While Miss Andrews was ignored by other men, John stayed with her rather than escaping, as was his wont, to the card room. Had he been honest, he might have admitted he had gone there before fetching their drinks. No one had invited him to join their game except Mr. Nutter, and it was then he had decided to return to the young lady’s side.
As she sipped tea, he provided scintillating, drunken conversation about the excellence of his new riding whip and the superiority of his skill in brandishing it.
“I see,” said Miss Andrews. “So that is how one gets a horse to dance to one’s tune, is it? But how, sir, does one go about making a person do the same?”
“Eh?”
“What if a lady wishes a man to prance or cavort?”
“What?”
Miss Andrews caught John’s eye, then turned hers deliberately towards the two lines of dancers.
“Oh, damn,” he mumbled. “Miss Andrews, I suppose you and I ought to dance.”
And they did, with John stepping as gracefully as a one-legged fish.
Isabella, more than once, had referred to Miss Andrews as amazingly insipid; but, having danced two sets with her, John found nothing wanting in her willingness to listen to an account of the spanking curricle he had his eye upon, the damned fine brace of pheasants he had shot while Morland bagged none, and his bragging about how many cups of laced punch he could put away in one night.
Eveline would make a damned good wife were it not for her paltry dowry. Man cannot live by bread alone. Man needs ale and beer and wine and gin and rum and …
Alas, Miss Andrews had not the marriage settlement sufficient to slake John’s thirst. She was, therefore, the recipient of no offer that night other than a fond farewell, a wish for her happiness, and the bestowal of his wet, sloppy kisses upon her knuckles.
Although he had witnessed Miss Andrews stripping off her kid gloves and—somewhat profligately—tossing them into a corner, John went home thinking she was still a lovely young lady. Isabella disabused him of that notion the next morning—as well as of the fanciful idea that his sister was capable of a real friendship with other females.
* * *
The day following their return to Oxford, John ran to join his friend at the Kings Arms. Out of breath, he skidded to a halt at Morland’s table. “You will not believe it!” Gulping for air, he pointed towards the street. “I just saw poor Bathos, and I am sorry to inform you that our friend had something dreadful on his arm!”
Ashen, Morland let his spoon fall to the table. “Wh—what was it?”
“He will probably never get rid of it while he lives!” said John, shaking his head and taking a seat across from Morland. The young man next to him, tucking into a hearty meal, was acknowledged with a “How d’ye, Boyd?” John then beckoned Robin and ordered a pint and his own dish of stewed meat with vegetables.
“Thorpe, tell me quickly, man! What was on Bathos’s arm? Was it a swelling?” Morland grimaced and pushed away his food. “A tumour?”
“No, no, nothing like that,” said John, grinning. “It was—by God!—his wife.”
Morland gaped. “What? His wife? Whom did he marry?”
“He wed forty thousand pounds.” John blew on a spoonful of stew before admitting he quite forgot her other name.
“Pardon me, Mr. Thorpe,” said Boyd, all politeness. “Please, pass the bread.”
“Do you mistake me for a bloody servant?”
“No, sir,” said Boyd, a fellow student at their college. “I mistook you for a gentleman. I see now my error.”
With the whole aim of John’s attendance at university being the making of important connections—friends and patrons to help him along later in life—his time at St. John’s College had been a dismal failure. With few friends from whom he could sponge, he fell further into debt. Drinking, gaming, and having to pay for that which his compeers seemed easily able to acquire for free kept him in dun territory.
He wracked his brain for a brilliant idea to win his wager with Bathos. Time was running out; Hilary term was nearly upon him. When inspiration came, it hit him like the knuckles of his former headmaster at Merchant Taylors—knuckles the man had used to rap on John’s head like a bag of marbles.
In the hopes of financial gain and sexual advancement, he turned his attention to Mrs. North, the tall and able-bodied wife of a successful dealer in foreign spirituous liquors. It was at her fine house that he had first met Mrs. Waters, but John had quite forgotten that fact.
Having sent Mrs. North several billets-doux, identical to the ones copied from a book and received by Mrs. Field, John awaited a reply.
