Brandon Scandals re-release

 It's been 11 years since I released 'Hasty Proposal.' Can you believe it!  anyway, I've been putting proper links into the ebooks and revamped all the covers.  

To celebrate, 'The Hasty Proposal' will be free for five days from Easter Sunday - what about an Easter Gift to someone who loves Regency comedies of manners!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B00VKFALQW
https://www.amazon.co.uk/Hasty-Proposal-Brandon-Scandals-Book-ebook/dp/B00VKFALQW/ref=tmm_kin_swatch_0 

the scholar's sweetheart 2

 

Chapter 2

 

Cornelius walked home across the fields, diverting his path towards an angry voice. He came upon one of the gypsies, beating an ass with an overladen cart.

“Look here, Woodlock, you won’t do that on the marquis’s land for he’s as likely to beat you harder,” said Cornelius, hoping he remembered the name of the man he had heard addressed, who had been near Shuri when he delivered his message.

Woodlock scowled.

“What’s it to you?”

“Apart from being his lordship’s man and bound to enforce his – very few – rules? I’m a man who wonders which is the bigger ass, the one with the cart attached, or the one who hasn’t noticed that the wheel is so wedged in mud that the poor beast couldn’t move it if you beat it until you both died of old age. And donkeys live a very long time,” said Cornelius. “Now, you let me help you, and I won’t mention this to Evelyn, unless I see or hear of you doing the same again.”

Woodlock scowled.

“I don’t like you,” he said.

“Was there any reason beyond me exercising sarcasm at your expense?” said Cornelius.

“Huh, well, if a man sees a man being a right dinlow, he’s got a right to make game of it,” said Woodlock, looking at the mud in deep thought. “If I lift the wheel, you draw that dratted beast forward until it’s on the dry; you look like a puff of wind would blow you away.”

“There’s more to me than appears, but I’m content with that,” said Cornelius. He went to the head of the ass. The beating did not appear to have been as harsh as he first thought; there were scars on the tongue of the cart as though Woodlock had been using the noise to scare the animal rather than hitting it directly. Cornelius nodded to himself, and clicked his tongue as Woodlock lifted the wheel. The ass trotted forward cheerfully.

“Thanks,” growled Woodlock. “I don’t like you because Shuri looked on you with admiration, and blushed. I was hoping to court her, and we don’t need some blasted aristo swiving her and leaving her with another cuckoo. Not but that the marquis hasn’t treated her right, but it’s not right.”

“I want to court her too, Woodlock,” said Cornelius. “If she’ll have me, I’d marry her. On that basis, can we be civil to each other, acknowledge that her choice counts, and swear to let her interests be uppermost?”

Woodlock hesitated.

“What is it you swell coves say? May the best man win? I’m her folk. You could probably give her more, but it ain’t just about that.”

“No; if life was about things, more, er, swell coves would be happy, and most of them ain’t, not by a long chalk,” said Cornelius. “Life’s about the intangibles.”

“You and your jaw-crack words,” jeered Woodlock. “Like her little bastard. Mind, he’s a man.”

“So am I if you’re itching for a fight,” said Cornelius. “I already spoiled the set of my coat and ripped it under the arm in laying my brother out for miscalling Shuri, so I’m not about to box shy. I can stand up to Evelyn with gaiety.”

Woodlock was a big man, and in fact boxed local champions at fairs to earn money.

“You’ve got bottom,” he said, in approval.  “My hand on an agreement to leave it to Shuri, and not to play dirty tricks on each other; and to stand together against any other bugger with less honest intent.”

He spat on his palm and held out his hand, and Cornelius did the same, and they shook hands.

They walked back to the gypsy field in some level of comradeship.

Shuri eyed them in surprise.

“I didn’t know you knew Mr. Reckitt, Woodlock,” she said.

“We know each other now,” said Woodlock. “We have an understanding. He ain’t bad for a swell cove, it’s all kushti.”

“I should learn the language of the... Roma, you call yourselves? If you will teach me,” said Cornelius.

“We don’t teach outsiders,” said Woodlock.

“Am I an outsider? Totally?” asked Cornelius.

Woodlock spat.

“You are at the moment,” he said.

“Well, I am your advocate, so perhaps you’ll be my translator if I need to help someone who uses the language more.”

“Like many women do,” said Shuri. “That seems fair, doesn’t it, Woodlock?”

