Elizabeth Bennet's Impertinent Letter

by J P Christy

  At a small inn atop a green hill to the west of Gijón, Fitzwilliam was sitting alone in the dining room, enjoying his first glass of brandy in days. Suddenly, Carlos, Lady Penelope’s manservant, burst in. “Perdón, señor, hay un problema con Doña Penelope.”

  Fitzwilliam was on his feet in an instant. “Qué pasa? What is the problem? Is the lady unwell? Has something happened to her?”

  “No, señor, el problema es Don Oscar.”

  “Sí, claro.” He followed Carlos down the short corridor leading to the back of the inn. Abruptly, the men found themselves blocking Lady Penelope as she was entering from the patio. Beyond her, Sir Oscar was slouched in a chair, sipping a glass of red wine as he lounged in the afternoon sun.

  “May I pass?” she asked sharply, her face tense with anger. The men moved aside, allowing her to step into the cool darkness. “It seems I will not be accompanying you to England. Thus, I have arrangements to make.”

  “We will discuss this again, madam,” Fitzwilliam murmured. She gave a single nod and walked briskly away, followed by Carlos. Stepping out onto the patio, the colonel asked, “What is going on, sir?”

  “Wasn’t it nice to sleep in a bed again? Ah, I see you didn’t shave either. This is the longest time I have gone without a shave. I’m beginning to like my beard, though I will like it better once it is properly trimmed.”

  “Why does Lady Penelope say she will not travel to England with us?”

  Sir Oscar gestured at an empty chair near him. “Will you not join me? This wine is excellent. The wines are what I will miss most about Spain.”

  Fitzwilliam remained standing. “Why does the lady say she will not be traveling with us?”

  “Of course, she cannot! You should be thanking me.”

  “No, sir, you should be thanking her ladyship! Without her, we would not be at the north coast of Spain with a ship to take us to England. What are your concerns about traveling with the lady?”

  “The same as yours should be. Compromise, man, compromise! As Lady Penelope’s maid will not be making the voyage—”

  “Why should she? Her husband and home are here.”

  “We cannot travel with Lady Penelope if she has no companion or chaperone!”

  Fitzwilliam laughed derisively. “I congratulate you, sir, on your performance as a hysterical young virgin.”

  Sir Oscar gave him a scornful look. “I have a care for both Lady Penelope’s reputation and my own—unlike yourself, sir. How can you be so foolish? Think about it. She is a woman in need of a husband’s protection. Were she to sail with me, I would be forced to marry her. I suppose if she had a bit more feminine vanity, she could make herself handsome, though she’ll never be a beauty. Still, I will not be compromised into marrying her!”

  Shall I reveal she can’t abide you? Aloud, Fitzwilliam said, “What nonsense! In wartime, arbitrary societal conventions do not apply when one’s life is at stake.”

  “They most certainly do, sir—it is this very fact that separates us from savages! You must see the situation from my perspective. I am a wealthy man. I have been a widower for scarcely two years. I have no wish to relinquish my freedom—certainly not to a woman of Lady Penelope’s years.”

  He gave Sir Oscar an incredulous look. “How has it escaped your notice that she is significantly younger than you? I doubt she is a day over thirty.”

  “Well … the lady is not a maiden.”

  “No, sir. Widows rarely are.”

  In a quiet voice, Sir Oscar confided, “I could not marry a lady who is not a maiden.”

  “Why ever not?”

  “I refuse to have a wife who has a past against which she would judge me. As a widow, she is likely to have expectations.”

  “You astonish me!”

  “Oh, and I suppose you would be willing to marry a widow.”

  “I would be happy to marry the right widow, a lady who is compatible.”

  “Exactly my point!” Sir Oscar exclaimed. “I can only be compatible with a lady who has no experience of the marriage bed. I insist on being the only man to teach my wife about marital relations! Surely, you understand.”

  “I assumed that when I married, the lady and I would discover our delights and preferences together.”

  “Spoken like a man who has never been leg-shackled. You are naïve, Colonel. Wives do not have delights and preferences. I suppose those women who choose to be whores do, but wives do not. My late wife’s ‘delight and preference’ came from pleasing me—so she said. And my late wife, God rest her soul, never lied.”

