The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  "I have brothers, sir." She smiled broadly. "Five of them. Thus, I know what goes on inside the male mind."

  He sincerely doubted she knew what sometimes went on in his mind. Certainly, he hoped she wouldn't.

  "What do you need that for?" She pointed at his Chinese gong.

  "The bells don't work."

  "So poor Mr. Brown has to run around to the summons of that thing? Why do you not fix the bells?"

  "I'm getting around to it."

  "Like the roof and the windows too?"

  "Yes. And Brown does not run anywhere, I assure you."

  "Well, I would never answer to the rude crash of a gong either. I would ignore it."

  "Yes, well I doubt I'll be summoning your presence with any sense of urgency."

  "I suppose you miss the Navy and sailing," she said suddenly.

  Another jolt of surprise ripped through him. Her conversation swerved about like a runaway cart, and he began to feel bruised from getting in the way of her wheels.

  "It must be awfully difficult," she added, her face solemn, "to be forced into giving up a promising career and then trying to find something worthwhile and fulfilling to occupy your days and your mind. But you are not so old and decrepit. Don't you ever want to go out into society? The Navy men I've met are all very jolly and lively, even gentlemen older than you."

  "The Navy men you've met?"

  "Through my eldest brother, Captain Guy Hathaway, of His Majesty's Navy," she said proudly.

  "Ah."

  "Men are fortunate that they can have careers."

  "I was led to understand that marriage and motherhood are fulfilling pursuits for most women."

  "I'm sure they are for some. They have to be, do they not? Since we aren't given any other choice."

  "What else are women good for?" He waited for her anger, but none came. Or she hid it smoothly.

  "You must feel somewhat adrift after leaving the Navy," she persisted, studying his face with those sparkling, impertinent eyes.

  "Well, I—"

  "Just imagine how it would feel if you had never been allowed to have a career in the first place. If you were expected to sit around on your posterior and do nothing but look pretty?"

  Harry looked at that shadow of an ink smudge on her cheek. And thought about trying to wipe the mark off for her. With his tongue.

  "If you continue to look at me so crossly, Commander, I shall assume that, despite your proclamation to the contrary, you're desperately in love with me and trying not to be. That is, of course, how all romances begin. The grand ones. In books and such."

  "I wouldn't know, Miss Hathaway. I prefer factual books, of course. Not nonsense about unlikely ladies and their even more unlikely gentlemen."

  Again she turned away and took another stroll around the study, examining his books and then exclaiming in joyful surprise when she discovered his aunt's owl perched on a shelf.

  "Please don't touch that, Miss Hathaway." He groaned. "I've just mended it after the poor creature's last encounter with you."

  She sprang back from the shelf and knitted her fingers together under her chin, as if to keep them out of temptation. "I'm glad the owl could be fixed. Has he told you your fortune?"

  "Don't believe in it." He thought of the little slip of decorated paper still hidden in his dressing-gown pocket. Charm strikes the sight, but merit wins the soul.

  "Neither do I really," she agreed with a sigh. "It's just a little fun, and everyone has to have some of that, don't they?"

  "What for?"

  "To lighten their spirits. Laughter is a powerful restorative, sir. I suppose that's why your aunt brought me here. Entertainment to cure you."

  "Miss Hathaway the only ailment you might cure is a fear of silence."

  The woman was still considering her reply to that, when Parkes appeared in the doorway. "So this is where you are! Why is there a fire in the dining room and all the dust shaken up?"

  "It's her fault," he grumbled. "She wanted to see all my bits and pieces."

  The housekeeper grimaced. "I've no doubt she will, sooner or later. Better be careful what she wishes for."

  "Yes, thank you, Parkes," he muttered, stepping away from the window and fussing, one-handed, with his neck-cloth.

  Miss Hathaway looked startled. "Parkes?"

  His head and his world felt crowded now. Why on earth was he indulging this girl in conversation? Letting her pry into his work and give her opinion.

  He didn't want her poking around in his papers and books, asking more questions. Being nosy and dismissive of his work. Getting in his way.