“Aye, I suppose so,” said Woodlock. “We’ll work together, and keep our pact. Any more? Well, the future comes, whatever, and with it comes such fortune as it brings, good or bad.”

“You’re a philosopher,” said Cornelius.

“Some of us have to be,” said Woodlock.

 

oOoOo

 

“Evelyn, a moment?” said Cornelius, when Evelyn, Marquis Finchbury came in from inspecting his tenants’ cottages.

“Certainly, Corny, any problems?” Evelyn ushered his man into the study.

“No, the gypsy tribe are happy with the facilities, though I was wondering if we might do more so they have the option to overwinter,” said Cornelius. “I... to be honest, I was wondering if you’d object, if I were to court Shuri.”

“Good G-d!” said Evelyn. “As in court with the intent to marry?”

“Well, yes,” said Cornelius. “I’m of age; and my father does not object, so long as she settles with me, and I don’t go off to become a gypsy.”

“You’ve spoken to the reverend already?”

“It came up in conversation,” Cornelius flushed. “Eusebius was there, telling father he had seen me in a field with a gypsy wench, looking lustful.”

“Your brother is a pest,” said Evelyn. “And no, I’ve no objection to you marrying Shuri, so long as she agrees. She’s a few years older than you are.”

“She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen, and she’s clever, too,” said Cornelius.

“Literate, as well,” said Evelyn, “and taught Jasper to read and write before he got to school. She taught herself. She’d probably be happy to have the odd novel to read rather than flowers. Do not buy her any article of clothing; nor any jewellery unless you are certain of her accepting your suit. She may have suitors. And to buy a gypsy woman clothing or jewellery implies that she is a kept woman under your protection, as much as it would to do so for a woman of our own estate, or randomly for any woman, if not a dependant of yours.”

“Woodlock and I have agreed to respect each other’s courtship of her and put her choice and feelings first,” said Cornelius.

“You have been busy,” said Evelyn.

“Well, I also laid Eusebius out for disparaging her, and he will be staying with Papa to try to regain his moral compass; Papa is not happy with his insinuations.”

“Dear me! Well, into each life some rain must fall, and if we must put up with Eusebius, I shall resist the temptation to give him a scandal to sniff out which is no such thing.”

Cornelius laughed.

“Oh, I don’t know, it might be good for him,” he said. “Letting him know that beings with female names are dancing for you and wondering whether to have them clothed or not, and they are all trained dogs...”

Evelyn gave a crack of laughter.

“You spend too much time with Jasper,” he sniggered. “Mind, it’s a thought!”

 

oOoOo

 

The turnout on Sunday was good, the gypsy tribe a colourful addition to the congregation, and the singing enthusiastic and tuneful.

The Reverend Reckitt produced a sermon about living in harmony with one’s fellow man, and managed to reference both going the extra mile, and the Good Samaritan, without managing to sound either forced or fatuous.

Woodlock shook his hand heartily after the service.

“Good sermon, Rector,” he boomed. “Reminded us that not all georgios – settled folk – are bad news, some of them are amongst the righteous. A good lesson.”

“I am glad you enjoyed it,” said Reckitt, who had intended his homily for the settled folk of his parishioners. Cornelius laughed, and slapped Woodlock on the shoulder.

“Very adroit!” he said. “Should make people think as much as the sermon itself.”

“Oh, you did get what I was about, did you, pretty boy? At least you can smile; that brother of yours looks as if his face would crack if he even tried.”

“I did, you big ape,” said Cornelius. “Woodlock, are you up for a laugh?”

“I might be,” said Woodlock, cautiously. “What had you in mind?”

“I want to prank my austere, sanctimonious, and unpleasant brother royally,” said Cornelius. “I want to hire some dancing dogs – all females, and named accordingly – to dance for the amusement of the marquis and family, but let my brother overhear arrangements for female names to dance, and the discussion of whether or not they should wear any clothes.”

Woodlock sniggered.

“I can arrange that,” he said.

“How much do you want up front?” asked Cornelius.

“Oh, I’ll call in a favour or two, so long as the hat goes round for the owner when they do dance,” said Woodlock. “I’ll do it as an act of goodwill to you and because, and this is the greater reason, the idea of taking a rise out of that Friday-faced dinlow mush with someone else ready to take the blame for it, is too much to pass up.”

Cornelius laughed.

“Well, that I can well believe,” he said.

 

oOoOo

 

“What sort of books do you think Shuri would like?” Cornelius asked Imogen. “You’re a woman, so I thought you might know.”

