Prologue

Posted on 2011-06-04

Oakham Mount, in the comely county of Hertfordshire, had been a well-known landmark for hundreds of years. Variously attributed as a geological anomaly, or a remnant of a medieval fortification, or a Druidic burial mound, or the Devil's throne of evil, or God's own gift to the good people of the shire. Whatever its reason for being, it was truly an attractive place. Though too rugged and steep for cultivating or grazing, its outcrops and green slopes were suitably accessible for those robust enough and eager enough to expend the effort to ascend to the top. There they would be rewarded with an excellent vista of surrounding country as it lay open to the southeast. In addition to this appealing view, the summit afforded a level clearing surrounded on the other three sides by fine old oaks and other incidental forest growth. Thus was Oakham Mount taken for granted by the local populace; utilized for occasional picnics; its views proudly shared with visiting friends and relatives.

Until the strange happenings of the autumn of 1812.

Oakham Mount was an ecological disaster in the making. Farmer Marean's visit to Sir William Lucas first garnered the attention of the neighborhood powers.

"Sir, as you know, Oakham Mount is next to my land. In truth, a great deal of the thing is no longer next, but upon. A landslide has overtaken my north pasture, torn apart my fences, and settled in a great bleeping heap of mud, rock, and muck."

"This is not capital. Not capital at all, Farmer Marean."

"Indeed not, sir. Upon investigation I've seen that the whole Mount is over-trodden, the covering vegetation severely diminished or trampled. Sir, it is in danger of becoming a pile of muck denuded of cover. The thing will wash away with the next hard rain if measures are not taken. And wash away into my fields!"

"Well. Well. This is lower case indeed! ... Ahem ... well, I shall see to it that the matter is addressed. Yes ... well ... thank you, Farmer Marean."

Knowing that the Marean tenancy was part of the Netherfield estate, Sir William attempted to seek redress from that quarter. Unfortunately the estate's steward was somewhat powerless to take immediate action, the owner being out of the country and the gentleman who was leasing in his absence either incapable or unauthorized to act upon the situation. Sir William was fairly well acquainted with Mr. Bingley (the renter) and had endeavored to consult with him. Several times. But without success. Mr, Bingley had been unavailable at each application due to either his being away visiting Longbourn or, curiously, attending to seeing that his boots were thoroughly cleaned of mud and polished.

At this point a further deepening of the problem came to light, once again via Farmer Marean. The woods on Oakham Mount supplied the single known location where the superiorly-predatory vermin-devouring Hertfordshire Horny Owl roosted, nested, and, indeed, lived. Whatever combination of spirits, beings, or nature's vindictiveness which was ruining and eroding Oakham Mount had disturbed these rare birds of wisdom. They were restless. They were uneasy. They may have been called resentful. Implacably resentful. Their good opinion was in danger of being lost forever. At any rate, they were definitely off their feed and Farmer Marean's grain stores were overrun with rodents. He was a bit resentful himself.

Sir William realized that the time for dithering had come to an end. He knew what he must do. He knew how to do it. And he did it. An Express was sent to London [i.e. Town], to the Express Central Office there, requesting that an Express be expressed to each of three gentlemen in Hertfordshire expressing the need for their cooperation and attention.

Chapter 1

Posted on 2011-06-11

Mr. Bennet, Mr. Philips, Mr. Goulding, and Sir William gathered in the library at Longbourn, residence of Mr. Bennet. He was not entirely certain why the other three were there in his bookroom sanctuary, nor sure why he was there with them himself. Being an odd mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, he indulged his bemusement by serving only his second-best Port.

Mr. Bennet acknowledged his assembled guests.

"Philips ... Goulding ... Sir William."

"Bennet." "Bennet." "Bennet." They responded.

"Is it not strange that we do not have first names?" he observed. "Well, Sir William does ... but Philips, you are my brother-in-law and I do not have the pleasure of knowing yours or if you even possess one. Nor you, Goulding, although we have been acquainted for a full thirty years or more."

"Very true, Bennet," replied Mr. [your guess] Goulding. "I can only wonder if it is something bestowed along with knighthood."

"You assertion is interesting, Goulding, but I cannot concur in its veracity for my other brother-in-law, Gardiner, does not enjoy the benefits of knighthooddom and still I know he has at least a partial first name, He is Edw. Gardiner. Though whether he is an Edward or Edwin or some other permutation I know not. But then, my wife has no first name either as far as I know. I nearly asked her once but did not for fear of making her nervous."

Sir William, vaguely aware that the meeting was in default of its intended purpose, relinquished his internal musing on changing his name by deed poll from William to St. James and brought things to order.

"Yes. Yes. Well. Ahem. It is about this Oakham Mount thing. Being trampled. Mucked up, you know. Question is, what are we to do about it? And the owls, too, you know ... what about them?"

Actually the other three gentlemen did not know. Sir William further elucidated things in quite a capital way. No, this is not true. However, after a period of time in conversation, his interlocutors were able to extract and comprehend the relevant facts as they existed to date.

Sir William added, "Farmer Marean spoke to me again this morning. He suggested the owl problem might be due in part to tree damage. I mean to say, he says that huge oak next to the clearing has obvious damage to its trunk. Strange looking bark. Compacted. As if something has been pressing against it."

A desultory discussion followed. Speculations were made. Ideas were tossed and turned. Solutions were advanced. Whimsy was indulged.

"Where did all that dirt and mud disappear to anyway?" asked Sir William. "That pile in Marean's pasture cannot account for all the gouges in that hillside."

"Given that collection of mud I noticed beside your bootscraper as I came in, Bennet, you could well be the perpetrator yourself." remarked Mr. [Paul, I've decided] Goulding. "Looks like Oakham soil, too."

"Now, now, Goulding. We have dirt enough of our own at Longbourn to account for it, I am sure. Besides, those two young fellows who spend every day at my house can track most of Netherfield's mud here too."

After a time, when the second-best Port had been consumed to its last, when it became evident that Port of no other calibre was to be offered, nor brandy, nor whiskey, and because the guests were too gentlemanlike to propose tea on their own, a determination was reached and a course to follow agreed upon.

Mr. [Philip, yes I think that would be a nicely redundant fit] Philips, who had not spoken much so far, had he? summed up their plans in a lawyerly way.

