the christmas caper 2

 

II Three Ladies

 

Cecily Dacres

Beatrice Lockwood

Elizabeth [Lily] Hendry

 

 

“Don’t make such a fuss, Cecy!” snapped Mrs. Dacres. “It’ll soon be over. Then he’ll stop wanting you and you’ll be free to marry if you want. You can take a little knife into the marriage bed to make a small cut under your hair to simulate losing your maidenhead.”

“But I... I don’t want to sleep with Lord Ashdowne!” said Cecily. “And even if anyone did want to marry me afterwards, I would know! I would be sullied!”

“What a lot of fuss over nothing!” said Mrs. Dacres. “Men are disgusting, all of them, and you just have to put up with the bedroom side of matters from time to time. Once you’ve had a child you can deny a husband your bed and he’ll go find a mistress. Honestly!”

“Does Papa know you feel like this? Does he know you are trying to sell my virtue to Lord Ashdowne?” spat out Cecily.

“Oh, honestly, Cecy! Of course Papa knows; he suggested I should have a little talk to you, to bring you to heel, so that Lord Ashdowne does not forclose on the loans he made to Papa. He’s willing to write them off to lie with you.”

“Well, if it’s such a little thing, why don’t you lie with him?” asked Cecily.

“Don’t be silly, child! He wants to take your virginity and enjoy teaching you about how many ways he can humiliate you; I already know, so I would not be amusing to him.”

“I want to hear Papa say that this is what he wants,” said Cecily, shocked.

Mrs. Dacres sighed with relief.

“Of course, my sweet,” she said. “I knew you would see sense. I’ll ask Papa to come to you.”

Cecily sat on her bed, shocked beyond measure. She looked up when her father came in.

“Cecy, you cannot imagine how relieved I am that you are prepared to be practical,” said Mr. Dacres.

“You want me to give my virtue to Lord Ashdowne, because you owe him money; is that right?” asked Cecily.

“He has been buying up all my vowels, I had no idea how deep I was with gambling; but he will write them all off, just to have you to himself for a week,” said Mr. Dacres.  “And then we can start the New Year fresh and free from debt, and able to be happy again.”

“And am I supposed to be happy again when I have been... used... by that disgusting old man?” asked Cecily.

“Oh, Cecy, it’s a woman’s lot in life; just shut your eyes and put up with it, and then it will be all over.”

“Why don’t you let him use you, like you said men like Lord Byron do?” retorted Cecily.

“It’s not the same at all,” snapped Dacres. “Please don’t tell me you are going to be difficult about this.”

“Do I have a choice?” asked Cecily, bitterly.

“No, my dear, I’m afraid not,” said her father.

“Leave me alone, please,” said Cecily.

“Of course, my dear. You need time to come to terms with it. I will call upon Lord Ashdowne tomorrow, and tell him that you will comply.”

He withdrew from Cecily’s room.

He did remember to lock the door.

 

oOoOo

 

Beatrice Lockwood dragged her life packed into a travelling trunk into the Angel Inn, in Westgate Street, one of the cheaper inns, and dating back, it was said, to 1611 and with a resident ghost, named Alice. Beatrice wondered if the ghost was lonely, and whether she would welcome a companion; for surely if she committed suicide, she would be denied Heaven, and must wander as a ghost. And Beatrice had reached the point where she wondered if joining Alice would be preferable to her inevitable descent into prostitution, the only option for a destitute woman without a reference.

She was totally shamed. Could anything be worse?

Beatrice thought over the events of the last few days over and over in her mind. Last week, she had been a preceptress at a young ladies’ academy on Queens Square, a well-paid job, thirty guineas a year and her keep, and the option to stay on free during the long holidays and help the servants do a thorough clean. Beatrice had been there for nearly three years; and then Amelia Spottiswode came as a pupil. Amelia Spottiswode, a spoilt, selfish child, who bullied those she thought she could push around, demanded what she wanted, and did not take discipline. Beatrice had disciplined her for impudence by banning puddings for a week, and when Amelia grabbed the puddings of other girls, Beatrice had dragged her to the punishment table where what Amelia was fed could be watched.

And the child had calmly got up to grab someone else’s pudding! Beatrice had struck it from her hands and sent the child to bed; indeed, had marched the child up to her bedroom.

And then, there had been the accusation of theft, and Amelia’s bracelet found in Beatrice’s room.