“I loaned her ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ by ‘A Lady’ and she enjoyed it; you might get her ‘Pride and Prejudice,’ by the same author,” said Imogen. “The novels by Mrs. Ratcliffe are always agreeable as well.”

“Thank you,” said Cornelius. “I will ask if she has read ‘Pride and Prejudice’ and would care to pass an opinion, to see if she has done so.”

“A good idea. Have you read it?”

“Yes, actually, I have. I enjoy social satires.”

“Good, as well not to pretend knowledge when you have none.”

“No, I’m not that much of a clunch. I have a copy, actually; I’ll take that and ask if she would like to read it. That’s less forward than buying her a copy.”

“Good idea,” agreed Imogen.

 

Cornelius went in search of Shuri, and found her trying to break up a fight between two men. Cornelius wordlessly went for a bucket of water, and handed it to Shuri. She threw it over the combatants.

“Thank you. And thank you for not intervening.”

“You have to establish your leadership; I’m not stupid,” said Cornelius.

Shuri berated the men in a mixture of English and their own language. One tried to argue, and she raised a sculpted eyebrow and tapped her foot.

He squirmed.  She said something harsh, and he dropped his eyes.

“And if you don’t stop fighting over her, I’ll send Merily to the hall as a servant, and like as not she’ll find a better beau there amongst the servants; she’s better than either of you,” said Shuri. “Mr. Reckitt here could arrange it.”

“I could, and I could arrange for her to be protected from a pair of ill-tempered curs who have no manliness to fall to fighting rather than letting her  choose,” said Cornelius.

“Who are you to call us Rom ‘curs?’” said the argumentative one.

“I’m not calling the Rom ‘curs;’ I’m calling you two ‘curs.’ Because your behaviour suggests it.”

“Aye, I agree,” said Woodlock, appearing suddenly. “Mr. Reckitt is a man of honour.”

“Cornelius, my friend. To you, I am Cornelius,” said Cornelius.

“Hah, yes, my brother. My pral,” said Woodlock.

Shuri gasped, and opened her fine eyes wide; the other two men were taken aback.

There was muttering, but they went away in separate directions.

“Always those two are trouble,” sighed Shuri.

“I would beat them for you,” said Woodlock.

“And if you do, I will lose my leadership,” said Shuri. “I plan to make this tribe respectable in this neighbourhood, known as able to hire out for seasonal work, honest, and capable of living with our neighbours. What they steal in Salisbury is none of my business, but we will earn the trust of the villages around here. We need a place to rest at times, and we have the good will of Evelyn here, and his lady, which is even more remarkable. We need to take advantage of that.”

“I hear you,” said Woodlock. “And if you marry a giorgio and settle down?”

Shuri’s eyes widened again, and flicked involuntarily to Cornelius.

“If I loved a man who offered marriage, and so settled, you would be chief, Woodlock, in my absence. If I choose your suit, our chieftainship will be joint.”

Woodlock inclined his head.

“A great woman has to be certain before choosing any husband,” said Cornelius.

“And is that what you offer?” asked Shuri.

“I hope to do so if we draw close together, beyond the initial admiration I feel,” said Cornelius, quietly. “But there is no call to rush into anything.”

“I need to choose before winter; if I choose Woodlock, I would feel embarrassed at staying on.”

“I will not permit my feelings to impact on your tribe; if you choose Woodlock, I will ask Jasper to be your go-between,” said Cornelius.

“He speaks well,” said Woodlock. “What have you brought for my chieftess?”

“I thought you might like to borrow a book to read in spare moments,” said Cornelius. “If, that is, you have not read it? It is called ‘Pride and Prejudice’ by the same author as a book Imogen says you have read, ‘Sense and Sensibility.’”

“I would be delighted to borrow it, thank you,” said Shuri. “I looked at a copy in a lending library in Salisbury, and the first line, ‘It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.’ It intrigued me.”

“Then I hope you enjoy the rest of it,” said Cornelius. “I felt it was better than ‘Sense and Sensibility,’ myself.”

“I look forward to discussing it,” said Shuri.

“May I read it as well?” asked Woodlock. “I read... well enough, anyway.”

“Certainly,” said Cornelius. “I can see some pleasant evenings together discussing it. It is a story which excites discussion over poor decisions, and how pride and prejudice prevent the course of love. The characters are lively, and lovingly drawn, even the ones you want to strangle.”

