by Lynn Morris
The marquess said, “I’m sure I don’t know, m’dear, but you must admit it is delicious, whatever it is.” There was general agreement around the table, even from the nettled marchioness. Lord Camarden frowned slightly and continued, “Speaking of rabbit, I heard some disturbing news from Mr. Fairman today. It seems that poachers broke into the deer park and set some traps. The gamekeepers found a doe with a broken leg and had to put her down. She had a fawn, too, a pretty little doe.”
Mirabella dropped her fork and murmured unhappily, “Oh, no!”
Hastily her father said, “Don’t worry, my dear. They took her to the stables and Diamond, who foaled seven months ago, adopted her. Apparently she’s doing very well, along with Diamond’s foal.”
Mr. Rosborough was visibly upset. “Oh, my lord, poachers in your deer park? How distressing.”
“It’s more than distressing, it’s criminal,” the marquess said grimly. “How dare they encroach on the deer park? I’ve already allowed them very great liberties in Camarden Wood.” For two centuries Camarden had had a fallow deer park, enclosed with a stone wall and an ancient gate that was never locked. The park was lovely, and had a beautiful glade that was a favored picnic spot. It overlooked a meadow, thick with daisies in spring, where one could always see the fallow deer delicately grazing.
The marquess continued, “You know, after the harvest, the gamekeepers began to find traps brazenly set right on the bridle path to Knyveton. Giles’s horse almost stepped on one when he was on his way here. When I allow them to trap in the wood! I told the gamekeepers to confiscate the traps, but I didn’t punish the poachers. I instructed Mr. Fairman to make certain they understood that if they did such a thing again I’d not only confiscate all of their traps, I’d put them in the lockup.”
“Oh dearie me,” Mr. Rosborough murmured. “Do you know who the poachers in the deer park were, my lord?”
“I do. Fools, they broke into the deer park to check their traps, and were fairly caught just this afternoon. It’s two brothers by the name of Neary. I can’t place them, but Mr. Fairman is investigating.”
Mr. Rosborough sighed deeply. “I am most heartily sorry, my lord, but I’m afraid they’re two of my laborers. They were journeymen, and I hired them last spring. As it happened, I had two cottages recently vacated, and I contracted them as permanent laborers. They and their families were literally in rags, traveling in a broken-down old cart that held only six people. The children were obliged to walk.” The benefice that the marquess had bestowed on Mr. Rosborough included a glebe of five hundred acres.
“I see,” the marquess said thoughtfully. “They have families, you say?”
“They do. The elder brother, Tom Neary, has twelve children. Will Neary has seven, with another—oh, I do so humbly beg your pardon, Lady Camarden.” Such things as pregnancies were never to be mentioned in polite company.
“Nonsense, Mr. Rosborough, all of us here know about the realities of the poor,” she said evenly. “What is the situation of the two families? Are they indeed so desperate that their only recourse is to poach in our park?”
Mr. Rosborough answered with clear discomfort, “I can’t say that is the case, my lady, for as my lord says, none of the poachers are punished for trapping in the wood, where rabbits are plentiful. Both families had chickens, but Tom told me that the foxes were so numerous this year that they had killed all of them.”
“That is certainly not true,” the marquess said firmly. “My gamekeepers have told me that the fox hunt will be hard on the hounds this year, as they think we only have half a dozen foxes on the grounds. And so speak clearly, if you please, Mr. Rosborough. Are these fellows simply so lazy that they’re getting the easy pickings in my deer park?”
“I fear that must be so, my lord. It’s unfortunate indeed. Both brothers have allowed their cottages to fairly go to rack and ruin, and I’m afraid they’re both partial to the drink.”
Lord Camarden grimaced. “Then they must certainly be dealt with. The punishment for poaching is three months in the lockup, and a fine of five pounds.”
Unhappily Mr. Rosborough said, “Yes, my lord, and I cannot say that is not merciful of you, since by the law of the land you could transport them, or even hang them. It’s only that their families will have such a difficult time of it this winter. The eldest boy is not yet fourteen years old, I believe.” He brightened slightly. “However, of course the church will help.”