  "She's not in your way," Parkes whispered in his ear. "She doesn't take up that much room."

  True. "Although a constantly moving object uses up more space than a still one," he murmured.

  "Are you talking to me?" Miss Hathaway exclaimed, brows arched high.

  "No. I was thinking aloud. Now, if you are finished—"

  But while he steered her toward the door, she resisted, taking small steps in a circular motion. "I could be of help to you in your work," she said. "I could be an assistant."

  "In what way?"

  "Sir, if you're making a woman you ought to refer to a real one, don't you think? For research purposes."

  "Madam, how do you mean to help me complete my project when you are not yet complete yourself?"

  "And you are, sir? I think you're quite undone."

  He groaned deeply. "I think you had better find my aunt and annoy her instead. Were you not supposed to be her companion?"

  "But is anyone ever complete, sir?" she persisted. "Surely life's lessons are never ending."

  "Miss Hathaway, this conversation begins to feel never ending." Finally Harry picked up a book from his desk and used it to urge her toward the door. "Kindly keep out of my study in future and find something else to do. If you don't care to sit around on your posterior, looking pretty— which is probably beyond your abilities on the best of days— at least make yourself useful. I'm sure my aunt has plenty to keep you busy. Shoo."

  Her expression was now so comical that he turned away quickly, because the very worrisome sensation of a laugh had sprung up out of his stomach and into his throat, and he wouldn't want to let it out in her presence. Who knew what else might follow it? Because suddenly he knew what that strange, unsettled feeling was. Life. This is what it felt like to be alive.

  He had almost forgotten.

  Chapter Thirteen

  His aunt's piercing tones could be heard up and down the corridors of his house all day, from sunrise to sunset. Poor Brown did his best to keep up with her, but the odd-job man, like Parkes, had a knack for hiding when he needed a moment to himself. Lady Bramley's greatest and most constant ally, therefore, was the young woman she'd brought with her. Astonishingly, Miss Hathaway appeared to tolerate his aunt, even to enjoy her company. They butted horns on occasion— both being hard-headed— but no lasting harm was done.

  Together they commandeered Harry's ship, or thought they did. His aunt was full of ideas for refurbishment of his house, but he stubbornly resisted every one. He knew she had sent for some staff from her own house and he might have to put up with that, but when it came to larger issues he was firmly resolved to make no changes. Her visit would not last forever, he kept reassuring himself. Soon he would be back to normal. Or as normal as he could be.

  In the meantime, he supposed Miss Hathaway was entertaining. In a small way.

  Yes, it was somewhat amusing to observe his aunt's attempts at coaching the menace on the finer points of elegant behavior.

  "One does not dash into a room, fly across it and drop into a chair like a sack of potatoes, Miss Hathaway. One enters with one's head high and shoulders back. One proceeds in a gentle glide, neither too fast nor too slowly. And one lowers oneself onto the seat with poise and balance, ankles crossed, knees to the side, hands still and placed calmly in one's lap."

  Harry's formerly quiet evenings were now shattered by
the discordant sounds of Miss Hathaway "playing" at the old pianoforte in the drawing room. Her singing was no better than her playing, but it did not appear to cause her any embarrassment. She sang lustily and without the slightest deference to a tune, but so persuasively that if one listened long enough one could be convinced that her version was the original. She erased all memory of any other.

  He listened with interest as she debated his aunt on a variety of subjects, always standing her ground where others — strong men— would have fallen under the barrage of Lady Bramley's weaponry. In her tender years of life, Miss Hathaway, so it seemed, had formed opinions on everything and she held fast to her beliefs. It would, he suspected, make her a formidable enemy once she took against a person. But it would, in the same way, make her a loyal friend. Indeed, she spoke often of her two closest friends, Miss Chance and Miss Goodheart, with so much warmth of feeling that he was almost envious of them.

  Slowly he grew accustomed to having her in his house. He was forced into it, he assured himself. What else could he do but adapt?