“I am glad you are human enough to want to strangle people at times,” said Woodlock, grinning.

“Oh, I’m very human,” said Cornelius. “And this is why we are pranking my brother, so I don’t strangle him.”

Woodlock laughed.

“It’s in hand,” he said. “Three spaniels, so girls with red, curly hair, sisters, the fellow I know, he had them off a gamekeeper, their mother was covered by a half-breed spaniel-terrier, and it don’t show, but they can’t be bred off of they say. Doesn’t make much sense to me, if an animal can do its job, what does the breed matter?”

“Well, I’d agree there, and so would Evelyn, but some breeds do things better than others, because they’ve been bred to it for centuries. He’s looking to get couple of boarhound pups, for himself and Jasper, as protection mostly, and because he likes big dogs.”

Woodlock laughed.

“Well, that I can share with him,” he said. “Big dogs eat a lot though. But then, he can afford to feed them, now he’s married the heiress. Looking forward to the fete tomorrow?”

“I’d look forward to it more if I wasn’t organising much of it,” said Cornelius, cheerfully.

 

the scholar's sweetheart 1

 Good morning on this solemn morning. My thoughts turn as they do on this day not just to our Lord, but to my young great-uncle, who was born on Good Friday 1900  and died on Good Friday ten years later of baker's lung, being his father's apprentice. It's relevant to this story in a way, which involves gypsies, as little Charley's mother used to give loaves to the gypsies at the end of the day, and they paid her with medicines for the poor little boy's cough and other things. I still use the recipes they gave her.  It wasn't properly understood, and his death certificate says 'consumption'; but it seems more obvious looking back. My great-grandfather had no idea that the disease of bakers could take a child so fast, and Charley was keen to learn, and had the 'touch'. 

 

Chapter 1

 

Cornelius Reckitt stared at the gypsy woman with shock and consternation, every word of his rehearsed speech robbed from his brain.

She was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. Her hair was as sleek and black as a raven’s wing, her berry-brown skin as flawless as silk, and her eyes, dark, fathomless pools in which he could drown.

Cornelius was a scholar, a gentleman, and practised at negotiation, and had no words with which to negotiate.

He took refuge in the social amenities, and made a beautiful leg.

“Are you bowing to me?” she asked.

Even her voice was beautiful, like music, it put him in mind of a stream laughing over stones, softened with silt, like the light brown waters of woodland streams.

“Ma’am, uh, I’m Cornelius Reckitt, I work for the marquis,” said Cornelius. “I, uh, I’ve come to sort out if your people are comfortable here, and if you need anything.”

“Why, I have heard of you; my son has spoken of you,” she said.

Cornelius’s heart fell. She was married.

“Your son?” he asked. “Oh! You are Jasper’s mother?”

Cornelius had been acting tutor to his employer’s natural son, the half gypsy boy, Jasper.

“Yes, I’m Shuri,” she said. “He is impressed by your scholarship, and by the fact that you are prepared to admit if you do not know something, and will look it up.”

“No point dissembling about that,” said Cornelius. She wasn’t married! “I, uh, I’m supposed to liaise with you to make sure all is to your satisfaction whilst the family is on his lordship’s lands.”

“It’s a delightful field, and having a pump and horse trough makes it even better,” said Shuri. “Jasper passed on permission for us to take game; was that correct?”

“Yes, quite correct,” said Cornelius. “And of course, wood for fires.”

 

The Gypsy tribe had come to join in the celebrations of the marquis’s wedding to Miss Copley, or rather the marchioness, as the happy couple had run away to get married and planned a celebration for the village after. Cornelius Reckitt took charge, with Jasper’s aid, of making sure they had a field where they could camp, with water available, and for the want of a bailiff to give permission in the name of the marquis to take such birds and rabbits as they needed.

The death of Shuri’s father, the unspeakable Fowk, had left most of the locals better disposed towards the gypsies, since Fowk was a violent, foul-mouthed trouble-maker. The locals were also inclined to make much of the new marchioness for having run Fowk over, when he confronted her, meaning violence, on her way home from shopping for Evelyn, Lord Finchbury’s natural daughter, who was short of clothes. Imogen was just pleased not to be tarred with the same brush as Evelyn’s father, who would have happily ridden or driven down any peasant in his way.

The gypsies themselves took it philosophically, and considered it a family feud, settled to the satisfaction of all.

Except Fowk, and nobody cared that he might be dissatisfied.

