber— which is the least drafty and most comfortable for her health— and her companion can make use of your father's ro
om in the east wing, until something else might be arranged. A fire can be lit in there now that Brown took that old nest out of the chimney. And it's got a pleasant view across the park. I daresay the young lady would like the sunrise when she wakes in the morning."

  Suddenly Parkes wanted to be helpful? She certainly picked her moments. He glared over his shoulder. "Don't you have other duties to tend?"

  She was all smiles. A very rare occurrence and indicative of mischief afoot. "Oh, it won't take long to air the beds and knock down a few cobwebs."

  "Henry!" His aunt's voice drew his attention back to her again. "What's the matter with you? What are you looking at? Where are your manners?"

  Did he ever have any manners? He couldn't remember.

  But as he turned back to his guests, he noticed that a few drops of rainwater had fallen off Miss Hathaway and landed in fat splotches on his drawings, which were spread out across the floor. She was smudging the charcoal, he thought anxiously. Ten minutes after her arrival and his work was endangered already.

  "Are you quite all right, Commander?" the young menace inquired.

  "All right?" he sputtered. "Of course, I'm all right. Not that it's any of your damned business."

  "Henry!"

  "I won't get in your way, sir. I am eager to learn under your aunt's tutelage and to make recompense for all the destruction I caused at her garden party. To make amends for anything I did to you also, of course, sir."

  Anything she did to him? What had she done to him now? Harry ran a quick mental assessment of all his body parts and was relieved to find them intact. Stirring, in fact, with vigor.

  "Your aunt intends to make me into a lady," she added, a slightly mischievous spark under her lashes. "I am not to slide down banisters anymore."

  "Excellent," he muttered. "That should be a relief to gentlemen everywhere. The fewer flying backsides there are about the place the better."

  "Henry, be polite," his aunt exclaimed. "We're here now, and we're staying for a month. Perhaps longer. Now that I see the state of the house, I have a better idea of all the work to be done. I shall send for some staff tomorrow. I suggest you acclimate yourself to the idea of ladies in the house. I know you haven't had one about for many years. But it's time, Henry."

  He looked down at the wet footprints left by Miss Hathaway's walking boots. Then his perusal ascended slowly over her muslin frock, only to be delayed in its progress by her softly rounded bosom— never to be mentioned, of course— until his gaze fumbled its way upward to that dimple in her cheek. He found her lips pursed up like a tight rosebud. Her eyes squinted hard under those abundant lashes. Trying to puzzle him out, perhaps. He wished her luck with that.

  She would not be the first to try and fail.

  A drop of rainwater had fallen from her chin to her bosom and dampened the lace chemisette, making it stick to her skin, enticingly transparent. There was a tiny mole at the base of her throat, visible beneath the ivory lace. In the old days, folk used to call them witches marks, he thought darkly. Could that be why freckles were now considered an unforgiveable flaw?

  Reaching for the mantle behind him with his left hand, he missed, knocking a small china figurine to the hearth rug. He ignored it and his fingers, fumbling blind, finally found the ledge they sought.

  "Do as you wish then," he said tersely, back in control. "But you stay at your own risk and don't assume I'll change the way I do things just for the two of you."

  Miss Hathaway still watched him quizzically, her eyes a warm chestnut shade with just a twinkle of bronze. Her broom-like lashes looked wet. Perhaps that was why he was drawn to staring at them. It was as if they'd been dusted with tiny crystals and each time she blinked the firelight was caught there, reflected in miniature prisms of rainwater.

  Harry wanted, very badly, to brush those lashes with his fingertip. Just to see how soft they were. To feel them move.

  He remembered the touch of her hand in his. The shock of it sparking through him. Flesh to flesh. How long was it since he touched a woman?

  Another drip of rainwater, having meandered along her jaw line, now reached the point of her small chin and wobbled there, before it fell. The drop trickled between those two panels of her lace chemisette and took a trembling course downward into dangerous territory, out of his sight.

  Harry had begun to suffer the tickling of sweat under his clothes. It felt as if he was back on that tropical island, under the midday heat of a bright sun. Hooking a finger around his neck-cloth, which was already partly undone, he tugged it looser still.

  "You are ill," his aunt declared. "You look hot, Henry." She stepped forward and tried to reach his forehead, but he slipped smartly aside and, having a good two feet on her in height, he escaped her questing hand. "You're breathing very hard."

  "Breathing? How dare I breathe. I shall stop at once."

  "And perspiring in a most uncivilized manner."

  "I am perfectly well. I have an excellent constitution. I wouldn't be alive now if I didn't, would I? Breathing helps with that, perhaps you have not noticed."