“I know you didn’t take it, Beatrice,” said Mrs. Spenlowe, the head preceptress, “But if I don’t fire you, that wretched child will have her parents send to Bow Street. I cannot afford the bad publicity, nor the shame, and you would end up in prison, hanged for the value of that bauble, or transported at least, and what good would that do? You cannot prove she put it there, and nor can I. It is better if I let you go, and hope that associating with nicer girls will have an impact on Miss. Spotiswode.”

“And if she decides to do the same thing to you, Mrs. Spenlowe, to get her own way in something?” asked Beatrice.

“I am sure she would not go that far,” said Mrs. Spenlowe, comfortably. “I cannot, of course, give you a reference, but I can give you a couple of letters of introduction, and write privately to those I’ve given you notes for. Mrs. Fenchurch is one of my old girls, who has a full nursery herself, now, and finds them hard to control, and Miss Williams is a former preceptress here, who set up her own school and finds it hard to keep staff.”

“Sour milk and cabbages!” cried Beatrice, who remembered Miss Williams from her own days as a pupil, when there was some trust money left to educate her to be a governess.

“Dear me, that is what the pupils used to call her,” said Mrs. Spenlowe. “She is a trifle... nipcheese... but it is a place to start over and move on to better things.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Spenlowe,” said Beatrice, tonelessly.

“It will all soon blow over,” said Mrs. Spenlowe.

No, it will never blow over, thought Beatrice. I will always be ‘the governess who was sacked for suspected stealing; no smoke without fire. But she said nothing. What was there to say?

And now, she had to choose between Mrs. Fenchurch and her doubtless ill-conditioned children, because that would be Amy Durrel, whose wedding had been a matter of gossip in the school, and Amy had spoiled her pet pug to the point where the poor creature died crying of dropsy. Beatrice could imagine her children, fat, white slugs of children, as lazy and self-indulgent as their mother.

Beatrice sighed, lay her aching head on the thin pillow in this cheap room, and sobbed herself to sleep.

 

oOoOo

 

“Now you’ve turned one-and-twenty, Lily, here’s something you need to sign,” said Mr. Hendry, pushing a document into his daughter’s hand. Elizabeth, known as Lily, Hendry read it through, and pushed it away from her.

“Papa, that’s ridiculous! That paper says that I sign over my legacy from Great-Uncle Paul to Annabelle, in its entirety.”

“Well, yes, that’s the general idea,” said Hendry. “You won’t need a dowry; you’re the plain one, so you won’t be getting married, and doubling Annabelle’s dowry gives her a better chance of getting married, and then you can go to her as nursemaid and governess for her children, so you’ll be taken care of for life.”

“And what makes you think I want to be an unpaid skivvy to Annabelle and be governess to her children, Papa?” said Lily.

“Don’t be tiresome, Lily,” snapped Mr. Hendry. “Annabelle is our golden girl, and you know you’ve been raised always to do your duty to her; this is a continuation of that duty.”

“With two hundred a year from the funds, I intended to move out, and live quietly with a companion in an apartment, and never see you or Annabelle again,” said Lily.

“How could you be so selfish!  You don’t deserve a legacy; Uncle Paul never knew what a tiresome child you were, and how much training you would need to learn your place,” added her mother. “There are ways of making you sign, you know; if you are kept hungry and thirsty for a few days, you will soon sign.”

Elizabeth Hendry pulled the parchment back towards herself, smiled, and her parents relaxed.

“There’s a good girl. You do come round when you’ve had your little rebellions,” said her mother.

Lily’s little rebellions involved asking why Annabelle had treats, and she did not, and asking for ice-cream when Annabelle had some, or asking for a new bonnet or new gown.

This time was enough.

She rose in one fluid movement, and thrust the document into the fire, grabbing the poker to push it right into the blaze.

Her father slapped her so hard, she fell over, and was hard pressed not to fall into the fire herself.

“Bedroom!” he shouted. “And no food or drink until there’s another document to sign!”

“Then I will probably be dead before it can be signed, and, as I recall, the legacy reverts to an orphan asylum if either of us die intestate and unwed,” said Lily.

“You had better be ready to sign the next copy; I had to pay to have that drawn up, the blasted bank would not do so without you calling on them,” said her father.

Lily filed away that interesting fact, and took herself meekly to the bedroom at the top of the house next to the chamber-maid, a far cry from the pretty and luxurious bedroom of her younger sister, Annabelle. Annabelle pinched her as she went past her.