"Yes. Well. This then is the Hertfordshire Trust to Mend and Preserve the Damn Thing … I mean … that is, Oakham Mount ... by erecting an impenetrable fence surrounding its entirety, with a single gate secured by a sturdy lock. Materials to be provided by Goulding. Continuing inspection and monitoring of Oakham Mount will be my province. Gate key to be held by Sir William. Access available between two and four p.m. daily on application to said gentleman and at his discretion."

The gentlemen thus concluded their business, not without strong feelings of accomplishment and self-congratulation. And, none less so than Mr. [gotta be Thomas or Henry, don'cha think?] Bennet who was pleased to have a resolution involving so little expense and inconvenience to himself and his family under the present circumstances. To aid in this resolve he proposed that Famer Marean, whose welfare and interests were so dependent on a happy outcome, should bear the responsibility and privilege of constructing the desired barrier in team with the Marean farmhands.

"Well done, Bennet, " observed Mr. Goulding with a smile as the visitors were escorted to the door. "You have managed once again to do all that you can do by doing nothing at all."

"Not entirely, Goulding," replied the gentleman. "I have at last cleared my cellar of all that second-best Port."

"Still, sir, while the rest of us are out attending to our designated tasks, you shall be enjoying the peace and quiet of your library."

"Ah, but, sir, indeed I must do so. I feel my sanctuary is under siege at present. I best keep my claim, for every time I leave it, my second daughter is dragging that Darcy fellow in there to show him some book or other."

The callers departed and as Longbourn's master turned to reclaim the library his eyes fell upon the bootscraper and piled around it the substantial evidence of its use. Two things came to mind. One, why had the servants not cleared away the residue. And, two, whether or not the insinuation made earlier contained a core of truth. If so, it would be enlightening to see if the quarantine of Oakham Mount led to a lessening of dirt tracked into his house.

Chapter 2

Posted on 2011-06-17

The plan proved to be a good one, at least in its deployment. Within two days the encompassing structure was in place. The gate was secure and an attached sign directed observers to the place and times for which access to the Mount might be obtained. For the first two days subsequent, all was quiet. No applications for entry were received. Although the mornings' light revealed a scattering of footprints before the fence and gate, none had passed farther. Whether those who had gathered there turned away in disappointment, it cannot be said. Oakham Mount was being left to rejuvenate and heal, as the Trust had designed. Though soft and tentative, occasional owl hoots could be heard.

How little it could have been predicted then that on the next night, that third one after being fenced, Oakham Mount would see events that would jeopardize its fragile ecosystem and test the equanimity and well-being of the persons involved.

The Trust could not truly be faulted. For they were not cognizant of the conjunction of events, the series of happenstance tossed out by Fate, all the factors that had conspired to exacerbate the situations that pre-existed the Trust's formation. The effect of the following pertinent and contributing facts most likely would have been impossible to anticipate and overcome even had the Trustees been aware of each and every one of them. A brief review of some of those factors, several of which had -- unbeknownst to the founders of the Trust -- caused the Oakham Mount crisis in the first place.

1) There were two engaged couples in the neighborhood. Each pair being very fond of one another. Each pair not averse to the privacy afforded by being together ... alone ... no others around.

2) The militia had returned to winter quarters in Meryton.

3) Due to an outbreak of contagious fever at both Oxford and Cambridge, those august institutions had temporarily closed their doors, suspended operations, and sent all unafflicted scholars to their homes.

4) There were two non-affianced Bennet sisters whose Mother had her own ideas about the necessity for close chaperonage and whose Father's constant vigilance was needed in his library to prevent Lizzy and Darcy from misfiling his books.

5) Patrons of the Longbourn Village Pub were uncommonly generous with their gratuities to the serving staff.

6) Oakham Mount was unique in that, of all Mounts in England, it was an easy distance from anywhere in the country and accessible by miles of superlatively good roads.

7) The weather had been especially good. On that one particular night, almost too good to be true. See below.

It was mid-to-late October; the daylight hours were becoming compressed and the evening dark lengthened. This particular evening was one of unseasonable mildness, one that would be called Indian Summer in that nation where the season is named Fall. The gift of a clear cloudless sky and illumination by a bright full moon completed the irresistible seductions belonging to the ambience of that night. It was not one to be willingly passed indoors.

Fitzwilliam Darcy and his betrothed Elizabeth Bennet approached the guardian fence. They were in love. They liked being alone together. They had several happy memories of visiting Oakham Mount. They wanted to be there again.

The fence was a sturdy, fairly high, wooden structure. Densely intertwined with brambles to discourage climbing over or through, it really was a daunting barrier. These two, however, were not of the type that takes kindly or meekly to daunting. One could say that each possessed the kind of courage which always rises with every attempt to intimidate.

"Oh, dear! Fitzwilliam, how shall we conquer this? I cannot possibly climb over that. My gown should be torn to shreds."

Darcy paused for a brief distracted moment to envision Elizabeth in a shredded gown, then turned his attention to the problem at hand. He directed his gaze at the intervening structure and spoke to it.

"I am not afraid of you," he said.

With that, he lifted Elizabeth into the air, popped her over the fence, and set her down on the other side. Retreating a few yards, he ran at the barrier, executed a graceful and perfect Fosbury Flop which cleared its height with many inches to spare. (He was simply so ... athletic and fit ... just so ... in shape ... and ... athletic and fit ... and well built ... and ...)

Delighted with their successful invasion, secure in the belief that Oakham Mount was theirs alone for the evening, they continued on to the summit. After a minute or two admiring the view, the moon, and the stars, noting the few patches of grass remaining and the incipient gullies in the trodden earth, they established themselves comfortably beside the huge oak and proceeded to inadvertently compact some of that bark.

The couple being agreeably occupied, the quiet and stillnes of the night broken only by murmurs and sighs and breathing (when possible), there was a considerable degree of consternation when they detected the sound of voices and footfalls approaching from halfway down the Mount. They made their whispered plans.

"Lizzy, quick. We must hide ourselves! This tree will do. You climb first and I shall follow you," Darcy spoke in an urgent whisper.

"Fitzwilliam! I cannot possibly go first! You must. I shall follow you."

"Nonsense. For safety, I shall follow. If you slip I can be there to catch you."

"Fitzwilliam, I insist. You do not understand. There are perfectly good reasons for you to precede me."

"This makes no sense. What reasons?"

"I cannot tell you."