“Mark my words, Morland. I chose poorly before, but Mrs. North is ripe for plucking.”
“Take care, Thorpe. You are poaching in an orchard of forbidden fruit.”
John raised his mug of ale. “Well, here’s to the fruition of my plan.” After drinking deeply and making an “ah” sound, he grinned at his friend. “And my plan involves following Mrs. North’s mouldwarps into the deep valley.”
“I have heard of Arctic rodents plunging into the sea during migration,” Morland said. “But I am afraid to ask of what you are speaking.”
“Her mouldwarps.”
“Her … Thorpe, do you mean Mrs. Field has moles?”
John nodded. “A whole chain of them, starting on her neck and leading downwards.”
Morland laughed till he had to wipe his eyes. “Blockhead! Mouldwarp is the other sort of mole, the kind with small eyes and dark, velvety fur.”
Averse to being laughed at, John belligerently insisted he knew that all along. “Besides, the description is still apt.”
“Well, beware, my friend. Those creatures feed on worms.”
* * *
Two days later, not one married woman was waiting for him at the North residence but three.
When John entered the sitting room and espied Mrs. Rose Waters, Mrs. Matilda Field, and Mrs. Abbey North standing arm-in-arm, his eyes bulged. Then he screamed, rather aptly, like a stuck pig.
When they advanced on him, en masse, and commanded him into a reeking laundry basket in a corner of the room, he shook in his shoes; but his feet refused both the women’s demand and his own order to bolt.
When Mrs. Field incited her pug to attack, he whimpered and blubbered and squeezed his eyes shut.
When Mrs. North, who towered over him, grabbed his arm and frog-marched him out the back door, across the lawn, and onto her husband’s private wharf, John wanted to sink to his knees and curl into a ball, but the mighty woman held him upright.
Memories of being plunged, twice, into the river came flooding back as John was unceremoniously let go. With a count of “One-two-three!” and a joint prod from three dainty feet applied to his bottom, he was thrust into that part of the Thames that flowed past the North residence.
Resigned to his fate, John held his breath as he hit the river. Then, kicking his legs and flailing his arms, he arose and surfaced, proud of his acquired proficiency. Gasping and spluttering, he crawled out, shaking his head and swiping at his eyes. With the clearing of his sight, John saw, to his horror, what seemed to him to be the entire populace of the town positioned in a row along the riverbank.
They were all there: Mr. and Mrs. Waters, Mr. and Mrs. Field, Mrs. North and a man John assumed was her husband, college compeers including Mr. Boyd, the proctor and his daughter, a certain town trollop, and even Mr. and Mrs. Bathos. Robin, the grinning servant from the Kings Arms, was also there alongside regulars from the coaching inn and Mr. Philpott, its proprietor.
John’s humiliation was complete.
Standing apart from the others was James Morland, wearing a sympathetic smile and holding out a blanket.
Later that night, at the Kings Arms, Morland purchased a few pints of ale for his friend and turned a deaf ear while John lamented his bad luck and the deviousness of women. “Hmm?” said Morland, after reading through letters from family. “Did you say something, Thorpe?”
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“I said, never, ever, upset an Amazon,” grumbled John. “You will only end up in hot water.”
Morland grinned. “I rather imagine the Isis would have been cold this time of year.”
“No, no!” cried John in annoyance. “You bloody well know what I mean! Mrs. North is as tall and strong as those godawful savages from the edge of the world, the Amazons. They boil and eat people, you know.”
“You mean cannibals, not Amazons, buffoon! Now, do you want to hear what my sister has to say or not?” At John’s nod, Morland glanced down at a neatly-written page. “Catherine indicates she and the Allens have settled comfortably at lodgings on Pulteney Street.”
“And who are these Allens again?”
“They are the neighbours I told you about, the principal land-owners in Fullerton. Incredibly fond of Catherine, they are, and quite generous, too. She is like a daughter to the childless couple. I imagine they will augment the ten guineas our father gave her to spend in Bath.” Tucking his sister’s letter in a breast pocket, Morland shook his head. “No doubt, the silly goose will spend her money on more of those Gothic novels she favours.”