 

“Uh... should I commiserate with you for the death of your father?” asked Cornelius.

“Not in the least,” said Shuri. “Her ladyship did me a favour, aye, and the rest of us, for we’re not so unwelcome now. Of course, your father doesn’t approve of us, nor your brother.”

Cornelius lifted a shoulder.

“Papa can be brought round; my brother Eusebius, I fear, is so steeped in piety that he has a mind like a midden. I blame it on being a choir master; my mother always used to say that original sin enters the church through the choir.”

Shuri laughed, and her laugh was like a peal of bells.

“Well, while we are settled here a-while, reckon we’ll be singing with the vicar’s choir, and no more original sin in us than in any giorgios. And we’ve instruments to play.”

“That will be very pleasant,” said Cornelius.  “And of course, if you wish to play at the fete, I am sure people will pay to dance. I haven’t organised music, I was hoping an impromptu band would form, I’m afraid, something I forgot.”

“Oh, then let us provide music as our contribution,” said Shuri. “And if any throw coins as well, even better.”

 

 

oOoOo

 

Cornelius called in at the vicarage, with the intention of telling his father that there would be an increased congregation, and discovered his brother, Eusebius there, his mouth primmed up in disapproval, something which had communicated itself to their father. Cornelius prayed hastily for wisdom and forbearance; Eusebius tended to bring out the worst moralising tendencies in the rector, who was normally a rigid moralist, but tolerant of mankind’s failings.

“Ah, Cornelius,” said the Reverend Reckitt, “Eusebius says he believes he saw you in a gypsy encampment, in conversation with a gypsy woman.”

“Well, naturally he would have seen me about my business,” said Cornelius. “Really, Eusebius! You are looking as sour about me carrying out the earl’s orders as if I had the bare-faced effrontery to tell Papa that I saw you training choir boys and were standing very close to one of them, as if I was accusing you of misbehaving with them.”

Eusebius spluttered.

“How dare you suggest such a thing!” he yelped.

“Well, well, have I come too close to home in using that example of showing what your comments about me doing my job is like if I commented on you doing yours?” said Cornelius. “Papa, the gypsies will be attending church, and some of them have instruments they would like to play, and there are some fine voices to add to the choir whilst they are here. If you can tell me ahead of time what hymns you are choosing, I can pass them on to Shuri.”

“What has the marquis asked you to do?” said the Rector, frowning at his oldest son’s spluttering.

“To sort out a field for the gypsies, and make sure they understand that they may take game so long as they are not greedy, and see to their comforts. Now that Fowk is dead, they hope to gain better relations with the locals.”

“And this woman?”

“Shuri is chieftess now Fowk is dead,” said Cornelius, hoping he was correct in this; the other gypsies seemed to accept her orders, in any case. “It’s appropriate, as she’s Jasper’s mother, and therefore counted as family by the marquis and marchioness.”

“That the marchioness accepts the woman and is on good terms with her makes me easier in my mind,” admitted the rector. “I have little doubt but that the poor girl may have been forced to sell her body by Fowk, who was an evil man. It is good that the marchioness is kind enough to extend her sympathy.”

“They are good friends, because both are interested in healing,” said Cornelius.

“You claim that the marquis makes you associate with trash like gypsies?” burst out Eusebius. “Why, even talking to gypsies is illegal, he has no right to make you break the law!”

“And our Lord associated with publicans and sinners, and cured women who were by law Untouchable, and gave us His word that all are equal before Almighty God,” said Cornelius. “You’re the one who took orders, why should I have to instruct you in theology, Seeby? You should look to your soul if you condemn people out of hand for their birth.”

“Don’t call me ‘Seeby!’ such a name may be acceptable in the nursery, but Eusebius is the dignified name of an adult, a man of letters!”

“Then act like an adult and have some dignity, you unchristian stuffed shirt,” said Cornelius.

“Cornelius, that was uncalled for,” said his father. “And Eusebius, Cornelius said it rudely, but his sentiments are correct; our Lord did not condemn anyone unheard, and then strove to return a straying member to the flock. Have you forgotten the tale of the good Samaritan? I have heard that this woman, Shuri, sells salves and draughts to the village folk for a quite nominal sum, which have been effective.”

“Doubtless for the suggestible,” said Eusebius. “There are now men of science who eschew folklore and so-called magic.”

