B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  Even Howgrave became bored by such meetings. Most groups were dry as toast until they were supplied with gunpowder. The few sparks that were ignited that night were overruled by cooler heads. It was remarkable how excruciatingly monotonous the oratory of rioters could otherwise be.

  The mile between Tyburn and Piccadilly was strewn with broken waggons, crushed vegetables, and fractured hopes. Whilst the poor ran rampant in the streets, the fashionable dined with Coleridge and Byron, nodding their heads at the mellifluence of the poetic words. Given a choice, Juliette was happy to be amused by stargazing poets. Moreover, there was a good bit of tittering over Byron’s alleged liaison with his sister—any party was improved by lascivious gossip. Howgrave sniffed at such light amusements.

  The political pot was stirred as it boiled by other speechmakers, both caustic and appealing. Their words disturbed the masses upon both sides. Amongst them slunk spies and counter-spies. It was one great cacophony of bedlam. Desperate for an influx of new blood in his camp, Howgrave continued to coax Alistair Thomas to his speeches. The man seemed resistant. Slipping away for days at a time, Howgrave’s friends questioned where he went and thus his loyalty. Lord Orloff defended him.

  “A gentleman such as he must weigh all his options before making his commitment.”

  Howgrave nodded in agreement and his friends acquiesced.

  “When you know the gentleman better, you shall think better of him,” he assured them.

  Uninterested in political winds that did not affect her, Juliette grew increasingly wan. She began to anticipate public disturbances just to have an excuse to get her slippers muddy.

  All the while Mr. Darcy kept to the north.

  Chapter 29

  The Third Rose

  With a history of beforehand labours, Jane had meant to be by her sister’s side when such time was upon them. Unfortunately, two of her children were ill with scarlet fever. (Elizabeth would no more allow her take leave of her children than she would have chanced bringing contagion with her to Pemberley.) Hence, Georgiana became the chief architect of the birth. Her soft voice and calm air was always a great reassurance during such times. Also on hand was the physician, Mr. Upchurch. However, Georgiana dismissed the pair of midwives he brought with him.

  Once her labour commenced in earnest, Elizabeth was torn whether to bid her children to her or not. She feared that if she did, her words might be given too much weight. She most certainly did not want them to take an audience as some sort of farewell. In the end, she called for them. As she kissed their foreheads, both were more solemn than she would have liked. Geoff held his sister’s hand as they were led away. However, once beyond the door; they ran to play without a backwards look.

  As soon as they were out of hearing, Elizabeth emitted a deep groan. When she did, Darcy abruptly stood, looking as if he had been hit in the stomach. In a moment, the pain subsided. Seeing his deep apprehension (and knowing the next contraction would not be less painful than the last), she insisted that he must go too.

  “All shall be well,” she reassured him.

  Although he took her hand gently in his and kissed it, his voice was unusually taut.

  “Of course,” he said.

  With a forced smile, she reminded him, “This is the one thing that I must do all on my own.” Thereupon, she announced, “I shall be done with this business in a trice. All shall be well. This I promise you.”

  Without releasing her hand, he nodded.

  “I promise,” she repeated. Then girding herself for another contraction, she bid, “Go now. You must.”

  He nodded once more, very nearly bowed, and walked quietly away. He stopped at the door. Pressing his forehead against the frame, he grimaced.

  “I shall see to her, brother,” Georgiana said.

  Without responding, Darcy stepped outside the room. He did not trust his voice. Indeed, helplessness overwhelmed him. It was a sensation he held in great abhorrence. Mr. Upchurch stood a few feet away and Darcy was most pleased to vent his vexation upon him.

  In what could only be described as a bark, he told him, “You shall apprise me should Mrs. Darcy become unduly distressed.”

  “Yes, Mr. Darcy,” the doctor answered.

  As Mr. Darcy strode away, the doctor called after him, “I presume you mean other than that which is required?”

  The good doctor regretted his question almost as soon as he uttered it. Both were well-acquainted with “that which was required.” Mr. Upchurch had not attended Mrs. Darcy upon her first, tragic confinement. He most certainly had heard of it. Having brought many a baby into the world, he understood what had gone amiss then. As Mr. Darcy waited at the far end of the corridor, the doctor ducked into Mrs. Darcy’s room for his initial assessment. He knew what her husband was most in want of knowing.

  It was Georgiana who brought the pertinent information. Her brother stood looking out a window, his hands clasped behind his back. She called to him. As he walked to her, she saw him square his shoulders.

  She announced, “The baby is in the correct position.”

  If Darcy found comfort in that news, he did not betray it. Once again, he nodded. In truth, his mouth was dry from trepidation. Had that not rendered him speechless, he might have inquired as to the size of the child.