“Deuced, foolish waste of time, money, and paper, if you ask me! Those damned novels, I am sure of this, fill pretty little heads with grand notions. Fanciful heroes! Far-fetched amorous attachments! Lord! I make it a point to never read such blighted books.”
Morland raised one eyebrow. “Nor I.”
“Nothing but utter balderdash! Damned, unbelievable nonsense! The only one worth reading is The Monk.”
“Quite right, I suppose. But, as I said, I have never read a Gothic novel.” Morland then asked if John enjoyed Shakespeare’s works.
“Aye, some. Now, there’s a writer who knew how to create real, playful characters.”
“Was that a pun, Thorpe?”
“Eh?”
“Playful. Oh, never mind!” Morland watched his friend empty a second mug of ale. “So, you find The Merry Wives of Windsor a more credible story than, say, a Gothic romance, do you?”
“Oh, aye! Though I have never been to Windsor.” After some thought and after drinking deeply, John belched long and loud. “Tell me, Morland, is your sister of a merry disposition?”
“She has, I suppose, an open, cheerful nature.”
“Is she ridiculously tall and strong?”
Morland guffawed. “Not at all, though she is in good health.”
“Lively?”
“Such would certainly describe her imagination.”
“Is she pretty?”
“Almost.”
“Cunning?”
“No,” Morland chuckled. “Cunning she is not. Catherine is, in fact, rather uninformed … as green as grass, really.”
“Your sister sounds like a damned fine sort of girl to me.”
Morland’s intelligence confirmed information John had received in a letter dated two days past from his own sister:
Dear John,
You will never believe our good fortune! Mother has come across a long-lost—and, I daresay, nearly forgotten—former school friend, Mrs. Allen, here in Bath. But here is extraordinary news I cannot wait to impart! With Mrs. Allen is Miss Catherine Morland— younger sister to our dearest (and you might as well tell him I referred to him that way) friend, James Morland. I have already befriended the heiress and secured a steadfast connection. If you plan to marry the girl, you must hurry! There is another gentleman whom my silly friend seems to favour. Make haste!
Isabella
John swore his days of being treated like dirt and tossed away like rubbish had come to an end. To hell with the wager! Those winsome wives of Oxford—shrewd, malicious, worldly women that had led him a merry dance—were not, after all, to his liking. I deserve far better! A young, innocent, malleable girl. And a wealthy one to boot!
To Bath, therefore—and to win, sight unseen, the hand of one Catherine Morland, heiress to the Allen fortune—John Thorpe was to go.
In company with her unsuspecting brother, he traveled as far as Tetbury, spent the night, and ran the remaining twenty-odd miles in the knowing gig purchased for fifty guineas from a Christchurch man. They arrived in Bath at half after one, coated in road dust.
Before John could wet his whistle with a nice pint of porter and reap its health benefits of muscular energy, virility, and of keeping nails out of one’s coffin, he met up with Isabella and a girl. The girl, as it turned out. The porter would have to wait.
His preference, of course, would have been brandy, or claret, or port. But, for then, at least, he still had to practice frugality and swill bitter brew. No stranger to bitterness and foul drink, his last taste of such had been the murky, nasty fluids of the Thames. His first sample had been forcibly swallowed twenty-some years ago in a tub of tepid, harsh liquid. And, while others journeyed to Bath for medicinal purposes, his thirst was not to be slaked with godawful Bath water. John Thorpe would never sink that low.
