Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  He shook his head slowly. “Not at all. Harrington underestimated you. He always did.”

  They lapsed back into silence. Night was descending. She pulled her cloak around her. “I had a wicked thought,” she said.

  “I think I know what you may be thinking, Goddess.”

  “We are already on the road…”

  He grinned. “And after a night at the inn, we could hire a coach…”

  “It would be a terrific scandal,” she said, smiling at him.

  “I hear Scotland is lovely this time of year.”

  * * *

  “Notorious Newlyweds!

  Tongues are still wagging and Society still reeling from the marriage of that brooding, handsome gentleman from the North to an unknown gentleman’s daughter from Hertfordshire. Not to be outdone, his cousin, a former colonel in the King’s Guard—stole away to Scotland with an heiress. Yes, that American! It is on good authority that the new brides have been welcomed into the home of the former colonel’s parents, Lord and Lady —. Both couples were last seen traveling north, no doubt for an extended stay at his cousin’s vast family seat...”

  The countess put the paper aside with a smirk. From the next room, the loud voices of her husband and Lady Catherine could be heard. When she had learned that both of her nephews had wed disagreeable women, Lady Catherine made all due haste to Town to demand that the earl and his wife bar their door to the newly-minted Mrs. Fitzwilliam. The countess found that she rather liked her son’s American bride. She had excellent manners and a quick mind, and the good sense to adore her younger son. There had been no doubt that the two were utterly devoted to one another.

  “This is an outrage!” Lady Catherine’s stout voice cried from the other side of the door. With a satisfied smile, the countess gathered up the gossip pages and rang for a servant.

  “Do place this in Lady Catherine’s room.” She handed the footman the paper. “On the pillow.”

  She thought she saw a ghost of a smile pass over the footman’s face before he bowed and left the room. Lady Matlock took up her new occupation, knitting. She was rather enjoying it. A tiny cap was taking shape under the clicking needles. She smiled, hoping it would not be long before such a gift might be welcomed.

  BEAU NORTH is the author of three books and contributor to multiple anthologies. Beau hails from the kudzu-strangled wilderness of South Carolina but now hangs her hat in Portland, Oregon. In her spare time, Beau is the co-host of the podcast Excessively Diverted: Modern Austen On-Screen. Click to connect with: Beau North

  Novella IV

  The Address of a Frenchwoman (mild) Lona Manning

  THOMAS BERTRAM

  As the heir of a baronet and wealthy landowner, Tom Bertram was cavalier and profligate at cards, horses, drink, and lavish lifestyle. Even after his father, Sir Thomas, told him he must sell the living intended for his youngest son to pay off Tom’s many debts, he continued to spend recklessly in pursuit of diversion. ...could soon with cheerful selfishness reflect, first, that he had not been half so much in debt as some of his friends; secondly, that his father had made a most tiresome piece of work of it; and thirdly, the future incumbent, whoever he might be, would in all probability, die very soon. —Mansfield Park, Chapter III.

  “If you can persuade Henry to marry, you must have the address of a Frenchwoman. All that English abilities can do has been tried already.” —Mary Crawford to Mrs. Grant, Mansfield Park, Chapter IV.

  THE ADDRESS OF A FRENCHWOMAN

  Lona Manning

  Gentlemen, allow me to propose the first toast. To our host. Thank you for your hospitality, George. Here we are, half-a-dozen of the most eligible bachelors in the country, in exile from all womankind and happy to be so. We have dinner, a fire, plenty to drink, the races to talk over, and no other company wanted. To George!

  Yes, fellows, since you press me so hard, yes, I confess it: Cupid's darts have winged me severely. If you must have the story, pass me that bottle first. I can lift it with my left hand without paining my collarbone too much. Now, you may not like what you are about to hear. You think lightning will never strike you. But let me tell you, last year at the Basingstoke Races, I was neither looking to fall in love, nor looking for someone to fall in love with me, when all unawares—but stay, I must go further back….