  Parkes coughed, once again interrupting. "We'll see to the rooms then, shall we?"

  "If we must," he grunted.

  "If we must what?" his aunt demanded.

  "Good afternoon to you both. Please enjoy your dinner without me. As you see, I'm busy." He'd looked at Miss Hathaway and her dangerous eyelashes long enough, he decided. He wanted her out of his study, and himself out of this sticky shirt, as soon as possible. "Shoo."

  With his good hand he flung the door open and waited for the unwanted guests to leave him in peace again. A welcome draft of cooling air swept in from the passage, and he felt his pulse ease to a steadier trot.

  "Dear Henry." His aunt paused to pat his cheek on the way out. "Lovely to see you, as always. Now I am here and all will be well. I told you I'd bring my own entertainment, didn't I? But do let Brown give you a shave, won't you? There is something of the Norse pirate about your appearance and that will not do for a Thrasher. We're not rampaging, ravaging pagan raiders."

  "Perhaps not now," he muttered darkly.

  * * * *

  Georgiana and Lady Bramley dined in a long narrow room that smelled as if it had not been aired out in a great many months. Or years. Fortunately the journey had given them both an appetite so they ignored the dust and the musty odor to eagerly consume a hasty dinner assembled by Brown.

  "Is he really the only servant?" Georgiana asked, after the elderly fellow had hobbled out again. "This is a very large house for one to manage."

  "Indeed. And as you can see, he barely manages it. All very worrying, but my nephew can be extremely stubborn."

  Yes, she saw that in his hard, proud jaw and the stormy demands of his searching gaze. But it was more than a stubborn nature that left his house in disrepair, clearly.

  "Henry is very fond of Woodbyne Abbey," Lady Bramley continued. "He was born here and enjoyed a very happy youth on this estate until his mama left."

  There was a pause. The lady suddenly looked annoyed and hurriedly forked another cold, boiled potato into her mouth.

  "His mama left? You mean she died?" Georgiana thought with sadness of her own mother, taken too soon from life, and the effect it had on her when she was a child.

  But his aunt swallowed, coughed into her napkin and shook her head. "It would have been better if she did, but no." She paused, sighing gustily. "I suppose it does no harm now to tell you. The wretched woman left Henry and his father— my dear brother— without so much as a letter of explanation. There was a scandal, of course." She cut into a slice of ham with one ruthless saw of her knife. "Henry went away to the Naval Academy in Portsmouth soon after and that was that. Until he retired two years ago. Since then he has kept himself busy here with his work."

  "What sort of work?"

  "Something...of a scientific nature. He has little time to socialize, but I mean to bring him out of himself." Lady Bramley spooned a large dollop of pickle onto her
plate. "Henry has been left alone for far too long. Alas, I've been much too caught up in my own concerns, but now I can see things have been let go," —she cast melancholy eyes around the room— "far beyond what I had been told."

  "Perhaps the Commander likes being alone."

  "It is not about what he thinks he likes, but about what I know he needs."

  Georgiana mulled over that for a moment and then asked, "What happened to his arm? The one in the sling."

  "Haste and thoughtlessness."

  "Oh."

  "It is merely a sprained wrist, and it must be healed by now, but like all men he makes more of it than is necessary."

  "Poor fellow. He does seem to be suffering from some malady however."

  "You refer to his display of ill manners just now, and his careless attire, no doubt? That is only due to all this solitude. He is not often out in company and luring him away from Woodbyne Abbey is a trial. After this latest accident I decided it was time I came to him. I shall soon put him back together again."

  "Does he wish to be put together?"

  "Whether he wishes for it or not signifies little, Miss Hathaway. He must be brought back into the land of the living, and I will brook no opposition. Nobody knows, so well as I, how to manage these matters. Brisk and sharp, Miss Hathaway." She gestured with her fork pointed upward like Britannia's trident. "Brisk and sharp, that is the way of it. One must sweep in with ruthless determination and take the reins of the chariot."

  There followed a long pause while they ate their cold repast and listened to the soft click of the mantle clock. The walls around them seemed full of creaks and groans, but while she liked to imagine the presence of ghosts, Georgiana supposed this noise to be caused by the wind that afternoon. It was indeed harsh and had almost swept their carriage over several times on the journey.

  She thought again of Dead Harry's expression when he saw her at his window. Clearly he was not happy to have them there, but this did not bother his aunt in the least. Lady Bramley was a woman who always thought she knew best, of course.

  "It must have been very hard for the Commander, when his mother left," Georgiana ventured thoughtfully. "I'm sure it had a lasting effect. I've found that people are often shaped by their experiences in youth."