J. MARIE CROFT is a self-proclaimed word nerd and adherent of Jane Austen’s quote “Let other pens dwell on guilt and misery.” Bearing witness to Joanne’s fondness for Pride and Prejudice, wordplay, and laughter are her light-hearted novel, Love at First Slight (a Babblings of a Bookworm Favourite Read of 2014), her playful novella, A Little Whimsical in His Civilities (Just Jane 1813’s Favourite 2016 JAFF Novella), and her humorous short stories: “Spyglasses and Sunburns” in the Sun-kissed: Effusions of Summer anthology and “From the Ashes” in The Darcy Monologues. Joanne lives in Nova Scotia, Canada. Click to connect with: J. Marie Croft
Novella XI
For Mischief’s Sake (none) Amy D’Orazio
CAPTAIN FREDERICK TILNEY
The heroic army officer and handsome, au courant heir to the Northanger estate, Frederick Tilney regularly entertained the casual liaison but with never any earnest commitment. Upon first acquaintance, Catherine Morland might even had thought him more handsome than his brother, and yet: His taste and manners were beyond a doubt, decidedly inferior; for within her hearing, he not only protested against every thought of dancing himself but even laughed openly at Henry for finding it possible. —Northanger Abbey, Chapter XVI.
“Then you do not suppose he ever really cared about her?”
“I am persuaded that he never did.”
“And only made believe to do so for mischief’s sake?”
—Catherine Morland to Henry Tilney, Northanger Abbey, Chapter XXVII.
FOR MISCHIEF’S SAKE
Amy D’Orazio
“No man is offended by another man's admiration of the woman he loves; it is the woman only who can make it a torment.” —Henry Tilney to Catherine Morland, Northanger Abbey, Chapter IXX.
We arranged to fight our duel at that place where all the most elegant duels were fought: the secluded gardens near the Circus, accessed by the Gravel Walk. Naturally, the occasion was to be held at dawn. I had been in my chair, subject to the shavings and combings and clippings of old Morley until at last, I cried out, “’Tis enough man! I am not gone to my wedding day!”
Morley frowned at me, his dark eyes sharp with disapproval. “Your wedding day? That is not a day I shall likely live to see so I must keep at my art on these more common events.”
His meaning in emphasising common was not lost on me. He thought it a deplorable practice, young men having at each other to first blood or worse. But how else would a man’s honour be upheld? Was Wellington the object of such censure? Surely, he had spilt more blood than anyone, and what was a war but a duel commenced on a grand scale?
But Morley did not understand it; he never had, so to placate him, I simply settled myself back, mentioned something of a wayward curl in my hair, and let him have his way with me.
When he was satisfied, I gave myself a long look in the glass, ever fond of what I saw. The truth was often spake, in circles both low and high, and it was that none were as well favoured as Captain Tilney. Indeed, I congratulated myself for as much as I was ever well in looks, I was p
articularly so this fine morn. I daresay I did not fool myself when I thought that the impending danger to my person rendered it that much more agreeable.
I was soon off. My jaunty step and the tune I whistled earning me a scowl from Robard, my second, who met me at the gate. “A’nt nothing to be cheery about, man! A meeting with the grim reaper hi’self!”
“Perhaps so,” I owned. “Then again, one cannot live forever, and what better cause to die for than the pleasures of a woman!”
“Women aplenty in Bath,” he complained, “unattached to anyone, yet you favour the engaged. I shall never understand you.”
“Pray do quit the attempt.” I flicked my gaze in his direction for a moment. “Silence befits such occasions as these.”
We went on with only the sounds of Bath at dawn to accompany us. It was a strange hour. The night coming to a reluctant close while the day sent furtive tendrils of light across the houses and roads and fields. The occasional snoring drunk, having failed to obtain his bed, obscured our path. Here and there, maids were darting about, procuring milk or eggs or whatever might be needed in their houses.
Robard had not ceased whinging all the way and was quite ruining my pleasure in the morning so in vexed tones, I bade him stop. “How many have you seen me through now? Yet never have you had such a foul humour as this!”
“Too many.” Robard spat on the ground near my feet. “Time and enough you settled your blood and began feathering your own nest ’stead of poaching on others.”
“Pah!” I scoffed at the very notion. “I promise you this, sir, on my mother’s own grave. I shall gladly prefer death over the slow demise of matrimony. There is not a woman alive worthy of being my beloved, and if I cannot love then I shall be ever watchful on behalf of gentlemen too beef-witted to avoid their own destruction.”
Dangerous to Know Page 39