“And some of them do nothing but the magical ritual of bleeding, regardless of the sickness,” said Cornelius. “I would rather trust my ailments to the ministrations of the marchioness, Mrs. Hudson, the housekeeper, or even Spalding, my lord’s man, and certainly those of Shuri, before going to the doctor. My lady grew up learning how to use herbs and simples at the hands of her mother, who learned from her mother, in time immemorial, and remember that the family is that of the Brandons of Darsham. Who claim gypsy relatives, and whose gypsy relatives are actually related to Shuri and her tribe. Fowk’s mother was the child of Adam Brandon’s grandsire, so she’s better born than we are.”

“Hardly,” said Eusebius, with a superior smile. “We were born in wedlock.”

“And if more men of the cloth recognised gypsies and were prepared to marry them in church, more would be born in wedlock,” snapped Cornelius. “Didn’t the marchioness once tell you to remove the plank from your own eye before complaining of the mote in that of others, when you were quivering with misplaced zeal to call her down as a scarlet woman? Oh, that would have been something, had you done so, having to live down, my brother, in a slander case against a Brandon of Darsham, and them enjoying law-suits. You wouldn’t keep your lucrative job with that against you, no more choir boys for you to enjoy whatever you do with them!”

 “I do not misbehave with the choir boys!” yelped Eusebius.

“Cornelius, don’t you think that went a little far?” said the rector.

“No, Papa, I don’t think I went far enough,” said Cornelius. “Eusebius is as full of piety as a reformed drunk after one day of sobriety, preaching to a bunch of convinced Wesleyans, and he gives the same impression to me that he would sneak off to accept a drink as soon as one was offered. Now if Eusebius is fighting personal demons, and managing to win, I honour and respect him for that, but just because he may have a daily fight against sin, does not give him the right to assume secret vices in everyone else.”

His father nodded.

“I understand,” he said. “Eusebius, if indeed you are fighting personal demons, know that I, too, honour you for keeping them at bay; but it is in the success of the fight in which righteousness lies, for only One Man has ever been without sin, and He is tolerant of our own failings.”

“I... but the marquis still asks too much of Cornelius.”

“Balderdash,” said Cornelius. “I enjoy working for him, and have had no trouble with the gypsies. If they have someone they can trust to whom to take their troubles, they are less likely to be lawless and unruly, for I can assure them of the marquis’s support if they are wrongly accused, and of his support in law if they have transgressed, as any man is entitled to council in court.”

“Very laudable,” said the rector. “And if they behave themselves in church, I will give character witnesses, and I would militate against anyone making false accusations based on assumption. Do I make myself clear, Eusebius?”

“I... yes, father,” said Eusebius.

“I have found your excess of self-righteousness somewhat disquieting,” went on Mr. Reckitt. “It is a form of pride, you know, and pride is one of the deadly sins. I find you also tend to lack Christian charity, and look upon innocent occurrences in such a way as to extract inner meaning of sinfulness from them.”

“It was not I who was looking on a gypsy wench, chieftess or no, with lust,” said Eusebius.

“You know what lust is, Eusebius? You surprise me,” said Cornelius. “I can’t say that the emotion had got that far, though. Admiration, certainly; she’s a beautiful woman. Desire? I am not sure. Possibly. One may look without touching, as you know. She is not married, or even promised to anyone, so finding her attractive is no crime, nor even immoral.  I was considering courting her,” he added.

The silence was long and very loud.

“You should get to know her much better,” said Mr. Reckitt. “Because she will have to be prepared to give up the travelling life to wed you, for you are not suited to becoming a gypsy, and I will militate strongly against you so doing.”

“I’d hate it,” said Cornelius. “But an added incentive for her would be in seeing more of Jasper.”

“You can’t be serious!” burst out Eusebius. “Court the leavings of the marquis as though she were an honest woman?”

Cornelius did not consider himself a sportsman, but he boxed with both Evelyn and Jasper, to be a sparring partner, and he hit Eusebius hard on the jaw. His older brother went down.

“Cornelius!” said the rector.

“I will not apologise, father,” said Cornelius. “He insulted the woman I believe I should like to make my wife, if she will have me. She and Evelyn were both very young, you know what sort of upbringing he had with that awful father, and she had Fowk... they made a mistake perhaps in comforting each other, but I cannot see it as such, for Jasper is a delightful boy, and seeing to his needs has been the making of Evelyn, as much as his marriage to Imogen. And yes, I am on first name terms with them.”