“You’re mean to me, Lily; stop being so selfish,” she said. “With four hundred pounds a year, I can have a decent life, and it’s not as if you’re fit for anything but to be a governess or superior sort of servant anyway.”

“Why?” asked Lily, swinging round. “Why is Annabelle the golden girl, and why am I not fit to be a proper daughter to you?”

“You’ve always been trouble,” snapped her mother. “I was ill all through my pregnancy with you, and you were a sickly child, and always causing trouble by being ill. And look at you! Straight ginger hair, freckles, green eyes like a witch, and you’ve always watched us, it’s uncanny.”

“Maybe because I was watching for a sign of when I was in trouble and trying to guess why,” said Lily.

“You’re always in trouble, because you exist,” said Mrs. Hendry. “Now, go up to your room; there are worse things than being a governess for your sister’s children, you could be put away.”

Lily retreated. That was a frightening threat. Though they would have to have her signature before doing so. She knew she would not have any food that night, and was resigned to it, but at least Ella, the chambermaid, was sympathetic and might manage to sneak her a bit of bread.

Knowing that her parents and sister would not be leaving the warmth of the parlour fire, and would probably loudly discuss her shortcomings for a while, Lily did something she had done at times, to be able to buy street food when she was hungry, and went into her sister’s, and then parents’ bedrooms to search through reticules and pockets for loose change. Her sister and parents were careless about loose change, and never knew exactly how much they had, and Lily was able to abstract two pounds eighteen shillings, which would feed her for almost three months, if she was frugal. A plate of meat or fish and potatoes was eightpence in a cheap eating-house, she could drink from horse troughs and most eating houses provided piped water free. Tea and coffee were much dearer.  A meal a day if she stayed at home, because Lily knew ways of getting out of her locked room. Or, she could stay in a cheap inn, when her expenses would rise to around three shillings a day, giving her a little under three weeks.

But she was of age, now, and could visit her bank.

She got up to her own attic room just before her father came up to lock her in.

“We’ll feed you, but don’t expect to eat like family,” he said.

“I’ve long since realised that you are relatives, not family,” said Lily.

This was risky, as he might take his belt to her, but he merely slammed the door, making spiders fall from the rafters, and locked the door.

Ella slipped in with a thick ‘doorstep’  of bread-and-dripping, and a carafe of water, unlocking the door with another house key; all the locks were the same, as was common.

“Hide the carafe in the ewer, same as always,” she said.

“Bless you, Ella,” said Lily. “This is goodbye; I’m leaving.”

“Ooh, miss, do take care,” said Ella. “If you can send for me, I’d take board and lodging to serve you, not them.”

Lily embraced her.

“I’d take you with me, but I’m not sure where I’m going, or if I can get somewhere safe,” she said. “But they’re threatening me with Bedlam, and I can’t take that.”

“No, miss, I should think not!” said Ella.

“They get the Morning Post from London; I can put an advertisement in that from anywhere, and I’ll say something about a Lily flower and Cinderella,” said Lily.

“Ooh, just like a novel!” said Ella, happily, able to read fluently enough to find that in advertisements.

 

The Christmas Caper 1

 

I three young gentlemen

 

Jeremy Wrothling viscount Wrothlington

Hon Nicholas Derwent

Simon Havershall

 

“Well?” demanded the Honourable Nicholas Derwent.

“You don’t have to ask; look at his face,” said Simon Havershall.

Jeremy Wrothling, viscount Wrothlington, flung himself into a chair in the suite shared by the young men in the ‘York House’ hotel in Bath. He was a blond young man dressed almost casually, but in perfectly fitting clothes of the finest quality, save for the bird’s eye wipe he wore instead of a standard cravat.

“You were right, Nicky,” he said. “Jessica threw my ring at me.”

“How did you frame it?” asked Simon. He was as dark as his friend was fair, small, neat of build, with eyes that missed nothing.

“As we agreed; I asked her how she would feel if there was a broken entail, meaning that someone else was the viscount, not me. She screeched at me about leading her on and that she would only marry a dull dog like me if she could be a viscountess.”

“Dull dog? But you’re a top-of-the-trees Corinthian, a sportsman extraordinaire, a whip of the finest,” said Simon. “Talk about dull, don’t she even realise that a title from your pater can’t be subject to a broken entail?”

“Nicky was right, talk to a female with legal terms, and most of the time, their eyes glaze over,” said Jeremy.