“Yes…yes,” Lord Camarden muttered blackly. “I will not have families going hungry on my land. It’s difficult for me to comprehend that some men simply will not prepare for provisioning their families in the winter. Very well, Mr. Rosborough, later we will discuss what must be done about the Neary brothers.”
Mirabella knew that this meant that her father and the rector would go over the various charitable programs the church offered. If ample provision could not be made to the two families, the marquess would invent, and fund, a new charity.
Thoughtfully Mirabella said, “Pappa, I have been thinking. Why couldn’t the old mere just north of Camarden Dael be made into a stewpond? We could easily stock it from our pond, it’s quite overrun, particularly with carp. If the cottagers could fish all winter, perhaps they wouldn’t be obliged to poach so much.”
Each person at the table stared at her, bemused.
Mrs. Rosborough said, “But that—that’s not possible. Is it?”
Mr. Rosborough said, “I think it’s a capital idea, Lady Mirabella. Plentiful fishing would certainly add to the cottagers’ cupboards. Of course I have no idea what it might involve.”
“Nor do I,” the marquess said thoughtfully. “But my gardeners and gamekeepers will. I shall look into it. I do have one question, however. How is it that you know so much about the stewpond, Mirabella?”
Mirabella’s cheeks flushed a bright pink and she shot a guilty glance at her mother. Lady Camarden said, “Camarden, I can assure you that you don’t want to hear the answer to that question. Now, Captain Rosborough, all of us here would love for you to tell us all about the Ninety-Fifth Rifles, and the war.”
Lewin said lightly, “My lady, I’m a poor storyteller. At any rate, most of the story would be of little interest, and very repetitive, for there are long periods of marching, marching, and stifling boredom. The exciting parts are generally short periods of time.”
The marchioness was not a particularly insightful woman, but she saw that Lewin was reluctant to talk about the war. Though his tone was casual, his eyes darkened and his face was shadowed. Briskly she said, “I have found that is what most soldiers say when questioned, so I won’t hound you. I do wish to offer my sincerest congratulations on your promotion. Captain Rosborough sounds much better than Lieutenant Rosborough.”
“Hear, hear,” Lord Camarden said heartily. “A toast to Captain Rosborough!” They toasted him, calling out, “To Captain Rosborough!” Lewin blushed like a small boy.
It took a couple of hours for the diners to work through all four courses. Monsieur Danton never served only the three obligatory courses, for Madame Danton had decreed that no one was to partake of her desserts unless their palate had been cleansed by savories. She never made prosaic meat pies, either. The savories were always exotic. On this evening she had prepared angels on horseback, bacon-wrapped oysters seasoned with smoked paprika and then roasted. There were devils on horseback, figs wrapped in Dunlop cheese and bacon and then roasted. There were also two sumptuous tarts, one of tomato, goat’s cheese, and basil, the other of Somerset Brie and beetroot. Mirabella ate so many angels on horseback that she couldn’t eat any of the selection of desserts.
When everyone had finished, Lady Camarden rose and said, “Ladies, let us retire to the drawing room, for I am seeing the beginnings of a heated discussion between my husband and Mr. Rosborough. Tonight it appears that it will be centered around the scandalous prince regent and the true nature of the divine right of kings. Honora, for years we’ve had no success in restraining t
hem from discussing politics or religion at table. I have finally surrendered.”
“As have I,” Honora sighed.
The two ladies led Josephine and Mirabella to the drawing room. Honora said, “In truth, I do find it quite amusing when his lordship and my husband argue. It’s the only time I see him forget his station, and neglect to say, ‘my lord.’”
“It is one of Camarden’s favorite pastimes, baiting your husband,” Lady Camarden said. “And poor Mr. Rosborough never seems to recognize what he’s doing. Really, as if Camarden actually believed in the divine right of kings! He’s as much a liberal Whig as is the rector.”
The drawing room was expansive, tastefully furnished with Sheraton sofas, settees, and armchairs. Intricate draperies of sage-green, blue, and yellow stripes decorated the long windows. A grand concert piano stood at one end of the room, surrounded by easy chairs for the frequent musical performances Mirabella gave.