  If only the flood did not recede, for once the route was clear, his aunt's reinforcements would arrive to further destroy his precious calm. But the water would drain, of course, and the road would then be passable again for more than ducks and geese.

  "Where shall we put them all, sir?" Brown asked worriedly. "The top floor of the house, where the servants used to sleep in the old days, is in a very bad state, sir, with peeling walls, holes in the ceiling and a few missing floorboards."

  "Indeed, we cannot, in good conscience, house anybody there. Perhaps it would be best to put them in the west wing with Lady Bramley. After all, it was her idea to bring them here." There would be a ladies maid, two footmen, a cook, a kitchen maid and two housemaids. Filkins had been left behind to hold the fort in Mayfair. He was, probably, soaking his feet in salt water and drinking his employer's brandy.

  "Very good, sir. We'll find space in the west wing. And what about Miss Hathaway, sir?"

  "What about her?"

  "She's in the east wing, sir, since we put her there that first night— it was the only other room furnished and in habitable condition. But I wondered if that was suitable."

  "Has she complained?"

  "No, sir, not at all. In fact she said what a pretty view it had and when I asked her if she wanted to move she insisted on staying put."

  He was pleased. Yes, he had thought she would like that view. Not everything about his house was falling down. "Then I fail to see the problem."

  "Don't you, sir?" the old man replied, brows lowered and squeezed into a knot.

  If Brown alluded to the fact that Harry tended to wander in the east wing when he was restless at night, he should just say so, he thought crossly. But he knew the handyman was the only soul cognizant of his moonlight journeys, and Brown would never raise that subject to anybody. Not even to Harry. They were men. Men did not talk of things like that. Instead they skimmed over and around anything uncomfortable.

  Only Miss Hathaway had dared tell him to his face that he was "undone". A bold creature who thought she knew it all. Youth: groan. Women: even bigger groan.

  "I'll get to work, sir, on preparing those other rooms for her ladyship's staff."

  "Good man, Brown. Chin up. It won't last forever. Get Sulley to help you. Remember, there is a silver lining. With more staff in the house, you'll have less to do."

  "Yes, sir." But the poor man looked very bleak. "You seem cheerful, sir," he added woefully, as if no good could come of it.

  Harry sighed. "No cause for alarm, Brown. I daresay it will not last."

  But he understood the man's concern. Everything was much simpler when it was just the two of them inside the house. And Parkes, of course.

  The housekeeper, however, had rarely appeared over the course of the last few days. He had observed her becoming faded about the edges before his aunt and her companion came to Woodbyne. Now she left him to manage alone, as if she thought this was her chance to take a holiday. Like Filkins, his aunt's butler, Parkes must be making the most of it and soaking her corns somewhere in a corner.

  When she came back, he would certainly have a few severe words for that woman.

  In the meantime, she left him at the mercy of Miss Hathaway who, when she was not busy with his aunt, trailed after Harry around his house, poking at him with her questions and endless, unwanted opinions.

  "What was it like on that island?" she wanted to know. "Did you feel abandoned? You must have been afraid that you would never see England again."

  "Miss Hathaway, I am never afraid. Men do not have the luxury of fear."

  "I know men do not like to confess a weakness, but—"

  "Madam, my only weakness is my temper, and you are trying it severely."

  "I only wanted to know about your experiences. Do you not think people are curious to know all about your time as a castaway?"

  "Why would they? It's no business of theirs."

  She looked astonished. "Why, because it was an adventure most people will never have, sir. I think they would be enthralled to know how you survived, what thoughts went through your mind and how you passed the days all alone."

  He stopped walking and she almost tumbled into him. "I thought of all the irritating folk I would like to eat if they were stranded with me, Miss Hathaway. I thought of which parts I would eat first and how I would cook them for the best flavor. Is that what you want to hear? Is that enough lurid detail?"

  Rather than back away clutching her petticoats, like any other decent young lady, she exclaimed, "See? That's exceedingly interesting. Most people would be captivated by—"

  "Who are these most people whose curiosity you continually want to appease by destroying every last shred of my privacy?"