"You cannot tell me? Elizabeth, this is not the time for one of our classic bantering verbal exchanges. Whoever is coming up the path will arrive in a few minutes."

"Fitzwilliam, can you not simply trust me on this?"

"Not without a good reason. I could just toss you up into the branches from here, you know."

"Oh! Very well, you shall have your explanation! But do not look at me. Look away."

Darcy firmly affixed his eyes on a section of very unhealthy looking bark. "Go ahead, then. But we have limited time."

"Umm. You see, Fitzwilliam, it concerns ladies' attire. This is Regency England after all. Even though there is plenty involved ... gowns, petticoats, ... um ... stays, chemises ... erm ... "

Lizzy paused to swallow audibly and to take a deep breath.

Darcy kept his silence but obviously found the subject of deep interest. His mind was awhirl. Where could this be going? Could it be that climbing trees required that ladies remove their clothing? The evening had been perfect so far. Was it about to get even better? His eyes bored into the pattern of bark; his nod indicated she had his full attention and was willing her to continue.

"Well, really, Fitzwilliam, that is it. The complete list. As for anything else ... well ... we are simply out there, you see ... commando! That is why I cannot possibly climb this tree ahead of you."

A sound of somewhat indescribable strangeness escaped from Darcy's throat.

"Oh," said he when he regained the power of speech. "Er, yes, now that I consider it, it would be best for me to climb first. That will allow me to reach down and aid you as you climb. ... Am I allowed to look at you again now?"

"Oh, stop smirking and start climbing. Insufferable man!"

Chapter 3

Posted on 2011-06-25

Darcy, being so athletic and fit and all, had no problem rapidly and efficiently climbing the tree to a level affording adequate concealment and a limb of the right breadth and sturdiness for their purpose. Lizzy, whose own limbs were sturdy, and similarly fit, not to mention shapely (all that walking), was not far behind. He situated himself, reached down to grasp Lizzy's hand, and pulled her up the last step to settle next to him on the branch. There they composed themselves side by side while catching their breaths. Then...

"You know, Elizabeth, the strongest part of a branch is at the juncture where it attaches to the trunk. When at all possible, if stress or pressure is to be applied to the said branch, that is the point at which it should be concentrated. If you were to move closer to the trunk here, say, perhaps, upon my lap, the safety and stability of our situation should be greatly enhanced. This is pure scientific truth."

"A Cambridge education is a wonderful thing, sir," she remarked as she sidled nearer and maneuvered herself onto his thighs.

One arm firmly holding the tree trunk, the other even more firmly around Lizzy's waist anchoring her in his lap, Darcy, in the interest of further ensuring their security, added ...

"It should also increase our equilibrium, I believe, if you were to lean against me as closely as possible and wrap your arms around my neck. I recall a treatise by Sir Isaac Newton supporting this very notion."

"Fascinating," she said as she complied with his recommendation. "My father may have a copy of this treatise in his library. Perhaps we should seek it there sometime."

Given their present configuration, their faces were in extreme proximity and speech became an impossibility for a time. Which allows an opportunity for a brief recap. Lizzy and Darcy sittin' in a tree, kay eye ess ess eye en gee. His one arm around the trunk of the tree, his other around Lizzy's waist, she in his lap, her arms grasping his neck. The moonlit clearing atop Oakham Mount open like a theatre before them. It only remained to be seen what might unfold, whether it be tragedy, comedy, or farce.

Just as the couple were turning their gazes to the clearing in anticipation of the appearance of the previously detected intruders, their attention was caught by the sounds of a creaking branch near to them and low whispering voices. With a slight inclination of their heads they were able to peer through the branches toward a neighboring tree to be met by two pairs of eyes and two astounded countenances. All were all astonishment.

"Bingley!"

"Darcy?"

"Jane!"

"Lizzy?"

There on a branch sat Jane Bennet, her one arm around the trunk of the tree, her other around Charles Bingley's waist, he in her lap, his arms grasping her neck.

"Bingley, how long have you two been there?"

"Jane!!! Did you climb ahead of ... ah, nevermind ..."

All conversation abruptly ceased when the long-awaited dramatis personae entered stage center for the next act. They were revealed as a party of four. Two youths, all adam's apples and wrists, carrying a bottle in each hand, accompanied by an equal number of tittering young ladies.

Mr. John [Verified, Parish Register] Lucas, temporarily home from Oxford, and Mr. Hugh [Ditto] Goulding, on hiatus from Cambridge, were eager to continue the tutelage of their companions, the nieces of Mrs. Long; said education having been initiated and pursued at this very location in prior weeks.

Young Lucas and young Goulding had returned to the community overwhelmed and excited by their recent acquisition of knowledge and the improvement of their minds that only exposure at a great university can bestow. They were not loath to share their new insights and skills with other young members of the neighborhood, particularly of the fair sex, especially given that doing so had proven to foster a decided relaxation of any social awkwardness that might have otherwise prevailed.

Yes, they had been bewitched by, had been drawn in by, the arts and allurements of ... college drinking games! Never had Mrs. Long's nieces seemed more amiable than after an hour or two in such pursuits. Indeed, their own amiability appeared to improve at the same rate. It was heady stuff.

Amid solicitous comments such as,
"Allow me to assist you over this incipient gully"
and
"Take heed with that bottle of wine"
and
"May I help in detaching that piece of bramble from your gown",
the foursome selected the largest and least muddy of the remaining patches of grass and settled down cosily for a session of "Here's to Cardinal Puff" to be followed by "Wine Pong".

The game proceeded merrily for a time, uninterrupted. There was a discernable rise in the amiability level amongst the gamesters. The tree-sitters were not as comfortable. Darcy was about to whisper to Lizzy to stop shifting about in his lap because it was not helping his equilibrium much at all, when young Goulding paused just after reciting "Here's to Cardinal Puff for the third time ..." to look over his shoulder and say,

"Listen ... did you hear something over there in the trees?"

As if of one mind, Darcy and Bingley simultaneously sought to provide a diversion.

"Hhooo"

"Hhooo"

Their eyes immediately locked in glares of mutual derision and scorn at the other's feeble and incorrect rendering of the Horny Owl's call. Darcy looked away frowning only to lock eyes with an actual Horny Owl perched in another tree. Was the damned creature laughing at him? He, whose life study had been to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule? They exchanged looks of deep implacable resentment.