Honora asked, “Lady Mirabella, will you favor us with some music tonight?”
“Actually, ma’am, Josephine and Giles and I have been practicing a piece that I’m anxious to perform for an audience and see if it is acceptable. If there is a request to perform in London, I intend to offer it instead of a solo,” Mirabella said eagerly.
“You’re always requested to display your musical talent, Mirabella,” Lady Camarden said.
“Yes, and I always find it a little uncomfortable when Sir Giles is present,” she said with ill humor. “He is so much better at the piano than am I. I find it quite intimidating.”
“That’s nonsense,” Josephine said firmly.
“But he is a much better pianist than am I,” Mirabella countered.
“Yes, I know. What I meant was that you are certainly not intimidated by it. Nothing intimidates you,” Josephine said with a smile.
“All too true,” Lady Camarden said sternly. “Not even the specter of drowning in the stewpond.”
“Oh, Mamma, I was never in danger of drowning. You know very well that Giles was with me, he would never let that happen. And so, what did you think of my idea about the village mere? It seems to me to be a workable idea.”
Although it was an unorthodox topic for fine ladies, they discussed it with interest, wondering exactly what was involved in turning a simple pond into a stewpond, how one would go about moving the fish from the Camarden stewpond four miles to the new pond. This decidedly unlively topic absorbed them until the gentlemen came into the drawing room.
The marquess and Mr. Rosborough came in, deep in conversation, completely ignoring the ladies. Mr. Rosborough’s shiny pate was bright pink.
“No, sir, you entirely mistake my meaning,” he was saying passionately. “King Nebuchadnezzar cannot be compared to King George. Nebuchadnezzar’s seven years of madness was a punishment of a wicked king by, as Daniel said, the ‘great and dreadful’ God—the Old Testament God. The sacrifice of Jesus Christ freed us from retribution for our sins. And King George is a devout, charitable Christian man.”
The marquess and Mr. Rosborough took, as it were, adversarial stances at the fireplace, leaning upon the mantelpiece. Both Lewin and Giles were grinning as they followed them in. Giles sat by Mirabella on the settee. “Lewin and I had no opportunity to say a single word,” he whispered.
“Are you at all surprised?” Mirabella said, watching the two older men, her dimples flashing.
Lord Camarden had a particularly bright, mischievous look on his strong features as he said, “But surely, instead of disagreeing with me, you are in fact agreeing with me, sir. You yourself said that all rulers have a much higher responsibility to conduct themselves nobly and morally, and that the price that must be paid when they neglect to do so is much more onerous than for the common man.”
“Sir, you know very well that I was not speaking of King George’s madness, I was speaking of the prince regent’s continual troubles, both in his public life and in his personal life, which I anticipate will continue if he doesn’t change. He is not a moral man, and he does not conduct himself nobly…”
In a normal tone, for the marquess and Mr. Rosborough were talking quite loudly, Giles quoted from The Rivals: “‘I must confess that you are a truly moderate and polite arguer, for almost every third word you say is on my side of the question.’”
With delight Mirabella responded, “Indeed, my father and the rector are two very collarly gentlemen, and quite matriculate. Well, it seems we’ll have no concert tonight. But I have thought of a most amusing exercise for us on the piano.” They rose, and signaled Lewin and Josephine to join them. Lady Camarden and Mrs. Rosborough were watching their husbands with clear amusement.
Mirabella said, “Here, Giles, I shall sit on the left-hand side of the bench, and you sit on the right-hand side.” She looked up at Josephine and Lewin and said, “I have thought of a way I might at last best Giles on the piano. We shall play ‘Rondo alla Turca.’”
“But we’ve often played that as a duet,” Giles said, puzzled.
“Ah, but not this way. I shall play the left-handed fingering with my right hand, and you shall play the right-handed fingering with your left.”
Lewin said, “Surely that’s not possible. Isn’t there some sort of theory that the two sides of your brain control your right and left hands? If your brain has taught your right hand the right-handed fingering, and your left knows the left-handed fingering, can you just turn them arsy-varsy like that?”
