“My reprehensible behaviour is, no doubt, the fault of my cook. I am fed a daily diet of truffles and oysters. I shall beat her the moment we return....”
Kneebone was not appeased by such nonsense. His cheeks flushed, his hair askew, his bony wrists protruding from the sleeves of his coat; he looked less like an officer in His Majesty’s army than a farm boy done wrong at the fair. His eyes were glassy; his demeanour still menacing. Tugging on his arm, Bingley repeatedly called his name, but to no avail.
Only after resorting to slapping his cheeks, did Bingley at last obtain his attention.
“He is not worth the bother,” said Bingley. “You must think of your family!”
Sally had seen men gone mad before. She observed such to Lord Millhouse.
“Off his napper, ain’t he?” she said.
Lord Millhouse agreed, “No seeds in his pumpkin today... soused I’d say.”
“Plain as Persia, dicked in the nob,” she replied.
Lord Millhouse added, “All his dogs aren’t barking....”
“If you please,” cried Bingley.
They hushed themselves.
Sally could not resist one more aside. She whispered, “All foam, no ale.”
Lord Millhouse nodded and they both watched closely as Kneebone slowly remembered himself. His chest did not quit heaving in rage and exertion, but he regained his senses. Once Kneebone’s attention was averted, Beecher withdrew a small pistol from his waistcoat and aimed it at Kneebone. Gasps erupted from the crowd. The consensus was that Beecher was not much of a shot and the onlookers scrambled to escape possible gunfire. Other, more hardy types, stayed to watch it play out. Their patience was rewarded.
Beecher hollered, “Your wife is a strumpet, Major! It is all her part! Indeed, she seduced me!”
Bingley was infuriated at his aspersions (however dangerously true they might be).
To Beecher, he hollered, “How dare you sir! You are nothing less than a nefarious tosspot!”
It was no surprise when someone came from behind and hit Beecher over the head with a pot. The weapon was only a piece of crockery taken from a nearby hawker, however it was quite effective. Shards scattered as Beecher tumbled limply to the ground. His forehead dug into the mud; his hinder-parts pointed skyward. As he fell (and for several seconds thereafter), he emitted an extended expulsion of gas. This incited a wild round of laughter from the crowd.
Having the honour of rendering him thus (and still holding the handle of the destroyed pitcher), Lady Millhouse asked them, “Do you think that feist was due to the truffles or the oysters?”
As Beecher appeared to be laid out of his senses, Lord Millhouse grabbed a tankard from an onlooker and threw the ale in his face. It did little to rouse him. Hence, it was left to the gentlemen to take care of him and he and Bingley each clasped an arm.
Bingley hissed to a footman, “Get the coach!”
With the utmost rapidity (and very little fanfare) Bingley’s coach was drawn up. When the door flew open, it was not by a footman’s hand, but Darcy’s.
Bingley was exultant to see his friend, “Darcy, you seem arrive at the most propitious moments!”
Wasting no time with pointless questions, the moment he gained the ground, Darcy grabbed one of Beecher’s legs (the other bobbed along the ground quite on its own). It was, after all, only fitting that such an odious duty was not left to servitors, but carried out by true men of honour. It was the least they could do for the reputation of an actual gentleman.
“I am here quite by chance,” Darcy said as they walked.
As they had to struggle to lug Beecher’s surprisingly obese person to the coach, Fitzwilliam held open the coach door. They did not speak again until the loathsome chore was done.
“On three,” Bingley said. “One, two, and three!”
Beecher landed in the bed of the coach much as he had on the ground. This time when he landed, his rump emitted only a single “toot.”
As the men dusted their gloves of any leftover residue of Beecher’s person, they spoke as if they had just lifted a dirty hamper into the coach. Darcy did not inquire what came to pass.
Instead, he explained to Bingley, “It is Fitzwilliam who said we must observe what sort of stock could be found here. We were quite disappointed at Maidenhead. The man had no colts. Indeed, he had nothing but foals.”
———
It was said that Lord Winton Beecher came to his senses halfway to town. The Bingleys abandoned Beecher and Caroline to ride alone to London. Taking a stand, Charles announced to his sister that his children would no longer be subjected to her husband’s abhorrent behaviour. Having missed the accusatory portion of the conflagration, Caroline feverishly questioned her husband as to why Kneebone was so determined to have a duel. In the past, such events occurred due to financial transgressions. Stone-faced, Beecher kept his own counsel on the matter, only altering his slouched position when he was overcome by a retch.
Whilst Jane fretted over Caroline’s public humiliation, Bingley washed his hands of it. He would not allow so small a thing as near-murder ruin his day at the races.
“Caroline made her bed....” he reminded Jane. “We have done all we can.”
He and his family meant to stay in Newmarket the rest of the week, happy to be unencumbered by loutish relatives.