It might have been the owl call diversion that succeeded in directing notice away from the trees, or, more likely it was the unmistakable scrunching sound of many footsteps nearing the summit. The players quickly assembled their gaming equipment and scrambled to place themselves out of sight behind a large boulder adjoining the vista side of the clearing, gusts of amiability wafting behind them.

Chapter 4

Posted on 2011-07-02

Militia officers Pratt, Fall, and Saunderson ["Officers below the rank of General shall not bear first names" op. cit. War Office Communication No. 000811v2077/kinggeorgeisnotreallymad/112047n071369/prinnysucksdotorg/immediate of 9 February 18__ , Section IV paragraph ii] entered the clearing, a kaleidoscope of red (coats), gold (braid), and polish (buttons).

There they vied and contested for the tender attentions of their guest, a tall figure in an ill-fitting gown and a deeply brimmed bonnet, who was flirting coyly with them beneath an upheld fan.

It was difficult to distinguish the participants as they jostled and pushed and shoved. Chuckles and giggles and the many delicate slaps that ensued prevented a clear understanding of their discussion, other than the frequently repeated, "Oh, sir, ... I beg you ... do not ... "

That is, until a deep gasp followed by a particularly resounding slap precipitated a marked change in the tenor of the conversation.

"Bloody Hell!"

"Holy Crap!"

"Odds Bodkins!"

Chamberlayne! In drag! Dressed in woman's clothes ... again!

True, they had been fooled before by this man ... several times truth be told ... but the frustration and embarrassment in having been duped yet once again was beyond forbearance.

If anyone believed the previous jostling, pushing, and shoving had been anything to behold they were well deceived for these activities now began in earnest. The Diversity and Inclusion concept was an ill-developed one in the Regency era.

The hapless Chamberlayne was barely spared a right thrashing by the sound of ... and, here, somebody hazarding a successful guess would be saying ... footsteps approaching along the access path.

In a way that did credit to the training methods of the British Armed Forces, the group executed a hasty retreat to sequester themselves behind a handily placed pile of brush to the far side of the clearing. Equanimity was not instantly achieved.

"Must I sequester next to Chamberlayne?"

"Move over, Chamberlayne!"

"Do not dare touch me, Chamberlayne!"

"My fan!"

A boot-assisted Chamberlayne made a flying re-entrance into the clearing, retrieved the dropped accessory, and scampered back to the hiding place, tripping only once on his gown.

The couple next stepping into the clearing could not have contrasted more to the group preceding. They were soberly and conservatively garbed; their faces solemn; their miens careful and calm.

The young lady, plain but not ugly, her spectacles reflecting the glistening moonlight, clutched a book to her chest. Its full title obscured by her hand, only the letters F-O-R could be read.

Lizzy leaned over to look at Jane. Mary? In company, alone, with a young gentleman? Her eyes widened and rounded with the wonder of it, her eyebrows at their zenith.

Jane returned a look equal in its width and roundedness, eyebrows at rest. Jane Bennet, you see, unbeknownst to kith and kin, had been born without the muscles necessary for the elevation of the eyebrows. She, being of a supremely placid and serene and phlegmatic nature, thus never inclined or impelled to exercise an upward movement of her eyebrows, was herself unaware of her handicap.

If her friends and family had been cognizant of this unusual lack, they most likely would have raised their eyebrows in surprise.

Darcy, had he been in possession of this knowledge, might have forgiven himself much of the guilt in the mis-reading of Miss Bennet's feelings for Bingley in the past year. For were not the eyebrows great communicators? Certainly, the eloquence of Lizzy's own expressive brows had had an impact on him during the whole of their difficult acquaintance and courtship. She was perpetually arching one or the other or both at him, even now during the days of their engagment.

But, back to the clearing ...

Mary's friend was a tall, heavy-looking young man of null and twenty, his air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. Recently articled as an apprentice clerk in the offices of Attorney Philips in Meryton, Mr. Tobias [From a peek at his articles. ... NO, the documents comprising his apprenticeship. Get your mind out of the gutter, for heaven's sake] Walker had, almost as soon as being introduced, singled out Miss Mary as the potential companion of his future life. He felt a deep affinity and was eager to attach her regard.

Mary, unused to conversing with young gentlemen, struggled to formulate an opening sentence. There seemed to be an embargo on every subject. She searched her mind to determine if a lifetime of deep reflection, the reading of great books, and the making of extracts had left her with the power to express a coherent thought. Finally, she offered,

"A stitch in time saves nine."

In an effusion of relief at being noticed and addressed, Mr. Walker responded.

"Miss Mary, you must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire my Noble Patron Mr. Philips, your esteemed uncle. His attention to my wishes and consideration for my comfort appear very remarkable. Never before in my life have I witnessed such behaviour -- such affability and condescension!"

There was something about the man that appealed to Mary to the very foundation of her soul. He reminded her, somehow, of someone although, precisely whom, she could not decide. Surely she could and should dredge another non sequitur from her past in order to continue the exchange. She could. She did.

"We must stem the tide of malice and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of friendly consolation."

Her use of the word "bosoms" struck Mr. Walker dizzy, compelling him to say,

"The cubicle in which stands my humble desk is separated only by a doorway from the office of my Noble Patron. Such nearness, such condescension, is not to be believed. The glazing of the meagre window, through which, by the bounty and benevolence of my Noble Patron, daylight illuminates my humble workspace, is of a workmanship of the highest proficiency."

A quick breath allowed him to continue.

"Why, the coal scuttle in his noble office alone cost eight pounds! On more than two occasions I have been afforded the privilege of re-filling it myself! If you could, Miss Mary, but see the shelves fitted to the wall behind my humble desk, at the suggestion and direction of the gracious and Noble Mr. Philips, you should undoubtedly share my deep appreciation of the value and honour of such a connection. Your thoughts would be happy indeed."

Mary searched her mental database for recollections of happy thoughts to share. There were not many. Instead, she replied,

"The loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable. She cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."

Mr. Walker was above stunned and inspired by that syllable emanating from Mary's lips. Dear God, she had said "sex". His powers of speech were overthrown and in an uncontrolled and impetuous manner, he burst out with the only thing that came to mind ... a jumbled recitation of legal terms from his most recent studies.