“Said she would,” said Nicky Derwent. Nicky was a cousin to both the others, through the female line, and had wavy golden-brown locks and a dreamy look. He was usually the least loquacious of the three, but wrote poetry which was better for not being addressed to women of his acquaintance. “Look how Amelia carried on about me being a younger son, and there not being much chance of Dan dying now the war was over. Deuced bad form. And she sneered at the Viking ring I dug up and wanted to give her as a love-token, because I thought she entered into my feelings about antiquities.”

“And I caught Lydia sneaking round with Caldicott and kissing him in the conservatory,” said Simon.

“Most people use the lips,” said Jeremy.

“Put your damned sarcasm away,” said Simon.  “And do you know what she said to me? She said a lady had to keep her options open, because there was no point settling for second best. I thought she loved me.”

“Caldicott’s a rake,” said Jeremy.

“He’s a damned loose screw,” said Nicky.

“Women seem to like dangerous men,” said Jeremy.

“Which is why those who know you’re a nonesuch throw themselves at you,” said Simon. “Are we going through with it?”

“Yes,” said Jeremy.  “We each go to a posting inn, and see if there is a lone young lady, and she must be a lady, and induce her to travel with us. Take her to my hunting box, that being the better part of three hours travel, twenty miles, and if the women like us for our own sweet sakes, we marry them, because they can chaperone each other. Besides, my Great-Aunt Frideswide lives there with her companion, which does for the look of it.”

“We won’t have to talk to them, will we?” said Nicky, in lively horror. “Your great-aunt is crazy and her companion is first cousin to the Grim Reaper.”

“Aggie isn’t that bad,” said Jeremy. “She just feels the responsibility of caring for Aunt Frid, who is in her second childhood. She has her meals in private, now, so you need not worry that she will take all her clothes off at dinner like she did last time. Or, at least, she might, but you won’t have to see it. She was a famous courtesan in her time, and knew a number of royal dukes intimately.”

“All very well, but it was a shock to know her a bit too intimately,” said Nicky.

“Aggie keeps an eye on her, and they have a brawny maid in case Aunt Frid goes wandering,” said Jeremy. “And it’s not like summer storms when she goes outside in her shift to dance. Poor old thing, if it gives her pleasure, why should we decry it?”

“Because it’s scary,” said Nicky, frankly.

“I don’t mind the old lady,” said Simon. “When she’s lucid, her tales are delightful. I have been keeping notes, and one day I will use them in a novel which I will dedicate to her.”

“She’d like that, if she understood,” said Jeremy, touched. “Good; we’ll set off tomorrow. I expect I’ll be slow, as I only have a carriage with me, bringing the mater and her bevy of dressers, maids, companions and vestals with her.”

“You can fit six in the family carriage, does that constitute a bevy?” asked Simon.

“It feels like a bevy,” said Jeremy, firmly.

“Yes, I imagine it probably does,” said Simon. “As long as you don’t have to carry her cicisbeo as well.”

Jeremy shuddered.

“I can’t stand him,” he said. “I couldn’t stand him when the pater was alive, either. I know it’s fashionable to take lovers, but I want a wife who is satisfied with me, and with whom I would be satisfied.”

“How uxorious of you!” said Simon, lightly. “Not that I disagree. And this is why we are kidnapping poor but virtuous ladies in the hopes that they will be more convivial than the gold-diggers we meet in society.  ‘Oh, Simon’s so safe and steady, he could keep me in comfort, but I want excitement as well,’ which is what Lydia said.”

“Put her from your mind, old man,” said Jeremy. “By the time she realises what a mistake she’s made, with luck, you’ll be safely married.”

“What if they’re under twenty-one?” asked Nicky.

“If they’re alone in the world, they won’t have a guardian,” said Jeremy. “Oh, well, there’s always Scotland.”

“In December? You have rats in the attic,” said Nicky.

“Hush! We write to an importer of whisky I know, and have him bring a consignment south; and a chaplain. Then, onboard ship, we are on sovereign territory of Scotland.”

“Does it count?” asked Simon, dubiously.

“If we talk very fast, and don’t back down it counts,” said Jeremy. “It’s a casuistry which has been used for making treaties.”

“Well, I don’t suppose anyone else knows, either,” said Simon. “So, they can’t refute it.”  He considered. “Are we going to choose inns so we don’t go to the same place?”

“Good thought,” said Jeremy. “I thought I’d go to the White Hart.”