  Fitzwilliam found the conversation so ridiculous that he was relieved when Carlos joined them. Ignoring Sir Oscar, Carlos asked Fitzwilliam to translate for him, which he did. “Since Lady Penelope’s money and jewelry helped fund this journey, she insists her cousin, Master Penn, accompany us in her stead. He will work with Lord Trelawney to rescue her.”

  “She insists, does she?” Sir Oscar mocked.

  “As do I,” Fitzwilliam said firmly. “And if the lady and I withdraw our assistance and funds for passage on the ship awaiting us in the harbor, how will you get home?”

  The thought so rattled Sir Oscar, he forgot it was the colonel’s mission to return him to England. “Very well. Tell her ladyship we agree to have her cousin join us.”

  After relaying Sir Oscar’s words in Spanish, Fitzwilliam added, “Tell her ladyship that I will safeguard Master Penn personally.” Carlos nodded and left. Then, shooting a disgusted glance at Sir Oscar, the colonel returned to the inn’s cool interior, wondering, What will you do, my lady, to transform yourself?

  An hour later, a breathless Master Penn arrived at the inn where Fitzwilliam was sitting in a weathered chair on the front porch. “You are Lady Penelope’s cousin, I presume,” he said, trying not to smile. Rising, he walked a circle around her, studying her loose cotton trousers in the hard-to-name dark color preferred by laborers, her oversized white linen shirt, and the colorful waistcoat that hung to her hips. A knit cap covered her short curls, and the pale green lenses of the glasses she wore made her eyes appear even greener.

  “What do you think of me?”

  “The beard and mustache are de trop, and they will be difficult to maintain over several days. I strongly suggest you remove them. Horsehair?”

  “From the mane, not the tail,” Lady Penelope quickly clarified. Setting aside her portmanteau, she pulled off her facial hair, wincing. “They itch … and smell.”

  “Well, if you keep your hair covered with that cap and wear those glasses, your disguise should be sufficient. Do the glasses distort your vision much?”

  “Not at all. The lenses are plain glass, a sample for prospective buyers.”

  “So, Lady Penelope—sorry, remembering to call you ‘Master Penn’ may be the greatest challenge we have to face. You must never look directly at Sir Oscar. Avoid him as much as you can, of course, but if you find your-self in his company, keep your gaze cast down.”

  “Will he not expect me to look him in the eye, man to man?”

  “If you were a peer, yes. But Smallwood fervently believes in preserving the distinction of rank; otherwise, he would have no distinction at all. I have an aunt like him, Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Nothing makes her happier than the thought that all who meet her are awed by her innate superiority.”

  “Then I am happy to use the advantage of being an invisible inferior.”

  “Sir Oscar left for the dock a few minutes ago. Our ship, the Zephyrus, is sending a dinghy to collect us; it may be waiting now. Shall we go?”

  “Yes.” When Fitzwilliam reached automatically for her portmanteau, Lady Penelope pushed his hand away. “You must not be seen carrying my things.”

  He grinned. “Habit.” As they walked, he said, “When we met, I admired your hairstyle—à la Titus, is it not? But I did not expect your short curls to be so useful.”

  Abruptly, she stopped and, producing a small glass bottle from her pocket, pressed it into his hand. �
�Please take this. After we board, pour a generous swallow into a glass of brandy for Sir Oscar. Tell him it is to prevent seasickness.”

  “Will it kill him?”

  “Certainly not!”

  “A pity,” he sighed.

  A knock on the bedroom door brought Fitzwilliam out of his reverie. “Come.”

  A manservant whose young face was marked with pale patches of acne entered with a tray of grooming implements and a bowl of steaming water. “If you please, sir, Lady Fitzwilliam sent me to shave you and trim your hair.”

  Stepping from his bath, Fitzwilliam toweled himself dry. “I don’t believe I have seen you here before. What is your name?”

  “Aldis, sir. I am valet to your brother Henry.”

  “Well, Aldis, I suspect my mother gave you instructions beyond merely attending to my beard and hair.” The valet froze, his eyes wide at the thought of repeating her ladyship’s exact words to a man who was both a decorated soldier and the second son of an earl. Fitzwilliam chuckled and gestured at this nakedness. “Speak up, sir. Clearly, I carry no weapon with which to do you harm.”