The last Sally saw of Kneebone was as he was taken away in Mr. Darcy’s coach. It was a disappointment for her to see such a good and honourable man as the Major be driven to such ends, particularly through the agency of his inconstant wife. It was said that Mr. Darcy meant to return Kneebone to Chelsea. In the time he was there, Mr. Darcy took no notice of her. That was of no great surprise. That gentleman had much on his mind. It would fall to him to console and admonish Major Kneebone and, no doubt, censure Mrs. Kneebone too. A thankless duty that.
After Beecher’s coach was out of sight, Darcy’s coach, followed by the Millhouses, lumbered onto the road to London. On the seat next to Sally, Lady Millhouse sat in appalled silence, an attitude quite unfamiliar of her. Whaling away on a ne’er-do-well did not cause it. More likely she had time to recall the scandalous behaviour they witnessed and was displeased about it. For all her blustering, she had firm rules of conduct and they did not include roguery.
Lord Millhouse’s countenance did not display the same disturbance as did his wife’s. His sensibilities were not insulted by his wife’s timely beaning of Beecher. Nor could his injury at her thrashing of the horse seller be put at no higher than “surprised.” As for herself, Sally was rather impressed by her ladyship’s gumption. She would be a force to be reckoned with should she ever take up residence on Dyot Street. That set her mind to thinking of the common folk.
In the quiet, Sally reminded herself that the first spare minute in town she would pay her respects to Nell. Such a walk would also keep her from forgetting whence she came. As if aroused by the son of Odin, Lady Millhouse suddenly thundered, “Dare not forget we shall betake ourselves to Drury Theatre!”
It was not Sally place to make the observation, but she thought it important all the same. Once in London, tides could turn. She might not have another chance to speak her mind.
She said to Lady Millhouse, “Y’know, buyin’ more ponies won’t make any difference in them mines.”
Her ladyship did not look in her direction, but replied, “We must do what we can.”
Sally said, “In the Dials folks do a lot worse in the name of ‘feedin’ their families.’”
Her ladyship was silent only for a moment.
Then, she said, “A pony now, the world, in all good time.”
Sally knew to be satisfied by that.
When the outskirts of London were in sight, Lord Millhouse said, “I understand that London’s limits can be seen from the topmost gallery of St. Paul’s Cathedral.”
Sally responded, “It doesn’t look all that small when you’re afoot.”
He laughed at the truth of her remark. Lady Millhous
e did too, announcing her interest in town reinvigorated.
“We shall go to Astley’s to watch the equestrian performances,” she said eagerly. “First we must get you a proper bonnet!”
“Yes’m,” said Sally.
———
As soon as she could sneak out the garden way from the Millhouses’ townhouse, Sally trudged up Ayliffe Street and through Goodman’s Fields to the cemetery where her grandmother lay.
In the few years she had been gone from town, she found it much altered. Indeed, a menace overtook the streets unlike any she had known before. Doorways were darker than smut and crafty eyes hid down alleys causing skeletal cats and mangy dogs to fend for themselves on the thoroughfares.
Most unexpected were the black-clad men who sat upon the gravestones. They were armed with sticks, as if they feared the corpses might climb from their coffins to threaten passers-by with death. Initially, she was alarmed, certain these were the ghosts of suicides wrongly laid to rest in the churchyard. Everyone knew they had to have a stake driven through their heart and be buried at a crossroads so the devil would be confused.
One ghoul raised a hand in her direction, bidding her have a good day. That meant it was unlikely that they were apparitions from beyond the grave.
The truth was far worse.
Chapter 81
Lucifer Lies In London
Colonel Fitzwilliam was happy for a single part of the whole stink.
He said, “At least Kneebone has not sullied his uniform with such an unhappy performance.”
Darcy did not reply. He was vexed. When he commenced upon his journey, he had promised Elizabeth that he would be only in the furthermost reaches of town. Now he was not only forced into Chelsea to return Kneebone to kith and kin, he was to suffer the abhorrent company of Lydia as well.
Fitzwilliam made another pronouncement. He would take upon his shoulders the task of scouring the countryside for the perfect colt for young Geoff. He left the coach to Darcy and went on his way with an air of self-congratulations. Darcy, however, was not fooled by such subterfuge. Fitzwilliam simply wanted to avoid the brouhaha. (Facing Napoleon’s Imperial Guard would be a preferable to witnessing the guilt and recriminations of a marriage gone to the bad.) Darcy did not blame him. Kneebone was not his kin; Lydia was not his sister-in-law. (Fitzwilliam was not kin to Bingley either, but was happy to keep him company at the fair.)
Was that not his unhappy circumstance, Darcy would certainly not be toting a drunken cuckold back to his unadoring wife
During the journey from Newmarket to town, Major Kneebone sobered. His head hurt and he had a need to talk freely of his many tribulations. By inclination uninterested in another man’s marital woes, Darcy found himself a captive to poor Hugh’s unhappy delineation of the milestones in the deterioration of his unpropitous marriage to Lydia Bennet Wickham. Darcy was not entirely unsympathetic. She was a young woman he had detested from the very moment they had first been introduced.