  Thenceforth, he remained in his library, the door ajar. That set the tenor for the house. It was as if all of Pemberley was carpeted with eggs. Everyone was quiet as mice and frightened as rabbits. The servants did their duties calmly, but would stop in seeming unison and put a hand to one ear. Not that they expected the baby would come directly. They settled in for a long wait and steeled themselves for the outcome.

  It was all for naught. The birth of the newest Darcy was notable for nothing except a compleat want of folderol. Elizabeth was taken to her bed at four and gave birth by half-past seven. Mr. Darcy had not time enough to generate much angst whatsoever.

  Both were relieved for the other.

  Word had been sent to Darcy as soon as the birth was imminent. He heard the first mewling cries of the babe from outside the birthing room. Bathed with relief for that, he knew, of course, was not the end of it. An hour crept by before the doctor felt it was safe to announce all was well.

  When he came out, he speculated, “I’d say the child is above eight pounds. A good size, indeed.”

  In want of a bit of drama, Elizabeth bid no one tell Darcy the gender the baby. She also made him wait whilst Hannah tied a ribbon around her hair. He paced until he was at last given leave to enter.

  At the door, he hesitated. Elizabeth’s smile was weak, but reassuring. Only then did he allow himself to take a deep breath of relief and turn his thoughts to the child. Wrapped in the gossamer shawl (one notable by reason that Hannah knitted it herself) and tucked into the curve of her arm, the baby opened large, sleepy eyes and let out an unexpected yowl. Thither Darcy went to inspect his newest offspring.

  As he reached his wife’s side, Hannah burst out the news.

  “I knew it was a boy! I knew it!” she blurted forth.

  Mortified, Hannah clamped her hand over her mouth. (She had overstepped her station and her duty to a grievous degree.) Quite hastily, she withdrew. Georgiana followed her out of the room.

  The delight that overspread Darcy’s face kept Elizabeth from being too exasperated at Hannah. Still, she was a bit miffed to have done all the work and then been denied the glory. Unwitting of his wife’s designs, Darcy was actually too pleased by the outcome to think of anything else—at least at first.

  He sat carefully on the edge of the bed and put a protective arm around his wife’s shoulders. It was important to her not to look as exhausted as she felt. That was not pride alone. Her dearest desire had been to be the one to introduce him to his latest progeny.

  Turning back the corner of the shawl, Elizabeth allowed her husband his first look upon his son’s face.

  “Mr. Darcy,” she said, “May I present your son?”

  Peering c
autiously at the bundle she held, he marvelled, “A boy, you say?”

  “Proof that you are not deceived is as quick as this.”

  She withdrew the shawl. The baby indeed owned male credentials and directly put them into use. An arc of urine spewed in the direction of his father’s waistcoat. Both parents anticipated the fountain. With remarkable aplomb, Mr. Darcy placed a pocket square atop the geyser, saying, “Actually, my love, I was quite willing to take you at your word.”

  She smiled contentedly as the baby began to squirm.

  “He is strong, like his father.”

  His father begged to differ.

  “He is strong, like his mother.”

  Now that all seemed well, he gave himself leave to jest.

  “You are the most economical mother of my recollection,” said he. “Your efficiency wastes no one’s time at all. Why I shall be able to compleat several letters before supper and take an early night....”

  “There are matters to attend to before you take your rest,” she pointed out. “Pray, what are we to call him?”

  “We must call him William,” he said with finality. Then, he asked, “There is but one? I find myself a bit disappointed.”

  Happy he could be droll, she answered, “I may live to vex you yet. For now, we have but one baby and must be happy in a humbler way.”

  A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He then kissed her forehead.

  She laughed, “For now, I dislike you seeing me so indisposed. My hair is compleatly out of curl and what am I to do?”

  In time, nurse carried the baby away. Darcy sat upon the side of her bed until sleep overtook her. When she awoke, he was gone. A silk pillow lay just beyond her hand. Upon it lay three red roses.

  Chapter 30

  The House That Daisy Built

  Once in a while Blind Fortune bestows her gifts on such as can use them.

  That was Daisy’s justification for becoming so rich, so fast. After taking an exhilarating roll in her share of the money, she went on holiday to Brighton.

  It did not suit her.

  She hied back to London and immediately returned to her previous haunts. Against all good judgement, she did not hide her new found riches, she flaunted them. If pushed as to how she came in possession of such a fortune, her answer was always the same.

  “Me auntie died.”

  Faster than that, everybody in the Dials knew Daisy had enough money to live anywhere she wanted, in any manner she chose. All the money, in all the banks in London, could not, however, make her a lady (at least as defined by nobs of the West End). She had no delusions about that. Her precipitous rise was not in class—she was who she was and always would be. Her elevation was one of situation.

  Daisy’s mother had always held that there was no making a silk purse out of a sow’s ear and Daisy figured she was right. Money allowed her within elbow-rubbing distance of quality folks and she did not much like what she saw. Before riches befell her, she had taken quite a gander at them as they scurried up Drury Lane, handkerchiefs covering their noses lest they be offended by her foul approach. When it came to sows, the fancy folk with their fart-catching footmen following fast behind were pure pork. There were whores aplenty walking the streets of the Mayfair. Their game was as fine as any strumpet in St. Giles Parish.