  "The general public, sir. The everyday man and woman. In my opinion they would very much enjoy reading about your experiences. It might be good for you too. Get anything that might be troubling you, off your chest." She licked her lips. "So to speak."

  "Miss Hathaway, in my opinion, when most people push their noses where they do not belong, they ought to be prepared to get them—" he reached for hers and pretended to twist it between his fingers, "snipped off."

  "Only trying to help."

  "Are they not hiring apprentice rack-handlers at the Tower this week? Surely there are traitors to the crown that require interrogation."

  She pointed at his hand. "Your wrist is better, sir?"

  "Yes. Much." He hadn't worn his sling for a few days and he barely felt a twinge now.

  "I am glad."

  "Are you? Why? What difference does it make to you?"

  She looked up at him, clearly vexed at last. "Well, goodness, apparently none, since it has not improved your mood at all."

  "I am not in a bad mood, Miss Hathaway. I simply do not care to answer your wretched, nosy questions. To have you meddling and poking around my house, and my life. Such as it is."

  She wrinkled her nose and then laughed, a sudden spark of naughtiness dancing under her lashes. "I must watch out, I suppose, because now you have two good hands in complete working order."

  He narrowed his gaze. "Explain."

  "You might see fit to punish me for these many and terrible misdemeanors of which I am accused. You might decide to eat me."

  Quite unable to answer that, Harry walked on, shaking his head. For a moment he thought she would not follow. Good.

  He slowed his pace. It sounded odd not to have her step shadowing his. Ah, she must have found something more interesting to do. He knew that would happen sooner or later. Surely she must grow tired of him eventually.

  But then he heard her steps tripping after him again. Seemed as if he would have to put up with it a while longer. He began to whistle cheerily and turned his course to take the corridor that passed outside to a covered, paved walkway with open arches along the side. He knew she enjoyed the scents of the herb garden and the gentle trickle of the old fountain. If she was
intent on following him about, she might at least have something pleasant to look at while doing so.

  * * * *

  One day, Miss Hathaway dashed up to Harry in the hall and backed him against a suit of armor. "Commander Thrasher, I require your assistance and you cannot say no, or I shall be obliged to take desperate measures and ask Brown, who is quite busy enough and should not be troubled."

  "And I should?" he muttered, perplexed.

  "I tried her dratted dog, but it wouldn't sit still for me, of course, peevish creature. Then I thought of a bowl of cherries, but before I knew what I had done they were all eaten, but for a sad few." She sighed heavily, tugging hard on his sleeve. "Once I had one, you see, I couldn't stop. They were very succulent and quite delicious, but now I have stomach ache. That's when I thought of you. You're all long, hard parts—"

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "And straight lines. I can do you."

  He squinted, trying to follow her winding trail of chatter. Almost afraid of where it might lead. "Me?"

  "You don't have as many round parts, and I'm much better at straight lines and sharp angles."

  "Miss Hathaway, what exactly do you want from me?"

  "Your aunt insists on seeing a sample of my sketching ability."

  Slowly and carefully he extracted her pinching fingers from his shirt sleeve. "I am gratified, Miss Hathaway, to be considered a suitable subject, somewhere after an angry little dog and a bowl of cherries. And Brown, who is apparently not to be disturbed, but I am."

  "Were you doing anything important?" she asked, chin in the air, eyes bright and searching. Sometimes, when she looked up at him in this manner, he forgot entirely what he was meant to be doing.

  This was one such occasion. "Oh, for pity's sake, I suppose I can set my work aside and spare a half hour."

  In fact, it took almost two hours, at the end of which time she was still only satisfied with his left ear. Her discontent was expressed in such a way that Harry began to feel it was his fault— or the fault of his face. She constantly abandoned her charcoal to rush over and reposition his limbs, his head, his fingers. He suspected she was trying to make him look like her sketch, instead of the other way about, but each brazen touch of her hands caused him to breathe a little faster, made his pulse a little more unsteady. Too caught up in her project, she did not seem to notice. Perhaps she mistook him for one of those many brothers she'd mentioned. Her actions were quite casually bossy.