Moreover, jealousy needed no explanation. Darcy understood why Kneebone went after Beecher. He was only curious as to how he came to find him when and where he did. Caroline and Beecher were constantly on the move, most often one step ahead of their creditors. In the erratic political climate, gentlemen were unable to carry a tab as they once had. His extravagances were only exceeded by Caroline’s. It had been necessary for Bingley to keep Caroline’s money from them lest they squander it all.
“How did you come to know where to find Beecher?” Darcy asked.
“Mrs. Bingley told Lydia,” Kneebone answered flatly.
Darcy replied, “Of course.”
“I have a daughter,” Kneebone said miserably. “If it was but me, I would have taken my leave long before now. I dare not leave a defenceless child in the sole custody of a mother who....” He paused and then said, “I beg forgiveness of all of my many shortcomings, for they have been on goodly display today.”
Darcy gave a nod. He did not say more, fearing any comment might encourage further divulgements of an intimate nature. When such was made by anyone, he was always left with the uncomfortable choice of either commiseration or encouragement. As he was unused to offering them, when he did, his words sounded stilted and insincere. Upon those occasions, he could hear Elizabeth’s voice gently chastising him to take the time practise that which did not come easy to him.
“Shall I take my leave of her, Mr. Darcy? I have just cause,” Kneebone queried wretchedly.
Advice was not Darcy’s strong suit either. This was not because of a lack of opinion (for he did have that), but his belief that offering another counsel should be the sole office of the clergy. In place of a recommendation, Darcy offered him only an observation.
“It has been my experience that even a bad mother is better for a child than no mother whatsoever. Protection from such ills is the foremost duty of a father.”
“Is it that simple?” Kneebone replied.
“Simple? I think not,” mused Darcy.
Kneebone grew quiet.
As they drew nearer to Chelsea, both gentlemen’s thoughts were alike. It remained to be discovered whether Lydia was at home or had fled elsewhere. She might well have fled, for Kneebone said that he had spent many days drinking and thinking of nothing but her infidelity—and railing against the cur who connived to break his semi-happy home asunder. Alas, in the end, Kneebone took more of the blame upon his shoulders than he should have and lay none whatsoever on Lydia.
When they gained the steps leading to Kneebone’s house, Darcy did not accompany him inside. Was he to do so, he could not trust himself to remain civil to Lydia. As far as he could discern, Major Kneebone had been a good husband to her. He had loved her well when she was inconstant. What sort of husband would he have been, had she been a faithful wife? He knew that Elizabeth had penned similar words of wisdom to her. Would that she had simply heeded them.
To Darcy’s surprise, Lydia had not fled. She greeted her husband on the doorstep, her eyes bright with excitement.
“Hughie! Hughie, my love! How could you? You might have been killed! Did you do him harm? They shall take you away, you know—and where shall your poor wife and daughter be without you? I promise you never to drive you to such madness again! I promise!”
With that, the door was closed. It was just as well, Darcy had no interest in hearing those protestations and promises that were unlikely to be recalled from this day to the next. He also disliked knowing that the day’s misadventure would have to be related to Elizabeth. She always despised the cost her family caused his dignity. He vowed to be more reassuring to her on that count.
Across the country from his family and without a horse for his son, he was in the one place he did not care to be. Gloom threatened his mood. It was late in the day. He vowed to leave London at first light. Although he did not look favourably upon an overnight stay, he resigned himself to make good use of his time. With the present unrest permeating all levels of society, he would satisfy himself that his own accounts were well-watched. That would mean a trip to Threadneedle Street. He would stop there first ere he betook himself on the road home.
Rapping his walking stick on the roof of the coach, he directed his driver to Mayfair.
As he travelled the familiar cobbles, he looked out the window impassively. Whilst he in no way felt menaced, there was an undercurrent of discontent apparent through placards and notices weighing down every fence and post along the way. From his vantage, London seemed even less orderly than it had been when he last occasioned it. For all its blathering, the government had done nothing to help, and managed to enrage the masses in the process.
He was still pondering that as he entered his house. It was a reassurance to think of his family safe in Derbyshire.
As his road-weary coat was taken, a footman extended a silver tray. Upon it lay several cards and a letter. The cards were of no interest to him. In some ways London was still not above a country village. Everyone in town still knew who had arrived
and where they were to dine before the horses were unhitched. The letter caught his attention. It was addressed by the increasingly familiar hand of Lady Howgrave.
He gave an inward sigh. Whether it reflected badly on his manners or not, he meant to ignore Juliette’s letter. No doubt it would contain more of the entreaties that he had hitherto turned away.
He had waffled far too long before (and in) telling Elizabeth of the business with Juliette and his hat. For all that, he still had not told her that Lady Howgrave had importuned him with a lewd request. Whether to add to Elizabeth’s agitation troubled his conscience, his scruples, and his sleep. He abhorred speaking of such unsavoriness to anyone, much less to his wife. If he did speak of it to her, any further acquaintanceship with the Howgraves would certainly be compromised. To his mind, it had already been fractured.
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