"Habeas ... Corpus ... Flagrante ... Delicto ... TORT ... "

Jane Bennet knew not the meaning of those words. But, truly, they sounded so ... improper ... and ... shocking that, in her distraction and agitation at hearing such things spoken to her maidenly young sister, she nearly dropped Bingley. Though a close call, she managed to gather him in, apologized with a whispered "Oops ... sorry," and tightened her hold around his waist. Bingley blushed prettily.

The opportunity for further shame by way of Latin was cut short when ... ta dum ... footsteps were heard upon the path leading to the clearing atop Oakham Mount.

Mr. Walker and Mary Bennet lost no time in removing themselves to be seated behind a fallen log across the way.

Chapter 5

Posted on 2011-07-09

A sort of shimmering sparkle seemed to herald the arrival of the man who now made his ingress into the clearing with such grace. He possessed the best part of beauty -- his fine figure, countenance, voice, and manner established him at once in the possession of every virtue, every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman. There was truth in all his looks, such an expression of Goodness in his face, such an openness and gentleness in his manner.

He had all the appearance of Goodness -- All of it. The moonlight paled in comparison to the luminous glow of virtue and Goodness that radiated from his handsome visage. Time stood still, clutched its breast, and gasped. Cherubim beamed and Seraphim sang.

"Wickham!" Darcy snarled, sotto voce. [ How he hated him! ]

In one of those inexplicable marvels of Regency fan fiction travel Mr. Wickham had dropped in that evening from Newcastle for a pint at the Longbourn Village Pub.

He was not alone, for another now joined him.

"Oh, La, Sir! Them brambles has all but ruint my gown. Mayhap when I was a-carryin' you on my back over that fence."

The girl's garments were, in their present state, on the sparse side of scarce. Naught but tatters and wisps of fabric hung about her, confirming, had there been any doubt, that the Regency truly was a commando era.

Martha, for that was her name, was not designed for ill-humor and she soon regained that signature cheerfulness which had long made her a favorite with her employers at the Longbourn Village Pub. Numerous were the occasions she had been selected Serving Wench of the Month. She. Was. But. Fifteen. Years. Old.

"My dear," crooned Wickham with an enchanting smile and a spellbinding flash of his eyes, "I could not take my gaze from you this evening at the pub. Your overtures and attentions to myself and the other patrons ... the gratitude and benevolence you so eagerly accepted in turn ... my esteem and avarice ... I mean, admiration ... are boundless ... "

It was at this moment Darcy's hate-blinded vision cleared only to notice the accoutrement Wickham [ How he hated him ] carried tucked under his arm.

Darcy's brain recoiled in horror. A blanket! Wickham had brought a blanket! His thoughts roiled in turmoil at what was likely to transpire shortly. Directly within sight and sound of Elizabeth, presently staring wide-eyed at the scene from her prime vantage point in his lap!

Now, Darcy did not know for certain what Lizzy's expectations were for her bridal night; they had not discussed this in detail, or at all really. He had particular plans and expectations, assuredly. Expectations that were now in peril of being reduced to ruins forever.

He knew Wickham [ Hhhh ] was not a generous or careful or patient lover. Well, not first hand, of course ... but there were stories and rumors and gossip abounding. If allowed to witness what he feared, Lizzy was likely to get the wrong idea, react with shock and horror and repugnance, her innocent and girlish dreams shattered forever. She would call off the engagement, he was sure ... probably hie off to a nunnery to spend the rest of her days on her knees thanking God for her close escape.

Quandary, in a. Dilemma, on the horns of a. Darcy, his mind in tumult, feverishly sought a method to restore his hopes for a lifetime of marital felicity and an heir for Pemberley. Think, Man!

He could place his hands over her eyes and ears ... no, ... she would probably just turn lively and impertinent ... she would want an explanation ... she always did. Besides, if he released his grip on the tree they would certainly tumble from the branch. He peeked over at Bingley just as Jane was attempting to cover Bingley's eyes and ears ... yes, they almost fell before she abandoned the effort ...

Time ... he needed more time to think. He could remove his cravat, tie it around Elizabeth's ears and have her bury her face in his neck. Yes, that would do ... very well, in fact. No, wait. She would demand an explanation for that too, plus he would need her help in tying the cravat while holding the tree ...

Darcy's panic reached gargantuan proportions when Wickham opened the blanket and spread it on the ground. Oh, Lord, ... how much time did he need to cover? He reviewed the stories and gossip ... a minute? ... two? ... three at the most ... Well then, surely he could kiss Lizzy for three minutes without pause ... yes, he felt himself capable ... but the sounds ... he would have to moan or something for the three minutes ... yes, also easily achievable he thought ...

Just as Darcy was about to put his plan in motion, Wickham gestured to Martha to deploy herself opposite him on the blanket and pulled out ...

... a deck of cards.

"Did you bring your tip jar, as I asked, my dear?" inquired Wickham as he dealt a hand of vingt-et-un. Martha demurely placed the receptacle, overflowing with coins and notes, before her upon the blanket. Wickham eyed the wealth, licked his lips in greed, peered under the King showing to see if he harbored an Ace, when ...

The card game was interrupted by unmistakable sounds of another party advancing upon the clearing. The gamblers hastily gathered the cards and blanket to retreat behind the large flat rock that served as a twin sentinel to the boulder already in service. Martha defeated Wickham to earn the gold medal in tip jar grabbing.

A young girl walked from the path into the clearing in mid-speech.

"... for I *hack* am two years *hack* older! It is not *cough* as if I have done anything *hack* naughty."

That cough. That whine. That exquisitely trimmed bonnet ...

In unison, Lizzy's ripe full luscious red raspberry lips and Jane's thinner pale pink but still very attractive lips mouthed one word.

"Kitty!"

Trailing her was Officer [ibid. War Office] Denny, carrying a box of Puffs miniature embossed casket containing extra handkerchiefs.

"Miss Catherine, I have said I am sorry! Sorry I encountered him in London. Sorry I brought him to Meryton. Sorry I suggested he join the Militia. Sorry. I am sorry. Truly, I barely knew the man."

"It isn't *hack* fair! My father has *cough* started paying attention to *hack* me. I only managed *cough* to steal out tonight *hack* because he relaxed his guard. Hill looked *hack* into the room just after I tripped, *cough* fell into a chair, *hack* knocking a book into my lap. She told Papa *sneeze* she had spied me acting in a *wheeze* rational manner *expectorate* ... Thank you," she added as she took the proffered handkerchief.