“Isn’t it a bit prestigious for the sort of ladies we’re looking for?” asked Nicky.

“It’s the main posting inn,” said Jeremy. “Someone doesn’t have to be staying there to be there.  I thought I’d give it a day there, and then try The Three Tuns, in Stall Street.”

“Good idea, to have a second one to go to,” said Nicky. “I thought I’d go to the Angel Inn, Westgate Street, it’s respectable, but cheap. Then, oh, The Saracen’s Head in Broad Street.”

“I’ll try The White Lion, and The Christopher, in Market Place,” said Simon.

“A toast, to our success,” said Jeremy.

 

They set out the next morning, through frost crackling underfoot. It had not snowed much, but older folk said it was too cold to snow.

Jeremy drove to the White Hart, asked for his horses to be watered, and threw blankets over them. He went into the tap room, where visitors congregated, and propped himself up at the bar, ignoring the flirtatious wriggles of the tapster’s daughter and her low-cut dress.

There were not many people in there yet, but Jeremy’s eyes were drawn to a youth, in rather outmoded clothing, worn appallingly badly.

There was something about the way the youth moved that made Jeremy’s eyes narrow.

Then the youth came up to him. 

The voice was well-modulated, obviously educated.

“Excuse me, are you the coachman for a stage coach, and do you have room for one?” the youth asked.

“I tell you what, you can ride on the box with me, and pay your way by talking to me so I don’t drift off into the killing sleep of cold,” said Jeremy.

“Thank you,” the youth replied.

 

Nicky pulled into the Angel Inn, in his phaeton, as a young woman in dowdy clothing, but obviously a lady, pulled a trunk which was too heavy for her into the inn yard. She consulted a pocket book in her reticule, and sighed. The sigh condensed in a cloud about her.

Nicky raised his hat.

“I suspect the stages will be behind schedule on these treacherous icy roads; going up and down hill,” he said.  “Can I give you a lift anywhere?”

“It depends where you are going, sir,” her voice was softly modulated.

“Oh, I’m exercising my nags,” said Nicky. “I can please myself. Or, indeed, you.”

“Oh, well, if you are going part of the way, I was heading for Cheltenham,” she said.

“Well, if you’ll hold my horse’s heads, I can load up your trunk and we can get going,” said Nicky. The young lady did hold his horse’s heads, without fear, and she stepped away when he remounted and took up the reins, leaning over to help her scramble in.

“Here,” said Nicky. “There’s a blanket to put over yourself; it gets chilly.”

 

Simon hesitated at the Market Place, in his gig, deciding whether to go to The White Lion, or The Christopher, it still being very early, when he saw a young woman, dowdily dressed in clothes which had seen much darning, and she was carrying a cheap valise. Her clothes were those of the upper class, out of date, but once stylish. She might be a dresser, of course, gifted her mistress’s clothes.

Simon decided to take a chance on her.

“Excuse me, you look as if you need help,” he said.

“Oh! I should not... you look harmless,” she said. Her voice was definitely that of a lady.

“I am harmless,” said Simon. “Where are you off to?”

“Milsom Street, number two,” she said. “I... I need to visit the bank before I do anything else.”

Simon consulted his watch.

“It’s almost eight; there should be someone there. You are not leaving Bath?”

“Oh! Yes, but I must see my bank manager first, so I am not defrauded.” She flushed. “I know, I do not look as if I have much to be defrauded of, but now I am one-and-twenty, I resent my small portion being usurped.”

“Intriging!” said Simon. “And where to, after the bank?”

“Anywhere,” she said.

“Hop up, then; the bank first, and then, my lady, your carriage awaits, and I shall hie you off to Lady Frideswide Wrothling, who is as senile as a coot, but has some entertainingly warm stories of her days at court,” said Simon, who found dissembling hard.

 

 

 

Master of Gothic House 13, cliffie bonus

 

Chapter 13

 

Wickes ran to the head of the stairs, swallowed hard at the inferno at its base, and swathed himself in the blanket. Then he straddled the banister, and slid down, hands in front of him to catch on the decorative newel at the bottom, rather than risking his manhood on it. He slid right through the flames too fast for them to touch him, then he vaulted off to the side, and plied the wet blanket to start beating out the flames.

 

 

Edwin found the ladies, a grumpy Tommy, and the servants up, and led them through smoke to descend by the servants’ stair. Jeb and Sgt Hamilton had already gone down, and met Ram Gopal.