“I am not opposed to the match, though I might have hoped for you to choose a less controversial one,” sighed the rector. “Help me put your brother to bed; he is out cold. I do not like you boys fighting, but I accept that a man cannot take insults to a woman he considers his own. And sniping at you is a way of fighting too. I was sometimes unjust to you, as a boy, because Eusebius drove you to fisticuffs. I fear I have failed in the upbringing of my oldest son, and I feel guilty when people heap praise on him and on me for the position he has achieved.”

“He needs solid country love, father, and if you can persuade him to take a repairing lease in the country, staying with you, he can regain his roots, perhaps.”

“Thank you, Cornelius; and for your generosity in putting up with having him around. I will write to the dean and tell him that Eusebius is suffering from nervous prostration.” A thin smile touched his lips. “I shall not mention that the prostration was caused by impact to the nerves of the chin, rather than mental strain.”

 

the substarosta's case book 4

 so, someone mentioned Jan settling in and I managed to pull off a story  to do so; French smut having been seen as a problem in England, I assume it was not appreciated elsewhere either. Interestingly, in France, pictorial pornography was shocking but written smut was considered fine. though there were people deemed to have gone too far, viz the Marquis de Sade. Anyway, on with the story which proves there's one born every minute, and fraud is nothing new. 

 

 

Chapter 4 The Good, the Bad, and the Smutty

 

“This is Jan Syruć; don’t be put off by the name, he’s a half-Syruć as you might say,” said Klemens Młocki, introducing the ginger-haired, clean-shaven man. “He’s our new assistant.”

“I thought it would be preferable to working for my brother, even if I have to take a dip in pay as substarosta’s assistant,” said Jan. “Imagine my joy to find I’m paid more to expect more appreciation.”

“Welcome to the team,” said Dawid Starski. “I’ve just been confirmed as second sub-starosta, so you’re filling my shoes. My page is my wife, which a Raven banner way of doing things, even as Lew Krasiński is actually Mariola Bystrzanowska, the one real Raven amongst us, and the rest Ravens-in-law by acquisition, marriage, casuistry and jiggery-pokery.”

“I’ve heard of the White Ravens,” said Jan.

“What’s the briefing, boss?” asked Floriana Starska, otherwise known as the page, Florek.

“I had word that there’s a heap of pornographic pictures in from France being sold on the black market,” said Klemens. “And whatever you think of pornography, and that it is in no ways more explicit than the Rubenesque ceilings in many a magnate’s palace, it’s the association with crime which makes it a problem; men like looking at intimate pictures, and it funds criminals to sell the pictures.”

“Maybe it should be legal,” said Dawid.

“But where do you draw a line?” asked Klemens. “There are some subjects which are frankly disgusting, like with children or animals, but with a picture of a young prostitute, when do you judge her to be a child? And yes, I’m more aware of that because of Antonin Syruć, who was loathsome. Not to mention the old man and his proclivities in assaulting the horse of the statue of Jan Sobieski, or the hippocampus in the fountain.”

“My family are moderately loathsome,” said Jan, apologetically.

“Not your fault,” said Klemens.

“What are we looking for?” asked Mariola.

“Furtive men in bars, down alleyways, looking for money to change hands in exchange for small packets, about the size of plates from a magazine,” said Klemens. “Try outside the brothels; most brothel owners won’t let them operate inside and bring trouble on them.”

“You can patrol with me, Jan; call me Lew when we’re out,” said Mariola. “It’s the worst kept secret in Poland but some people still don’t know I’m Mariola. I believe the unlawful elements refer to me as ‘Bystrzanowski’s poison dwarf,’ because they’re afraid of my swords.”

“I heard what you did to my father; anyone with any sense is afraid of your swords, my lady,” said Jan.

“I hope you don’t have a problem with me,” said Mariola.

“The opposite. He wasn’t much of a father,” said Jan.

 

Evening in the city was a time when the shadows came alive with those who were out on illicit business as well as those with legitimate concerns. A pair of prostitutes started to approach two figures in kontusze, and one grabbed the arm of the other and steered her away. She met with some resistance but Mariola grinned to hear the hissed words, ‘Starosta’s office... mad Raven,’ which broke through the resistance and the two girls moved rapidly away, casting dirty looks at the pair.

“Wise call, Nutka,” said Mariola, recognising the one who had initiated the avoiding manoeuvre.

“Have a quiet night, my lord-lady,” said Nutka.

