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Chapter 8 A
The next morning, Seth successfully managed to leave the parsonage before any of the parishioners came to visit and complain of ailments that could not now be attended to by the missing Dr. Townsend and presented himself at the Darcy townhouse ninety minutes before the suitable calling hour began. A somewhat surprised footman answered the door, looked at Seth with a degree of distaste, and left him on the doorstep while he went to see whether or not Mrs. Darcy was 'at home' that morning. Seth took that opportunity to attempt to check the appearance of his waistcoat and cravat, momentarily wishing that he had looked in a glass before he had left the parsonage. From the look on the face of the very proper Darcy footman, Seth realized that he must look somewhat disreputable.
Fortunately, Mrs. Darcy was more capable of hiding any disgust that she may have felt upon looking at his disheveled appearance. That lady actually came to her door and welcomed him herself. "How good of you to call again, Mr. Shackleford!" she said cheerfully, holding out her hand for him to take and gesturing to her footman for him to take Mr. Shackleford's coat and hat. Seth had, once again, forgotten his gloves, something that he could tell was noticed by the stiff and formal footman.
"Mary, I'm sure, will be very pleased to see you," Mrs. Darcy continued as she led him into her morning room and directed him to a chair. "She's made quite a miraculous recovery since you were here last."
"I'm glad to hear that," Seth replied, thinking that he needed to make some comment as he settled himself uneasily in the chair that she had indicated. He, of course, had already learned of Miss Bennet's rather surprising recovery from his nightly visits to Mr. and Mrs. Barrow.
"Yes," she went on, sitting down on a sofa, "After she recovered from the fever, she began to tend to the wound herself. She seems to put great stock in this peculiar little poultice," Mrs. Darcy wrinkled her nose, "It was vile smelling but quite effective. She was even able to endure a visit from my dressmaker earlier in the week."
"Your dressmaker?" Seth swallowed, still finding it difficult to imagine his former friend enduring such an occasion -- or what the results of such an event might be.
He wasn't to be kept in surprise long, for, at that moment, a woman burst into the morning room, calling out angrily before her: "Is THIS more to your liking, Elizabeth?"
The woman stopped short once she recognized that the person she sought was not alone.
Mrs. Darcy smiled sweetly at the newcomer and said, voice laden with sugar, "Mary -- you have company."
Seth felt his eyes widen in shock. "Thomas?" the name burst out before he had a chance to check himself. "Is that you?"
The woman straightened her back and glared haughtily at him -- a look that was both familiar and completely strange to Seth. His former friend had assumed that posture often enough in arguments that they had shared. But that seemed to be the only remnant of Thomas that could be observed. The rest belonged to this new creature that he should remember to call by her proper name. "Pardon me," Seth corrected himself, "How are you, Miss Bennet?"
Miss Bennet's eyes narrowed at the formality of his greeting. "Quite well, Mr. Shackleford," she responded in a clipped tone.
"Won't you join us, Mary?" Elizabeth suggested.
Seth watched as Mary's eyes flashed angrily at her sister and her face grew even redder. This, Seth noted, matched her dress -- a white and pink floral pattern with red trimmings at the neckline and waist. There appeared to be red above her face as well. Seth's eyes were drawn up towards her hair. Good Lord! Was that a ribbon in it?
Seth stared longer as he realized that a red ribbon had indeed been twisted through her short, brown hair, which no longer hung straight around her face but had been turned into a mass of tight, fussy little curls. Seth found himself wanting to shake his head to clear away the odd vision before him. It was as far from the personality of his former friend as he could imagine. But he couldn't shake his head, could he? That would tell her exactly what he was thinking at that moment. He chose to look quickly away.
"Mary?" Mrs. Darcy prodded.
Mary slowly and reluctantly joined her on the sofa, sitting as straight as a rod, hands clasped in her lap, lips pressed firmly together. Her attitude made it quite clear that she had nothing to say to either of them.
Seth didn't know what to say either and neither did Mrs. Darcy. Eventually, after several moments of silence, their hostess decided to escape from the room. "Well," she broke into the quiet, "I'm sure that you have a great deal to say to each other! I'll leave you to it." And, with that, she stood up and left.
Seth considered fleeing as well. He couldn't imagine what to do or say next.
Mary eventually took that responsibility out of his hands. "So, you've finally decided to come and see what I've been reduced to!" she hissed at him.
"I came to see how you were!" he retorted.
"I'm healing as quickly as can be expected," she responded icily.
"And I see that you're acclimating yourself to life as --" he stopped, attempting to find a way to explain himself without being indelicate.
"To life as a woman again?" Mary finished for him. "As you can see, Elizabeth has lent me the use of her dressmaker and hairdresser and has made most of my fashion decisions for me, including selecting the cloth for this dress as well as the color of the trimmings. She has also decided that I should imitate the young Lady Haden-Powell's new fashion for wearing her hair short and curled in this ridiculous fashion," she raked her hand through one side of her hair, nearly upsetting the ribbon. "This morning, I spent fifty minutes in front of a mirror while her maid applied a hot curling iron to each and every strand of hair on my head, nearly burning both of my ears off in the process!" Mary's voice grew louder as she warmed to her topic, "And this I can expect to endure every morning until fashion -- or my sister -- dictates it's no longer the mode!"