  It was in late June, I believe, when Henry Crawford and his sister arrived in Mansfield. Now, there’s a charmer—some of you have met Miss Mary Crawford in London, I daresay. Some may fault her figure—or lack of it—or some may fault her colouring. Personally, I fancy a nut-brown maid, but that is by-the-bye. What distinguishes Miss Crawford from the rest of her sex is her excellent discourse and her wit.

  She took a vast liking to me, of course, and we bantered most agreeably for the first few weeks of our acquaintance while her brother, Henry, flirted with my sisters. A pleasant way to pass the summer; in mutual admiration but with no hearts involved. That is all that I thought or wished or intended. Then, by merest chance, one evening when we were all gathered together in the drawing room, I saw that my brother, Edmund, was following Miss Crawford with his eyes, most intently. What’s this? I said to myself. I undertook to watch him carefully and before long had discovered his little secret: he was harboring a tendresse for Miss Crawford. If you know Edmund, he is not one of those fellows who falls in love with every pretty face he meets; still less is he a flirt, like Crawford. But then, I imagine that Henry Crawford must labour twice as diligently to charm the ladies to compensate for his lack of height and his plain features, poor fellow. Edmund, on the other hand, is very well-looking but a most indifferent lover with no more idea of repartee than an infant!

  So, what was I to do? Here was Edmund, making calf eyes at Miss Crawford. Here was Miss Crawford, working her eyelashes at me, and hinting, more than hinting, that she would like to be invited along to Basingstoke so she could watch my horse run! And, she added, with such an air of innocence, how much she would love to learn to ride, if only someone could undertake to give her some lessons, how grateful she would be. As long as I was in the picture, what chance did Edmund have?

  Then I had an inspired thought. “Oh,” said I, “you should apply to Edmund. He has a gentle little mare, who would be capital for you. While we have such excellent weather, you should remain here at Mansfield and take your lessons with Edmund; it would be his very great pleasure. And after I return from Basingstoke, we can all ride out together!”

  Damned clever of me, if I do say so. I not only took myself out of the race by going to the races but gave my brother an excuse to attend on Miss Crawford every morning: to guide and advise her, to help her up on her saddle, and lift her down again.

  Oh, but she gave me a look when I proposed it! She was taken aback, to be sure. No doubt her sudden enthusiasm for horseflesh and racing had little to do with horses, but more with—well, no need to puff myself, fellows. But she agreed with a good grace, while Edmund looked grave, and said something about asking Fanny—that's our little cousin—for permission. Honestly, I felt embarrassed for him. Not “I'll wager that you will make an excellent equestrienne, Miss Crawford.” Not “I am yours to command, Miss Crawford” but “I must ask Fanny.” If he had not the spirit or the ardour to woo the lady under such a pretext as this, well—I washed my hands of him, that's all. I had done all I could, more than many would do. The rest was up to him.

  No regret on my part. Miss Crawford is charming, we all agree, but I never had a serious thought about her, and Edmund, as I said, is besotted with her. Here's to Miss Crawford, then. “Miss Crawford.”

  So, I set out for Basingstoke Down, well pleased with myself! I daresay, it really is gratifying to sacrifice present pleasure for the sake of someone you care about.

  Now, as to what happened next. You will recall how miserably rainy it was at Basingstoke last year. Our carriage wheels half buried in mud at the race course, no decent shelter anywhere. But my horse, young Benedick, was in excellent form and my groo
m assured me he could make a good showing, mud or no. I had placed a few private wagers—trifling sums, on account of my promise to my father. But I came across a stall at the racecourse, one of these blacklegs, and he was offering me odds of ten to one to win, place, or show. He had the mashed-in nose and the flattened ears of a boxer, so I decided he must be a stupid fellow whose brains had been well-jangled around in his head. Well, thinks I, here is a way to gain a handsome return for a small outlay. I laid out the remainder of my ready cash and placed a bet on Benedick. So, my purse was as empty as—as this glass—do be alert, fellows!

  Thank you.