  After clearing his throat, Aldis reported, “She said, ‘Tell my son he is not welcome to dine with two ladies until you have revealed the gentleman under the grime and tattered travel rags.’ She said, ‘Tell him, Would thou wert clean enough to spit upon!’”

  “That’s Shakespeare, you know. ‘Timon of Athens,’ if I remember correctly.” Fitzwilliam began dressing in the fresh civilian clothing laid out on his bed.

  “Your mother is an education, sir—and I say so with great respect,” Aldis replied fervently.

  “You have your mission: make me presentable for dinner with two ladies.” Fitzwilliam realized that for the first time since meeting Lady Penelope, he was eager to show himself at his best. Recalling his response after Sir Oscar had spoken dismissively about Lady Penelope, he murmured, “I would be happy to marry the right widow.”

  Aldis, who was preparing the lather, looked up. “Did you say something, sir?”

  “I merely muttered a comment on a matter of no importance to anyone but myself.” If I were not a soldier with no property of my own, I would offer for Master Penn at tomorrow before. And if she were not a grieving widow, perhaps ….

  ≈≈≈

  Newly shaved and looking like a gentleman, Fitzwilliam offered one arm to his mother and the other to Lady Penelope, so he could escort them into the dining room. The former Master Penn wore a lavender silk gown, and a deep purple satin ribbon held her brown curls away from her face. He had never seen her attired so elegantly, but he could not have said whether she was more appealing in this dress or in a man’s cotton trousers.

  Over a meal of roast chicken, mashed turnips, and fried artichoke bottoms, the colonel briefly recounted his last meeting with Sir Oscar Smallwood. “When I went to his cabin to tell him we were shortly to dock at Lizard Cove, he was there with stacks of gold crowns! Yet, he had left Lady Penelope and me to cover all the costs of our flight, including paying passage on the Zephyrus!

  “Sir Oscar told me, ‘You may join me in the coach I shall hire for my journey to London, but Master Penn is not welcome. He has barely said a word to me, nor has he made any effort to ingratiate himself. It is as if he does not even know who I am! As far as I am concerned, the fellow may shift for himself.’”

  Lady Penelope laughed. “Such a foolish man! He never knew I was avoiding him!”

  Fitzwilliam said, “I wanted to shout that he could scarcely claim to have shifted for himself, but I had a better idea. I told him his much-loved pistols was at the bottom of the Bay of Biscay.”

  Lady Penelope explained to Lady Fitzwilliam, “Sir Oscar’s trunk and pistol case had fallen into the bay when he attempted, with all the grace of drunken cow, to climb out of the dinghy delivering us to the Zephyrus. While the captain escorted Sir Oscar to his cabin, the sailors retrieved his lordship’s items.”

  “Sir Oscar kept his trunk, but I commandeered his pistols for safekeeping,” Fitzwilliam said.

  Lady Penelope added, “The brandy and the laudanum made his lordship a poor steward of his own possessions.”

  “Also, when he was bored, he tended to fire his pistols. That is how I became wounded.”

  “Sir Oscar shot you?” Lady Fitzwilliam exclaimed.

  “No, but while he was uselessly lounging about, shooting his pistols at nothing, he attracted the attention of a French soldier. When I tried to stop Sir Oscar’s noisy pastime, the Frenchie fired, and his shot grazed me.” To Lady Penelope, he said in a serious tone, “I have wondered whether the fool’s pistol fire was the reason your home was attacked.”

  Closing her eyes briefly, Lady Penelope shook her head. “I am glad I will never know; I do not want to carry that anger.”

  To his mother, he said, “When I was shot, Lady Penelope said, ‘Your friend is an idiot!’”

  “To which your son replied, ‘Oh, no, madam, that idiot is not my friend!’”

  Grinning, Fitzwilliam raised his glass to Lady Penelope, and she lifted her glass in return. Lady Fitzwilliam noted their delight in the shared memory and felt a faint twinge of jealousy. She dearly loved her husband and knew he loved her; however, theirs had been an arranged marriage. Wesley and I did not have the opportunity to become friends before our wedding; I envy you two that, she thought. To Lady Penelope, she said, “Christopher tells me his wound was quite minor.”