Ram Gopal took charge, finding blankets, and directing them to the pump in the kitchen sink, where he also shut the door, to stop the draft.

Edwin sent the ladies to go through the vestibule and into the boudoir; it would be easy to light a fire there, as the chimney was already warm, and if need be, there was a French window into the kitchen garden, if the house caught solidly ablaze. They had come down well-wrapped in blankets and quilts, which Elinor had seen to, and Tommy curled up on the floor and went back to sleep.

“If we can keep it from reaching the roof beams, we’ll likely save the house,” said Edwin, grimly. “But any stair well acts like a chimney, and the stairs caught afire readily. But for Wickes, I doubt we’d have much chance of saving this wing.”

“Thank Mrs. Hymes and her assiduous polishing of the stair rail,” said Wickes.

 

 

oOoOo

 

Esther was buoyant. She was almost ready to sing out loud in joy, but for the thought that such would be vulgar. It would not have stopped Clara or Angela; but Esther, being closer to being bourgeois, was more aware of what might not be acceptable.

Of course, setting fire to houses was not acceptable, but as far as Esther knew, nobody had seen her do it, and that was what counted.

She waited until they were approaching Chelmsford, and passed a large vail to Ezra.

“You don’t have to, miss, it’s no trouble,” said Ezra.

“Oh, well, you will want something to be going on with, and to stay at an inn in Chelmsford while you look for another job,” said Esther.

“What do you mean, miss?” asked Ezra, puzzled.

“Well, I should think the house has burned down by now. I lit a fire on the stairs before coming out,” said Esther. “That will stop them forcing me to do what they want.”

“But miss! There are other young ladies, and the servants, and that little boy, as well as his lordship,” said Ezra.

A cold lump settled in Esther’s stomach.

“His... his lordship?”

“Ar, Lord Aldermede; who was Mr. Annesley until his uncle died,” said Ezra. “You’d best get out; I need to get back to see if I can help.”

“I beg your pardon?” said Esther.

“It’s his lordship’s pardon and that of his guests you’ll need to beg,” said Ezra, with asperity.  “Out you get; I ain’t drivin’ a common felon like you no further an’ if you don’t get out, I’ll use my whip, see?”

“You can’t do that! I’m a lady!”

“You’re a common felon, whass committed arson,” said Ezra, who was really upset, though a part of this might have been fear of being taken as an accomplice. “I won’t swing for you, no I won’t!”

It was born upon Esther that he was serious, and she stepped down from the carriage. Ezra jogged on to a track off the road to turn his team, and cracked the whip overhead to make his team run.

He threw her valise at her, but kept the quilt.

Esther had a few qualms; a lord’s death might be investigated more carefully than that of some mongrel, though she thought it a disgrace that a man of colour should be a lord.  Still, she might have made more effort, if she had known; it was too bad of him to hide such a thing, and it was his own fault if he burned up.

And with an old wooden house like that, it would have all burned up, so it was Ezra’s word against hers, and she might say that she accepted a lift when he had wanted to leave in a hurry, and of course, a lady would be believed; she could put the blame on Ezra. She smiled, secure in her own mind that she was not going to be in trouble. And at least Chelmsford was not far, now, to walk.

 

oOoOo

 

Ezra got back as the other hands were turning out to help fight the fire, and threw blankets over the horses for now to join in.

It did not take long with outdoor staff re-wetting blankets and making a bucket gang to have the fire completely out. The stairs were burned, but were solid enough to be useable.

Edwin knocked on the boudoir door.

“You ladies and your maids can go back to bed; all is safe,” he said. “Tommy looks comfortable enough; I’ll send Will in to sit with him.”

“Thank you,” said Clara. “Another couple of hours’ sleep will not go amiss.”

 

Three hours later, the company was having breakfast when a coach drew up. Edwin glanced out.

“It’s the Bishop of Chelmsford[1],” he said. “Well, let us see whether he is ready to listen to me about the vicar.”

There was a pounding on the door.

Hymes answered it, and was able to announce his grace as the bishop, with the vicar behind him, barged in.

“Ha! Caught you with your paphians! You slandered the Reverend Beckett to stop him denouncing you...”

“How dare you defame my affianced wife, her friend, lately the daughter of the vicarage until thrown out of doors without care for where she might go by that fellow Beckett?” roared Edwin. “And do you call my aunt, Mrs. Elinor Clitheroe, a Paphian as well? You have a confounded impudence! You, sirrah, will apologise or I will have the law on you for defamation! Hymes, send me ostlers to throw out these turbulent priests!”