"It is not easy for me either, you know. No officer allowed entry to your home, nor even to pass through the village. We take the long way round now. Seeing your mother leaning out an upstairs window, waving a lace hanky, calling "Yoo Hoo!" towards us every time the squad marches past Longbourn is encouraging, to be sure, but ... "

"Oh, Mama loves a *hack* redcoat! Why, when *cough* Colonel Millar's regiment *hack* went away, she ... "

" ... *sigh* I suppose we could plan to meet in the future sometime. Perhaps in ten years or so? At a review?"

Schemes for a decade hence were precipitously put on hold when noises from the direction of the path betrayed the onset of additional visitors to Oakham Mount. Kitty and Denny straightaway hacked [I apologize ... really] their way through the undergrowth to hide behind a large gorse bush away from the clearing.

Chapter 6

Posted on 2011-07-17

Colonel The Hon. [Amusing bit about name to follow] Fitzwilliam strode into the clearing with military vigor. He was not a handsome man. For this truth, we are indebted to an irrefutable plain statement by a well-loved literary genius, casting directors of the future notwithstanding. However he possessed other personal charms, being most truly the well-bred pleasant gentleman whose manners were very much admired.

That evening he was feeling amorous. His saber was rattling.

"I do not understand why my aunt has not considered me for the open post of Future Master of Rosings Park."

His comment was directed to the lady at his side. She was shown to be a large Rubenesque woman in blooming health, dressed in violent and various hues of pink.

The Colonel's ease of manner and address had always affected Anne de Bourgh to the extent that, when alone with him, she was unable to sustain the faηade of being thin small sickly cross and pale, which she had for years assumed before others in order to escape her mother's notice.

"Really, Harold," she said, "you are a blatant fortune-hunter. Do you expect me to believe I have secured your sincere regard?"

"Dear Anne, my feelings are engaged. Do you not see how my sabre is rattling?"

"Perhaps so, Robert. But Darcy removing himself from the list does not necessarily enhance your own candidacy."

"Is there nothing that can soften my aunt's opinion towards me?"

"I am not sure, Richard. Do you own any great hulking big buildings in Derbyshire?"

"No need to be cruel, Anne, or I shall reveal the truth about you -- that you secretly write poetry and novels, and that you indulge yourself in furtive assignations with the Rosings stablehands and swineherds."

"Good grief, Geoffrey, what is your source for such nonsense? Have you been reading Ann Radcliffe fan fiction again?"

Unable to fully repress his expression of guilt, the Colonel nevertheless countered, "Do not attempt to turn the subject, Anne. I am well aware of the identity of the author of Distending and Spending. 'By a Lady's Daughter'. Ha! Nice try. Which reminds me, just who was the inspiration for your character Colonel FitzWell in Swelling and Expelling? Hmmmm?"

"James, ... I ... "

"Oh, yes, and I suppose Mrs. Jenkinson is not a clandestine literary agent, right? Pshaw!"

"Edward, ... "

"Just how many men does she think she has down there?" hissed Lizzy in Darcy's ear.

"Oh, Cousin Colonel changes names as easily and as often as Chamberlayne switches gowns. Now that I think on it though, per the War Office he legally has no first name at all."

Additional vagaries of nomenclature were suspended when Colonel F and Anne de B detected the sounds of newcomers advancing along the now very well worn approach to the clearing at Oakham Mount. With rapidity they secluded themselves in a nearby clump of birch.

FOOTNOTE to Chapter 6:

There has been a huge international interest in obtaining copies of Anne de Bourgh's writings. I wish I could oblige, but I cannot. In fact if you can find even one extant copy of either of those works, your fortune is made. Scholars have been searching for, and thirsting for, these works, even a fragment of manuscript, for nearly 200 years with no success. Nothing remains but some of her cryptic research notes referencing interviews with stablehands and swineherds. It's rumored that one Really High ranking person, George Prinny Guelph, who had been an avid fan of Anne de Bourgh's novels, confiscated and destroyed every existing copy, the manuscripts, and the means of re-printing, in a fit of pique when she declined to write his biography.

There is one interesting footnote regarding a character in Swelling and Expelling. Colonel Fitzwilliam was serving on the Continent with Wellington in June 1815. Early morning on the 18th he and his regiment, the 69th Hussars, traversed the hamlet of Baterloo on their way to join the British forces, then about 10 miles away. Although the area had been reconnoitered, since that time land had been enclosed and the Savez Vous Planter Les Choux free-range poultry farm had been established directly in their path. It was a common enough thing at the time, when the farmers around Brussels were attempting to break into the French market and end the obsession with frogs' legs that dominated the palates and gustatory preferences of that nation during the period. A full-fledged and wide-spread marketing campaign highlighting the preferable chicken centered around the slogan "Chacun a Son Gout" [English translation: "It tastes just like frog"].

Unfortunately for the 69th Hussars, the ruling rooster at that farm near Baterloo possessed a formidable left dewlap hanging at his neck of such bizarre shape, color, size, radio-active glow, and all-round deformity that when he appeared in defense of his territory, that dangling appendage spooked all the horses of the regiment causing them to plunge and rear. In addition every one of those horses immediately emptied its bowels, as did two-thirds of the human members of the regiment. The resulting miasma, discomfort, perplexity, embarrassment, and general confusion took the rest of the day and most of the evening to sort out. Thus Colonel Fitzwilliam never met up with Wellington or Blucher or the Prince of Orange. The colonel had been a bit worried about that last ally anyway, fearing that he might be some relative of Miss Bingley. His own debacle, though, gained a fame of its own when the offending rooster at once became notorious for The Wattle of Baterloo.

But, how is this a footnote, you ask. You see, during the Easter sojourn of 1816 at Rosings, when the colonel recounted this adventure to his cousin Anne, she reacted with such sympathy, and one thing led to another, and she ultimately was able to verify that the character Colonel FitzWell in Swelling and Expelling had been aptly named.

End footnote

Chapter 7

Posted on 2011-07-24

Darcy released a sigh. The evening, which had begun so well, was failing more and more in every way to meet expectations. Never had he envisioned being for an extended period riveted to an oak bough, forced to suffer the idiocy thus far enacted before him.

Worse still, he was experiencing increasing discomfort due to circulatory inequity. His trunk-gripping arm and the backs of his branch-hugging thighs were beginning to numb. Most of the blood denied these customary avenues seemed to be pooling elsewhere ... most unfortunately and specifically elsewhere.