  The rain was beginning to fall and I was picking my way through the crowd to return to my carriage. And suddenly I heard a woman's scream nearby, high-pitched, frightened. “Non! Non! Je vous en prie, messieurs!” Everyone around me, as well as I, started looking for the source of this commotion, and I spied a young woman with two large brutes gripping either of her arms and shaking her like a terrier shakes a rat. I quickly drew close enough to hear and see. The first thing I noticed was that she was not a common drab but a gentlewoman. They were abusing her so that her hat fell off and some of her dark, curling hair was coming undone, and she was both frightened and angry. The second thing I noticed was that she was very beautiful.

  In fact, sirs, raise your glasses, every man jack of you, and drain it dry. “To Beauty.” And fill mine up again, will you?

  I was not the only young man present ready to spring to her defense, I fancy. As I glanced around I saw other fellows just as riveted by the scene before us as was I—but we all hesitated for a moment, to get the lay of the land—the two men might have been constables and we might have gotten a blackjack across our heads for our gallantry. But these two scoundrels appeared to have no weapons on them except for their meaty fists. The bigger one, I shall call “Carbuncle” and the smaller one “Pox-face” so you can follow my story.

  “I say you are a thief, madam!” exclaims Carbuncle. “You brushed by me just now and my purse is missing!”

  “Search her, search her!” urged Pox-face. “She must have it stuffed in her skirts somewhere.” Carbuncle pinioned her arms to her sides while Pox-face lifted her skirts to examine her while she begged them to desist.

  “Oh, non! Do not do this! Do not shame me!”

  Pox-face took a good look—as could we all—she had the most shapely legs you can imagine with pretty, blue garters—but no purse, no hidden pockets.

  “I protest! I am no thief! I have done nothing! Please, let me go!” the young lady cried again.

  “I vow that you have, madam, and it will go hard for you at the Assizes if you do not confess!” cried Carbuncle. In vain did she plead, in vain did she writhe and struggle—his large hands were like steel bands around her slender arms, and his dirty, sweaty, bleary, red face was close alongside her fair one. She began to weep.

  “I swear, messieurs, on the Holy Virgin—”

  “None of your popery, you damned Catholic.” And Pox-face yelled across the crowd, which was growing ever thicker and closer around this interesting tableaux: “Hoy! Someone call the militia! Is there a constable here?” Then to her—and he came close enough so that his spittle flew in her face—"I will swear before the magistrate that you are a thief, and a pickpocket, and a whore, and you will be hung by the neck—but first you will return my friend's money! Where have you hidden it?”

  A sharp intake of breath was heard all through the crowd when Pox-face suddenly pulled her fichu from her neck, revealing an uncommonly fine bosom, which, as you can imagine, was heaving deeply owing to her excited state.

  “Oh, non! Non! Pray do not, monsieur!”

  And Carbuncle thrust one hand into her hair and pulled her head back cruelly. "Be quiet, damn you!" And he gave her another vicious shake.

  As I say, there were other young gentlemen present, raptly watching the spectacle as well as I, but I had the advantage of height and broader shoulders, and I pushed my way through the crowd and reached them quickly. That leering bastard Pox-face was about to insert his filthy hand down the front of her bodice when my right fist made contact with his jaw and sent him flying.

  Carbuncle gaped at me, released the lady, and stepped back. Once freed, she did not run but froze in place, looking at me with astonishment.

  “Madam,” said I, with a quick bow, still keeping an eye on the two scoundrels and ignoring the fact that my arm hurt like the devil, “Will you place yourself under my protection?”

  “Oh! Monsieur!” She took a little step backward, perhaps wondering if I was an apparition, and nearly trod on Pox-face. She pulled her skirts away from him as though he was a snake, then tottered forward, swooning, into my arms.

  “Now, sir,” said Carbuncle, “we only meant to startle the lady a little, for we could swear upon a stack of bibles that she took my purse. We wasn't going to hand her over to the magistrate, as pretty a lady as she is. It's better that we settle this matter privately, don't you agree?”

  “If you are insinuating that you want a bribe from me before you will leave this lady alone, be warned that I shall not countenance one more slur upon her honour. If she says she did not take your purse, then, by heaven, she did not take it, and she and I owe you nothing but a black eye and a kick up your fat backside.”

  As I spoke, I was keenly aware of the warm, breathing woman I held in my arms. She fit so neatly against me with her head resting on my chest.