“Oh has it come to this, that you introduce your bastards into the household?” demanded Beckett, pointing at Tommy.

“You have no manners calling bad names to an orphan!” said Tommy, shrilly. “If Papa was alive, he’d knock you down, and I expect my nearly-brother here will do so for him!”

“I will,” said Edwin, advancing on Beckett. “You throw out a young girl to starve, you literally starve the rectory goat, and now you slander a little boy by questioning his parents, and in doing so question the parentage of my bride, his sister? I will have you know that there is nothing underhanded in the marriage of Clarissa and Thomas Snowe of Ringshall, and you do not have relatively impoverished orphans to deal with, but me, Viscount Aldermede, who can afford to take you to law and see you unfrocked and imprisoned for your defamation, which is a direct attack upon any issue I might have with my wife, and hence with the succession!”

“I... I’m sorry!” squeaked Beckett. “I did not know! I saw a child, and assumed...”

“You assumed! To assume, sirrah, makes an ass out of u and me,” said Edwin. “And you are an ass; you bray like one with as much understanding.  I suppose you are the root of the infamous calumny levelled at my guests?”

The bishop also rounded on Beckett.

“You lied! You said a pack of women had been brought in, in two carriages!”

“They were! Tom Roper saw them!” said Beckett.

“Let me get this straight,” said Edwin, with a deadly calm which made Beckett shudder, and even unnerved the bishop. “The two carriages containing my aunt, three house guests – one of whom has departed – and their maids and their duenna in the second carriage, has been made in whose imagination into a pack of... women who should not even be mentioned in front of ladies? Did you take the word of some countryman who has never seen ladies with maids before, or did you make it up in your own dirty, prurient, aberrant, and disgusting little mind, because you are prejudiced against men of colour, regardless that my mother was a princess in her own country and took a step down to marry a mere brother of a viscount?”

“I... I thought....” said Beckett.

“You thought? I think that’s a lie,” said Edwin. “I think you have very little capacity to think. You certainly never thought when you turned Miss Cubitt out into the cold of winter because it was ‘inappropriate’ to share the vicarage with an unmarried man; a man of God would have stayed in the village ale-house until a suitable place had been found for a young lady left destitute, and a man of any moral scruples would have contacted the Bishop to ask if any ladies of his acquaintance needed a companion, to give her a suitable place when bereaved by the loss of both her parents.  But no doubt if she had been violated whilst she sought somewhere to go, you would have smugly said that it was her own fault? You disgust me. And this is why I want him out!” he added, turning sharply to the bishop.

“Beckett! You have lied to me and let me down!” said the bishop. “And you will be out by New Year! I will look for someone more suitable...”

“Don’t bother,” said Edwin.

“But... but my lord! You must have a vicar...”

“And the living is in my gift and I gift it to the Reverend Archibald Payne, a friend of mine from Oxford. I will be writing to him, and he can stay with me until that fellow is out,” said Edwin. “And if he is not out on the last day of December, my servants will come and throw him out, bag and baggage, and let him cope with being so rudely ejected!”

“Er, quite,” said the bishop. “A... a belated congratulations to you on your elevation, my lord, and on your impending nuptials. Come, Beckett, I want to speak to you in private.”

They left; and two stable hands with pitchforks ushered them out.

“That was masterly,” said Clara.

“Well done, my dear boy, I could not have done better,” said Elinor.

“If I were not betrothed to Jeb, I could hug you for putting down that awful Beckett!” said Angela.

“Abiit, evasit and I forgot the rest!” gloated Tommy.

“Abiit, excessit, evasit, erupit,” said Edwin. “Or, in English for those with less Latin, he has gone, shabbed off, retreated and been romped.”

“It didn’t translate it like that in my book,” said Tommy.

“No, but that’s what’s called a ‘free translation’ when you translate the spirit of what is meant, not the cold hard precision of the words,” said Edwin.

  “So, Timao Danaos et dona ferentes...”  said Tommy “If you did it in free translation?”

“Those sneaky Greeks give nothing without some nasty trick to it,” said Edwin.

“I wish you were teaching me Latin, not Reverent Hunnicutt,” said Tommy.

“Well, if your sister will accept my humble hand in marriage, I’m sure I can find some time for it,” said Edwin. “We’ll find you a decent tutor too, and Ram Gopal will teach you to shoot and use a sword.”