Elizabeth was no help with the problem as she was now squirming and mumbling something about "... lap ... uncomfortable ... lumpy ...". And she smelled so good ... and her ear directly in front of him looked like a little pink perfect shell ... and ... Drat, he must cease reading Fanny Burney fan fiction!

With the goal of restoring self-control, he concentrated on ranking all the known prime numbers in alphabetical order.

Darcy had barely reached "Four billion seven and sixty" when his litany was arrested upon recognizing the clearing's next gentleman caller.

In looks and manner he could be described as a blend of Darcy and Colonel Fitzwilliam. That could mean he was not-handsome, taciturn, brooding, and socially awkward. Or, it could mean that he was physically gorgeous, outgoing, socially charming to all, and a good and pleasant conversationalist. Fortunately since this narrative is a tale of the dramatic, swooning, serious, and romantic sort, it was the latter mix that was true.

Nor was it strange that the man shared similarities with Darcy and the Colonel, for he was cousin and brother. First-born son and heir to the Earl of Rosebury-Matlock-Daarby-Andsoon, Viscount Sumtheeng nobly took his place atop Oakham Mount, peering around in seeming bewilderment as if wondering where he was, why he was there, how he had arrived, and why his arm felt so heavy.

Tenaciously attached to the Viscount's arm was a fine woman, with an air of decided fashion. What jewels! What lace! She was attired in the height of the latest mode in a gown of deep blue -- her usual color choice from her favored portion of the spectrum, for orange of every sort was her abhorrence.

Her figure was elegant and she walked well. Indeed, she possessed such a certain something in her air and manner of walking that one could with confidence infer her in possession of a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages. To think of her painting a table, or covering a screen, would not be out of the question.

The tone of her voice, her address and expression demonstrated the ultimate in accomplishment when she spoke.

"I have never met with any body who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for your age, Sir. I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of your noble face."

" ... "

"And you stand uncommonly straight. How many times you must have occasion to stand in the course of a year! How do you contrive to stand so even? Do you always stand in such a charming upright way, Lord Sumtheeng? It is a rule with me, that a person who can place himself so vertically upon his feet with ease, cannot stand ill."

" ... "

"I am afraid you do not like that bramble puncture in your waistcoat. Let me mend it for you. I mend bramble punctures remarkably well. Oh, you are a Viscount without fault!"

"Miss ... Bingley, is it? ... I ... You are tolerable, but not ... "

Viscount Sumtheeng's observation was never to be completed as events conspired to freeze the duo in the clearing, their gazes fixed in the direction of what seemed to be a multitude of voices from the slopes of the Mount.

The invasion of Oakham Mount so far may have seemed like a deluge, but all of that resembled a mere trickle as it now appeared that wave after wave of humanity from all directions was about to descend by ascending.

"Noble Patroness … humble parsonage … bounty and beneficence … * puff * … proficient … chimney piece … affability and condescension … * pant * … shelves … closet … several carriages … distinction of rank … grateful respect … * puff * … humble abode … designed for each other … "

"Husband, what think you of this sketch I have made for a flower bed depicting the de Bourgh crest? Would it not require several months of outdoor garden work for you to implement? So good for your health, being out of the house. And, what say you to two or more additional beehives?"

"Wicky! Lord, how droll that sounds! Oh, Wicky! My dear Wicky!"

"Damn tedious waste of an evening."

Other voices, other words, were lost in the cacophony

Darcy contemplated a life spent in an oak. Did the Special License extend to exchanging vows in a tree? Could he get word to the Vicar? Well, probably not a problem since everybody in the world was either at or on the way to Oakham Mount … the Vicar would surely be along shortly …

From his position in the nosebleed section, wondering if a saturation point had been reached, Darcy took a quick inventory.

Home Tree ................. Himself. Elizabeth.

Nearby Tree ............... Bingley. Jane.

Large Boulder ............. Oxford. Cambridge. The Nieces Long.

Pile of Brush .............. Pratt. Fall. Saunderson. A thoroughly-chastised Chamberlayne.

Fallen Log ................. Walker. Mary Bennet.

Flat Rock .................. Wench. Wickham! [ How he hated him! ]

Gorse Bush ................ Denny. Catherine Bennet.

Clump of Birch ............ Cousin Anne. Cousin Colonel, holding his saber.

Frozen in Mid-clearing .... Cousin Sumtheeng. Caroline Bingley.

Behind Him ................ If his sense of foreboding and the prickles at the back of his neck were correct, a Parliament of Owls.

Approaching ............... Too depressing to think about.

An atmosphere of doom pervaded the summit of Oakham Mount. There was a hush. A stillness. The resounding din of twenty-two held breaths silently reverberated.

"WHERE ARE MY NEPHEWS? WHAT IS IT THEY ARE TALKING OF? I MUST HAVE MY SHARE IN THE CONVERSATION."

There it was.
The catalyst.
The Bactrian spine-splitting straw.
The Mentos tablet dropped into a bottle of Diet Coke.

There was no holding back. No indecision. In a Krakatoan-like display, Oakham Mount erupted in an explosion of owls and fleeing humans.

Chapter 8

2011-08-01

The basso thrumming of owl wings filled the sky. Clods of earth and clumps of turf sprayed into the air. Dislodged rocks and pebbles raced the escapees now streaming in panic and disarray down all sides of Oakham Mount.

Darcy, Lizzy, Bingley, and Jane pelled and melled as a group down the bank. There was no hesitation or breaking of stride when they reached the fence. Four flawless Fosbury Flops found them placed on the outwardbound side. As they stood there panting no words were spoken, but the significant look exchanged amongst them seemed to express a thought they held in common. They had been excessively diverted. But it was so strange.

In silence they turned and trudged back to Longbourn.

After a careful cleansing of footwear on the bootscraper they entered the house. In the entry hall Hill had been occupied at a table set with several dozen small vials preparing next week's supply of smelling salts. She had just suspended her task as they arrived and was seen rushing to the drawing room from which cries of "Hill! Hill!" could be heard. The drawing room was out.

From the corner of her eye, Lizzy glanced at the door to the library. From the corner of his eye, Darcy glanced at the door to the library. A strip of light could be seen at the bottom. Occupied. Scratch the library too.

There seemed no peace to be found at Longbourn and no point in attempting to resuscitate the evening. The gentlemen took their leave and departed for Netherfield.