  “I believe so, your ladyship. My manservant, Carlos, attended to him and did an excellent job.” Upon realizing how her words might be misconstrued, she said, “Of course, I never saw the colonel’s wound, but as it did not become infected—and Carlos is very conscientious—I assume he did an excellent job.”

  “He did,” Fitzwilliam assured them.

  “I am happy to hear it. So, Christopher, you told Sir Oscar his pistols were lost at sea?”

  “I said that I had lied about their loss because I feared he would delay our escape by insisting that we recover them from the bay. And he agreed he would have.”

  “What did you do with the pistols?” Lady Fitzwilliam asked.

  “I traded them to the captain for our passage to Brighton and funds to hire a private coach.”

  When the Zephyrus was at anchor in Lizard Cove, the colonel sat at the table in Captain O’Neill’s cabin. The scarred tabletop was stained with meals and drinks and ink spilled during rough seas. O’Neill nodded at the regimental jacket rolled into a bundle that Fitzwilliam carried. “What is it you want, sir, and what are you willing to trade for it?”

  Fitzwilliam removed his jacket to reveal the ornate case containing Sir Oscar’s pistols. Raising the lid, he gestured at the contents. “Note the fine craftsmanship and the gold and the mother-of-pearl garnitures, Captain.” Watching as O’Neill took a pistol in each hand, he added, “Feel the grip and the perfect balance. These weapons are works of art.”

  “They are well-made firearms,” O’Neill agreed.

  “In exchange, I want you to deliver Master Penn and me to Brighton. We can be there in two days, I believe.”

  “Thirty or thirty-five hours, if the weather holds.”

  “And I want enough blunt to hire a private coach to take us from Brighton to London.”

  Setting aside one pistol, the captain drew his fingers appreciatively along the barrel of the other. “I was planning to sail to Brighton anyway.”

  “There is also the matter of the ring Lady Penelope traded for our passage. Her ladyship lost her husband and her home. I want her to have her ring.”

  “Oh ho, so you can be the hero, Colonel!”

  “No, sir. Tell her the ring is from you, that you want her to have it. Say nothing of this bargain between us.”

  “Why not?”

  “I do not want her to feel beholden to me. Also, she may think it improper to accept a gift from an unmarried gentleman, even if that gift is the return of her property.”

  “Speaking of property, these are no ordinar
y barking irons. Where are they from?”

  “Call them a repayment from Sir Oscar, who forgot to contribute to the cost of our passage with you.”

  O’Neill grinned. “Does the fool know you have helped him address his oversight?”

  “He does not. So, if you agree to my terms, I suggest you keep the pistols out of sight until he disembarks.”

  “Else he will claim I stole them.”

  “No doubt.”

  “I could say that you stole them, but he wouldn’t believe a free-trader like myself over an army officer. Eh, he’s an obnoxious fellow, so I am happy to make the deal. I agree to your terms.” He offered his hand.

  “Thank you, Captain.” Fitzwilliam shook his hand.

  “Look at us, Colonel. I play a gentleman returning the lady’s ring, while you are the pirate stealing from some bacon-brained poncy snob.”

  Fitzwilliam nodded. “As fate would have it.”

  Pulling his thoughts to the present, Fitzwilliam heard Lady Penelope say, “… your son knocked on my door and announced, ‘The idiot is gone.’ So we sailed to Brighton and took a coach to London.”

  Lady Fitzwilliam said, “I understand why you became Master Penn to travel to England, but I do not understand why you kept this identity once you were here.”

  Lady Penelope gave a small sigh. “I know it was not proper; perhaps it was not wise. But after the loss of my … of my husband, I was desperate to be with family. My daughter, Renata does not yet know her father is gone. However, had I become an English lady in Brighton—which would have been a challenge given that I had no maid, no clothing, no money, and none of the appropriate trappings—this concession to propriety would have delayed my reunion with my loved ones.”

  “Are you looking forward to being yourself again?”

  “Your son asked me that very question when we reached Brighton. I told him I am always myself, regardless of my attire. In truth, madam, I was never much one for le bon ton, and I enjoyed more freedom and frankness as Master Penn.” In a serious tone, she added, “Please know, my lady, your son offered several ideas for my traveling to London in a more socially acceptable manner. He is truly a gentleman. But I was so eager to reach my family that I threatened to run off and catch the mail coach in my persona as Master Penn.”