  Caught between these two reprehensible worlds, Daisy decided to build her own social order.

  She bought a decaying old mansion house a block away from Regent Street and had it pulled down. In its place she erected a house to match any other. (This action sent the surrounding property values into a stunning state of flux.) The bricks were painted white, the pillars black, and the fence surrounding the place, red. No blowsy women screeched ribald repartees at passing men as they had on Gowell Street. Daisy thought that a pity.

  Once the cashmere drapes were up and the Smyrna carpets down, she hired a quartet of footmen to stand by the door. Just to agitate the ladies of the ton, she sometimes ambled into stores where they shopped. Soon she had enough trappings of the rich that she could pass for a lady of society—so long as she did not open her mouth. It was merry work indeed to watch the shopkeeper’s expression alter when she flashed her money and then told them where to send her purchases. In the end, money always over-ruled discrimination.

  She then set about filling her house with her own special sort of servants. They were more like guests who worked for their keep. As she was not exacting when it came to letters of recommendation, she had her pick of maids and footmen from a host of origins. (Many were suspected of having lodged within hollering distance of Old Bailey.) Due to Daisy’s relaxed standards, her residence soon became a haven for indigent whores, wayward thieves, and motherless urchins. So long as they did not bring the law to her door, she let them be.

  In her house, all of her maids seemed to be unmarried wenches in a family way. Every room in her house became so thick with fallen sisters that it looked as if Daisy was into missionary work. She was not. It mattered little to her what arrangements her girls had made for their ever-lasting souls. She asked nothing of them so long as they did not try to sell it to her. Daisy still harboured an abhorrence of religiosity. From what she’d seen, nothing was so cold as Christian charity.

  Her penchant for rescuing damsels with a bean up the spout meant that she curried a more than passing relationship with a doctor up the street. He was a sot, but better than no help at all when a baby came due. He had been a surgeon until his hands grew too shaky to hold a knife. His coat was that of the butcher trade, stiff from blood, it boasted his years of practise. It stank like a slaughterhouse.

  Daisy demanded “Why don’t you wash that blessed coat?”

  The man was haughtily self-righteous, retorting, “Would you have an executioner pare his fingernails before chopping off somebody’s head?”

  She did not ascertain exactly how one had anything to do with the other and kept a keen eye on his doings. With time and repetition, she became a fair midwife herself. Sometimes, however, all did not go well. Despite due care, mothers died. More often, babes were stillborn. At times, both were called. Whatever the tragedy, Daisy upped for the burial and paid for a grave-watcher to boot. Those hastened to the grave through misfortune or chance became known within the household as Daisy’s Dear Departed. To be recognised for something other than being a carnal oddity was fine with her. She guessed that she had truly found her calling—she who God had made barren—was the womb and the way of babes of the left hand.

  ———

  It was easy to see how her house came to be overrun with rag-tags and riff-raff, outlaws and working class agitators. Its corner lot was well-situated; she had an empty great room and an open-door policy. So long as they paid for the ale they drank and did not tear the drapes, they could make free with their speeches all the night long. She had always been a late-riser anyhow.

  By virtue of the size of her house, she had more trouble from the righteous looking for a handout than from starving beggars. Panderers for the Lord and crammer-weaving politicians came by daily in want of a donation. No matter their cause, her response was all-inclusive.

  “Piss off!”

  She knew trouble was bound to find her. Ill-will from do-gooders and fifty-odd men gathering each night was certain to alert the wrong sort.

  As seditious meetings were prohibited, those within her walls claimed to be simply a reading society. Unfortunately, they did more arguing than perusing literature. Defying the law did not bother her conscience, but Daisy knew any minute torch-bearing reactionaries could set fire to her rafters. It was worry enough that she began to have a look at the newspapers. She was not untaught, but words above two syllables gave her trouble. As part of her refashioning programme for her wayward wards, she vowed to improve on that. Disinclined to invite a tutor into her house, she looked amongst her own maids and found one who had been convent-raised (an education considered good as gold to Daisy).

  Mary Catherine Patrick was a day ma
id with a perpetually runny nose and a penchant for sad tales of woe. Daisy spent part of every day at the cook’s table, reading books of varying lengths and difficulty to Mary Catherine. Although she could be talked into lifting her skirts for a kind word or a piece of hard candy, Mary Catherine soon became a bit of a pet. It did not escape Daisy’s notice when one of the firebrands of the society began to sweet talk the girl. Not unlike the others of his ilk, his orotundity included healthy doses of what he called “the working man’s plight.”

  “I’ll wager he’ll stand for Parliament one day,” said Mary Catherine.