  “Oy! Simon!” cried Pox-face from his recumbent position. “Simon! Is this your purse?” And he reached out his hand and plucked from the mud, a little, brown leathern pouch. You could have easily missed it, but as he happened to be down at mud-level, he spotted it, half-trodden into the ground.

  I swear, if I had not been holding the lady, I would have thrashed the two of them until I had broken every bone in their bodies. I have never felt such rage, and it astonished me. My countenance must have announced my feelings, for Pox-face jumped to his feet, holding out the lady's fichu to me while backing away.

  “We beg your pardon, sir. We beg pardon, madam,” and he craned his neck and looked all around nervously and started shouting to the crowd, pleading his case. “An honest mistake. She brushed against my friend, you see, and right away he felt for his purse and it was gone. He must have dropped it. But, all's well that ends well, as I always say.”

  “We'd be pleased to stand you to a drink, sir.” Carbuncle added. “No? Well, then, we'll be off. Begging your pardon, madam, and enjoy the races.”

  And they disappeared into the throng—I wanted to bring a complaint against them, but just then the lady regained her senses and gave a modest cry of alarm at finding herself in the arms of a perfect stranger. My anger melted instantly, replaced by—well, replaced by feelings better imagined than described. If you could have seen her. She was ravishing, her hair half down, her large, brown eyes looking up at me, a mixture of raindrops and tears sparkling in her long, dark eyelashes, her dress in such an interesting state of disarray….

  “Oh, monsieur, I do beg your pardon. I was overcome. Are—are they gone? Those horrible brutes! Those barbarians!”

  You like the music of a Frenchwoman's accent, do you not, fellows? Well, as long as I live, I shall never forget the way she said “barbarians.” It was—it was like a nightingale singing. It was liquid silver. It was—I cannot explain it, but I was very nearly done for there and then. Goodness knows what thoughts were showing on my countenance, for she looked up at me, and blushed, then she looked down and saw that her bosom was quite exposed. I blushed too, I think, and looked away and handed her fichu back to her. Once she covered herself again, the crowd started to melt away and go about its business.

  “Madam, allow me to assist you,” I said, reaching for her hat which dangled by its ribbon down her back. “My carriage is nearby. Will you step into it? I assure you, you will be perfectly safe.” She took my arm, so gratefully, so confidingly, without a word, and in a few moments, I had her inside my c
arriage, with the rain softly drumming all around us, and I was rubbing her cold, little hands between mine.

  "Please assure me, madam, are you unharmed? Have those ruffians hurt you? Shall I send my servant for a physician?"

  “I think not, monsieur. I hardly know. Only—only let me sit and rest awhile.”

  “You are wet from the rain, I fear." Indeed, her skirts were damp enough to cling to every curve of her figure.

  “No, not very.” (But you must remember she said, verree, like this, not very.) “And muslin dries quickly. I thank you, sir. My name is Rose de Laval. To whom am I indebted?”

  “Thomas Bertram, madam, of Northamptonshire, at your service.”

  At your service. How often have we tossed off “at your service” with a bow and smirk? How often have we meant it? Whenever I think back on that moment, a bit of Shakespeare comes to me. Yes, well, I only vaguely remembered it, and I had to go look it up to get it right, but it is from that play with the plaguey, little fairy—no, not Midsummer Night's Dream, the other one—anyway, the fellow Ferdinand says:

  Hear my soul speak. The very instant that I saw you, did my heart fly to your service—there resides, to make me slave to it…

  There! Now you know my sad condition. I wanted to be at her service. I wanted to protect her. I wanted to give her anything she wanted and to have her look up at me with those big, brown eyes. And as I felt those things, I felt myself growing stronger, better, more—how shall I say? More of a man and not an overgrown boy. A man who had someone to think of besides himself. And I had always rather dreaded that notion, for do we not all love our freedom?

  Yes?

  Oh, very well. “To Freedom.”

  No, plague take it; if you are going to laugh at me, I shall leave off now and the devil fly away with you. You are none of you worthy to clean her boots. Let's play vingt-et-un instead, damn you, for pennies, or the buttons off my waistcoat, like good children.