“Nutka! If you know anything about Parisian pornography, I’ll pass the word to blink if you’re not too aggressive,” said Mariola. “And  pay for information.”

Nutka came cautiously back.

“I had word that some is for sale but that it was all a swindle,” she said.

“A swindle? In what respect?” asked Mariola.

“Well, I might have heard of someone who bought a packet of pictures to bring ideas into a brothel, but he might have discovered that all but the top ones were nothing but plain paper underneath,” said Nutka. Mariola handed her a coin, and laughed.

“And the recipient doesn’t dare come in to report the fraud,” she chuckled.

“I suppose that is funny from your point of view,” said Nutka.

“I don’t make the laws, I only enforce them,” said Mariola.

Nutka sniffed, and scuttled off with her largesse, before Mariola could change her mind.

“Nutka has professional ethics,” said Mariola, to Jan. “She hasn’t an honest bone in her body in as far as a quick score of cash is concerned, but she never rolls her clients, and would probably even pick up and return the wallet of a client if it fell from his clothing during a transaction. But she gives value for money, and by all accounts is enthusiastic at her work. She would probably hand in a wallet with a lot of money, but would likely extract a finder’s fee; and as that’s more honest than many, it’s what you’ll get.  She posed as a nun asking for Maundy money – not that it was her idea – but she thought she was robbing the rich, not realising it took from the poor. She isn’t clever, but she is shrewd. I actually quite like her, in small doses. And she’ll turn in nasty criminals for free, though we always tip her.”

“There’s more of a relationship between the law and criminals than you’d realise, isn’t there?” said Jan.

“Informants are useful,” said Mariola. “Now, I’m going to try Bandy Benek’s brothel, because he has a known association with Nutka and has the imagination to consider using dirty pictures to help his clients to get in the mood.”

“I’ll be guided by you,” said Jan. “I’m getting an education.”

 

The brothel was a quiet, detached house in a back street, of a similar era to the one occupied by Mariola and Kazimierz, from the time when Większy-Bydlin was a small suburb outside Bydlin-Stary, though by no means as ornate or as large. Mariola oozed through the door like a shadow, with Jan in her wake.

“Hello, Benek,” said Mariola.

“Mother of God! The law! I ain’t done nothin’!” declared the bandy-legged little man.

“I understand someone sold you a fraudulent packet of Parisian beauties,” said Mariola.

“Dirty little cheat, yeah. Uh... It ain’t no crime to buy a packet of mostly plain paper,” said Benek.

“What, one on top as a tease?” said Mariola.

“You got it,” grumbled Benek. “And not even that smutty.”

“So, who sold it to you?” asked Mariola.

“Sleazy little creep with a Warszawa accent,” said Benek. “About your height, my lord, darkish hair, beard and moustache western fashion, sniffs a lot.”

“Marks at the top of his nose?” asked Mariola.

“Yeah, you know him?”

“Wild guess from the sniffing; syphilis,” said Mariola.

Benek spat.

“Dirty bastard; glad I never let him go with any o’ my girls,” he said.

“Obliged for the information, neighbour,” said Mariola, leading Jan out.

“You didn’t pay him?”

“He was willing to spill the beans in indignation but had not come to tell us voluntarily,” said Mariola. “And he doesn’t need it like Nutka does.”

 

It was Dawid Starski who brought in the man they sought, after Mariola had taken back a description.

Investigating a small riot with his page, he discovered a dozen or so men in an ugly mood, and one of them had produced a rope, and another a ladder.

“Come on, break it up,” said Dawid. “Oh, ho! We have a seller of smut, a purveyor of pornography, a vendor of venality. And tough luck to you all, the law wants him.”

“I never been so grateful to see a flatfoot in all me life,” said the little man.

“You’re going down, you know,” said Dawid. “Once for selling smut and once for defrauding your customers.”

“Will we get our money back?” asked one of the lynching party.

“You jest!” said Floriana. “You broke the law; be happy not to be pulled in for it. Look on it as an expensive lesson about accepting a deal that looks too good; it probably is.”

The crowd dispersed.

“So, what happened, you ran out of imported pictures?” asked Dawid.

“Naw,” said their captive. “I bought one pack in Warszawa, and I figured that if I made up twenty packets with one of the twenty pictures on top, I could make a good thing of it. I suppose I can’t bribe my way out of jail?”

“No, but you can talk your way into more time for trying bribery,” said Dawid.

“I should have stayed honest,” said the man, regretfully.