“You had not actually proposed, my lord,” said Clara.

“Had I not? My apologies, Miss Snowe. Will you do me the honour of being my wife?”

“Willingly,” said Clara. “If I had had any reservations stemming from your high-handed assumption, even though I understand why you made such assumptions in front of that idiotic Bishop, your handling of Tommy shows me that one day you will be a most excellent father.”

“I hope, in the meantime, to show you that I can be a most excellent husband.”

“I will make you work at it.”

“Of course.” 

“While the young people bill and coo, Mrs. Clitheroe, is there any hope that I might court a mettlesome lady like yourself?” said Wickes. “I have little to lay before you; mustering out as a lieutenant will not be much, but I offer my wit, charm, and my ability to turn my hand to most things.”

“You may spend some time convincing me; I’ve enough to keep us both handsomely, and I let Edwin invest for me as well,” said Elinor. “And if any of it is ill-gotten gains from my second husband’s career on the High Toby, I never asked.”

“And I’d be a fool to do so,” said Wickes.

“I’ll arrange three special licences,” said Edwin. “When the Bishop has cooled down and is amenable to the sweet song of money for the same, rather than the raucous tones of slander.”

 

Christmas was celebrated happily in Gothic House, with two weddings; Elinor wanted to be courted a bit longer, but Lieutenant Wickes mustered out anyway, hoping for a job with the viscount if his suit failed. His sergeant came with him, and Mrs. Partridge agreed to be Mrs. Harrison, and move into Gothic House to help Mrs. Hymes. Esther’s Lizzie became a general parlourmaid, and counted herself lucky; and Edwin took the deposition of Ezra, and of Jeb who had seen Esther light the fire, and wrote to Dr. Mortimer that as he had the evidence to have Esther hanged, he considered that it would be as well if she was never permitted to marry, and he would say nothing – unless her parents or anyone else close to her died suddenly, or there were any more fires.

Esther found herself expected to do more about the house to keep her busy, and was not permitted to have anything to do with mixing medicines. Dr. Mortimer was definitely frightened by the viscount’s revelations.

Archie Payne officiated at the weddings, and Jeb took his bride home to help him run his prosperous little farm. They took Faith, the goat, and Will with them, as well as Jenny, and lived happily ever after.  Edwin hired a tutor for Tommy, and found a young man who had a young brother in his care, so Tommy had a companion. Their discovery of other secret passages left Clara and Edwin declaring that they would go grey before their time, and in due course, sundry nieces and nephews were shown passages by Tommy. Tommy, of course, had the room over the porch. His best friend had the room above it.

 

 

 

Epilogue

 

It was amazing how many people in the ton whose views normally found persons of colour to be distasteful were much more ready to be ecumenical when the said person of colour was extremely wealthy and used his social position and wealth with the finesse that Angelo wielded a rapier in his fencing school. Clara was positively lionised by people she met on the town. She and Edwin, however, preferred a quiet life, and loved spending time in Gothic House, once it had a sufficiency of servants to keep it as it should be kept.

Their son was born here less than a year after the wedding, and was christened Giles Thomas Annesley, after Edwin’s father and after Tommy.  He was not named Vijay, as Edwin had informed many people he would be when he thought their nosiness was impudent. Clara gave Edwin two daughters and another son, who were named Sarah Angela, Clarissa Geeta, and Victor Vijay, because Clara thought it was a shame not to retain the Indian tradition and honour Edwin’s mother and her father.

 

Angela thrived as a farmer’s wife. There were a sufficiency of hands that she not be required to do too much heavy work, and most years she helped with the harvest. The first year, she was very obviously pregnant, and not carrying it well, and birthed a small, red-haired daughter who was christened in a hurry Angelica Clara. Angelica proved to have a will to live and fiery spirit to match her hair, and in time fell into many scrapes with her four brothers who followed, who grew up to be strong, able men, with varying shades of gingery hair, and ambitions to help their father increase his holdings. The Curtis children and the Annesley children grew up spending much time together and were as close as if they were related.

 

Elinor married Thomas Wickes, and they adopted the daughter of an officer Wickes knew who had been killed in the line of duty, and her huge mongrel hound. 

 

end of the first of three for the Christmas book, the crazy Christmas caper coming up next 

 

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[1] There was no Bishop of Chelmsford then, so he is a fictional character and may be bent, folded, stapled and mutilated at my whim.