Giles said, “I rather doubt it—unless one practices. You wouldn’t ambush me in such an infamous manner, would you, my lady?”
Mirabella sniffed. “You would accuse me of falsity, sir? For shame. I highly represent that. Now let’s play.”
“Rondo alla Turca,” the last movement of Mozart’s Piano Sonata no. 11, was a complex, quick, lively piece. Giles and Mirabella reached across their bodies, as it were, to play, as Lewin had said, somewhat upside down. Mirabella played the first few bars creditably, but Giles’s fingering was clumsy and several times he hit two keys instead of one.
“Neither my brain nor my hands can do this,” he complained. “I’m getting the headache from trying to switch the sides of my brain. And my right hand keeps twitching and creeping up to the keyboard of its own accord to do the fingering.”
Lewin, Josephine, and Mirabella all laughed, while Giles, frowning prodigiously, kept trying to play.
Mirabella thought, Oh, what a wonderful Season this will be! With the four of us all in Town, it is sure to be my best Season yet. I can hardly wait.
Chapter Three
It was about ten o’clock when the merry party broke up and the guests went home. When Mirabella went upstairs to her bedroom, she was surprised to see under the door that the candles were still lit in her Aunt Tirel’s room. She hesitated, but decided that she wanted to get comfortable, and warm. It seemed that she had never quite thawed out since she’d somersaulted into the stewpond. She smiled at the mental image as she went on to her bedroom.
Mirabella had decided long ago that she didn’t want to refurbish her room with more contemporary furnishings, as her parents had done to their suites. Her bed was a massive Elizabethan four-poster bed with a full tester, and it was so high that it had a stool with which to climb up into it. In winter the hangings were heavy satin damask, in summer a light airy lawn. The paneling was dark, the walls covered with old tapestries, as in the dining hall. It had a medieval air that Mirabella loved.
Colette assisted her to undress and she put on her old worn banyan. “No, Colette, I don’t want you to put my hair up in curling rags tonight. Just brush it out and you can do the braids again tomorrow.” When Colette finished, Mirabella dismissed her.
Going to the window seat and throwing open the window, Mirabella breathed deeply of the night air. It was much colder than the deliciously warm day had portended, and Mirabella was grateful that Colette had thought to bank up her fire. Thin gray clouds scudded across the sky, the stars faintly glimmering in and out as they were shad
owed. She thought that perhaps Old Figge’s knees had been correct, and hoped that it wouldn’t rain on Monday, the first day of the fox hunt.
Mirabella often had insomnia, and she knew that this night would be sleepless, perhaps until the wee hours of the morning. Wondering about her Aunt Tirel, she took a candle and went down the passage to see if the candles still burned in her bedroom. They did, so Mirabella knocked and said, “Aunt Tirel?”
“Come in, child,” she called.
Lady Dorothea was sitting up in bed, her hair wrapped in rags and a warm nightcap on. She was wearing her spectacles, and reading a book. As she looked up over her spectacles, they slid down to the end of her nose as she gazed at Mirabella with astonishment. “What on earth is that outlandish costume you’re wearing?”
“Oh, it’s a man’s banyan. My father’s, in fact. Three years ago he ordered all new ankle-length dressing gowns, saying that he was getting old and his shanks got cold in a banyan. I purloined it, and I’ve treasured it ever since.” The dressing gown was of heavy quilted satin brocade that was embroidered in red and gold, and it swallowed Mirabella. Although it had been calf-length on the marquess, it was long on her, trailing a demi-train. As in it she often wandered the house at night, and sometimes even went outdoors, it had to be cleaned often and was much faded, and some of the embroidery was threadbare. Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of giving it up.
Mischievously she said, “I think that when I’m in London I may sneak off to Pappa’s tailor and have a couple of new ones made for me.”
“I should think that would be your only recourse, for no self-respecting mantua-maker would think of dressing a young lady in such a thing,” Lady Dorothea said. “I’m assuming you didn’t come to see me to display your execrable dressing gown.”