Lizzy and Jane listlessly began to climb the staircase. No more than a step or two had been passed when the sounds of a bootscraper in use were detected. They turned to the doorway and saw Mary and Kitty staring at them. The four siblings merely looked at one another, sighed, and repaired quietly together above stairs.

Habits aren't easily breakable and none of the sisters wished to draw attention to anything untoward that may have occurred that evening by deviating from the norm. So, after preparing for sleep, they all gathered for the usual nightly girl talk. The conversation was notable more for what was left unsaid than anything shared between long silent pauses. In common with other nights, bedtime ended with the Traditional Bennet Sisters Pillow-Fight, but their hearts weren't in it.

By the time Mr. Philips called an emergency meeting of the Hertfordshire Trust for the etc. the next morning, tales innuendoes and gossip concerning disturbing happenings at Oakham Mount in the night had been widely spread for hours. Varying accounts were rampant and rife and were burgeoning in wildness and detail with each passing minute. Gypsies. Highwaymen. Luddites. The Apocalypse from Revelations. Devils. Witches. Invasion of Hertfordshire by the French. Farmer Marean's nine-year-old son swore he had seen Napoleon sliding down Oakham Mount on his bottom, which, if true, may have been the beginning of that unfortunate hemorrhoid problem. The Trustees prepared to gather, to discuss, to investigate, and to take action if required.

The morning also found some of the Longbourn and Netherfield residents with renewed hope though their spirits were not restored to customary levels.

Elizabeth and Darcy walked together along one of the roads leading from Longbourn. They had been so far denied several intended destinations.

In unspoken agreement, Oakham Mount was simply out of the question.

The prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of the lawn had been taken by Bingley and Jane who were engaged in a game of cat's-cradle using a loop of pink satin ribbon.

The pleasant grassy verge by the river had been occupied by Mary Bennet. She paced back and forth holding Fordyce, glancing frequently toward the path leading from there to Meryton as if expecting to be joined by someone.

The secluded grove near the Lucas Lodge turn-off on the Meryton road had been usurped by Kitty Bennet. She sat patiently upon a stump closely examining the trimming on the bonnet held in her lap, glancing frequently toward the path leading from there to Meryton as if expecting to be joined by someone.

Lizzy and Darcy continued their dejected plodding along the road. They stepped to the side to allow room for a carriage that came barreling apace behind them. To their surprise they recognized the Bennet equipage and, with even more surprise, its occupant - Mr. Bennet himself - on his way to an emergency Trust meeting.

Elizabeth Bennet was known for her intelligence and quickness of mind. And rightly so.

Fitzwilliam Darcy's brainpower and cleverness could not be refuted.

Neither one was a dull elf.

Mr. Bennet in a carriage bound for Meryton = Mr. Bennet absent from his preferred room at Longbourn.

"Fitzwilliam," said Lizzy thoughtfully.

"Yes?"

"Have I ever shown you my father's copy of Boswell's Life of Johnson?"

"You have not."

"It is a first edition, I believe."

"I favour your sharing firsts with me, Elizabeth."

They turned to retrace their way back to Longbourn, their demeanors more cheerful and their steps more jaunty than when they had left half an hour before.

Epilogue ----- Early January 1813

Posted on 2011-08-08

Mr. Bennet had been able to convince the other Trustees that, while prodigiously amusing, all the tales regarding the activities at Oakham Mount were nothing but neighbor making sport of neighbor. It was agreed to adopt the methods that had served him so well in the past - do nothing, wait to see how events unfold, and then probably do nothing again. They did not even bother to remove the sign, attached to the fence by some wag, pointing north and reading "Gretna Green. 300 Miles".

The Trust could hug themselves. For, after that one night, Oakham Mount was studiously avoided and left to rejuvenate and heal in earnest this time. Rootlets were generating below ground waiting for Spring. The gullies and gouges would eventually fill in and be covered. Bark was rebounding. The owls had never been Hornier and were on the edge of a population explosion. Voles and mice hunkered in burrows and nests, not daring a foray into local grain stores.

Although close attention to Oakham Mount was no longer a necessity, the Trustees now basked in a wider awareness of their (accidental) success and (unearned) reputation. They had been contacted by, and were presently corresponding with, a consortium of gentlemen in Surrey who had sought their advice regarding a similar situation at Box Hill.

Clueless as they had been about the pressures causing the initial problem, they remained equally clueless as to the reasons most of the pressures had disappeared or abated.

In early November the contagious fever scare at Oxford and Cambridge had passed and the student body recalled.

Wickham had permanently decamped back to Newcastle, in arrears for a large gambling debt owed to a Longbourn Village Pub employee.

The Department of Horse-Drawn Vehicles had rescinded its Easy Distance Waiver for Oakham Mount.

Colonel Fitzwilliam, unable to find an inexpensive great hulking big building to purchase in Derbyshire, had transferred to the Continent to rattle his saber amongst the French.

All members of the Militia had been strictly confined to quarters for the double offense of 1) Passing through the village and 2) Calling "Yoo Hoo to You Too!" back at Mrs. Bennet from the road past Longbourn.

Kitty Bennet had been in bed for weeks with her worst cough ever, exacerbated by a stint in a chilled still room drying and crafting cuttings into bonnet trimmings.

Mary Bennet had surprised her family by altruistically volunteering to stay in Meryton to nurse Aunt Philips who was recovering from an extended and painful case of lingua gossipius.

Mr. and Mrs. Darcy were Blissfully honeymooning in Bliss at Blissful Pemberley. In consummate companionship compatibility and contentment, consummating. In Perfect Bliss and unfailingly simultaneous thunderous mutual gratification.

Mr. and Mrs. Bingley were trying to honeymoon at Netherfield between bouts of hosting a certain relative. [ "Jane! Jane! {rap rap} Why are you still abed at half six of the morning? {Knock Knock} We are to redecorate the Orange Parlour today! {BANG BANG} The stables want updating! And there is your pin money to count! Jane!" ]

And so we leave this narrative on that day in January with Mr. Bennet who, though he had not heard two words of sense together for some time, had reason for happiness and contentment. He poured a glass of his best Port, relaxed at his desk with a satisfied sigh, and took in hand the book before him. He was once more in possession of his first edition of Boswell's Life of Johnson, missing and thought lost for over two months, just that day discovered unaccountably wedged deep within the seat cushions of the library settee.