Her speech left Seth momentarily stunned. He couldn't imagine his former friend spending fifty minutes in front of a mirror with a maid fluttering about. "It looks very nice," he attempted a compliment, not feeling that there needed to be any truth to the statement.
"It looks ridiculous!" Mary shot back with venom, raking her hand through the short curls and dislodging the ribbon this time. She pulled it out of her hair in frustration and threw it on the floor.
"You'll become used to it again in time," he attempted to soothe, feeling uncomfortable even as he did so. He had never tried to placate his friend before.
"I don't think that I shall, Seth!" she turned on him. "And don't try to comfort me like you would one of your silly, feminine parishioners! You should know me better than that!"
"I don't know you at all!" Seth returned to his trademark frankness. "How can you say that I should know you well enough after I discover that you've been living a lie for the last six years?"
Now it was her turn to be shocked into silence. She pressed her lips together again and blinked. Seth wondered if tears were starting to form in her yes. Unconsciously, he reached into his pocket where he should have kept a clean handkerchief for such occasions.
"I'm not going to cry!" she scoffed loudly as she seemed to recognize the gesture. "And, I know you well enough to realize that you were never prepared with a clean handkerchief in your pocket unless I remembered to put one there for you!"
She was right, of course. There wasn't anything in his pocket that he could offer if she had started to weep. "Well," he hedged, "You've never cried before."
"Have I changed that much?" Mary asked disbelievingly. "I'm the same person that I was two weeks ago, with the same emotions and desires. Can you not see that?"
Seth was on the verge of telling her that he couldn't see that, but was afraid of hurting her feelings.
She went on, "I understand that your perception of me has had to change somewhat, but -- inside -- I am the same person you knew as Thomas Townsend. I still know how to deliver babies and reset bones and bring down fevers. I still wonder about the meaning behind proverbs and parables. I still worry over the same concerns that we shared. Why can you not see that?"
Seth didn't know how to answer her truthfully, but was saved the trouble of doing so by the return of Mrs. Darcy, escorting another lady into the morning room.
It was evident from Mrs. Darcys moment of hesitation at the door that she saw enough to understand that she had interrupted a weighty discussion, but she couldn't not enter now that she had opened the door. "Mr. Shackleford," she smiled, beginning an introduction, "I don't believe you've met our other sister, Mrs. Bingley."
Seth stood up, the introduction was made, and it was clear that there would be no possibility of a return to his more candid conversation with Mary. Not that he was at all sure that he wanted to continue it. It brought up too many things that were painful to him. He needed more time to mourn the end of his friendship with Thomas before he could feel easy conversing with this unknown Miss Bennet.
He made his exit a few minutes later, leaving the three sisters to enjoy the companionship of one another. As the footman showed him to the door, Seth pondered why he had bothered to come at all. Perhaps it would be best if he simply stayed away from now on.
From the window, Mary watched Seth leave, a dull ache settling in her heart. She regretted that she had spoken so angrily towards him and feared that he might be resolving upon never coming to visit again. And that would be more than she could bear. Yes, she had been very put out by the fact that he hadn't come to visit her in the week and a half since she had left his parsonage and had been even more disgusted by his unctuous and maddeningly changed behavior towards herself, but he was still the man who knew her better than anyone else.
And there was no doubting the fact that she still loved him.
And there was no doubting the fact that she wanted to have her old life back -- the life that gave her some feeling of worth and self-respect. She had forgotten just how confining life as a young, unmarried woman could be. In Elizabeth's house, she had nothing to do but care for herself and tend to Marianna's burned hand. Other than that, her opinions weren't solicited, her decisions were made for her, and her occupations were limited. Even her time was not her own: her schedule was set by the order of Elizabeth's social engagements. And the current hour demanded that she sit quietly with her sisters and wait for the callers that would invariably come to visit that morning.
And, while they waited, Mary found herself having to endure a conversation that centered around herself and her 'improved' appearance. Improved from when, Mary could not say. She assumed that her sisters only meant the transformation that she had undergone since resurfacing two weeks ago. It was too much for even her sister's to hope that she had become more attractive since girlhood. Mary knew that she remained as plain as ever.
"I do like what you've done to your hair, Mary," Jane commented. "It looks so much better curled."
Mary bit back the contradiction that formed on her lips. She had spent enough time in front of the mirror to know that the style did nothing for her -- except to make her look even more fussy and prudish. "Thank you," she hissed instead, hoping that her glowering expression would give Jane the hint that more observations on her looks were very unwelcome. She considered reminding them both that the only reason that she had subjected herself to such a style was in order to hold up her part of the deal that she had brokered with Elizabeth last night. That sister had agreed to let Mary tell the increasingly inquisitive Marianna the truth behind her disappearance, if she was allowed to make all of her fashion decisions for her while she remained in her house. Elizabeth hadn't worded it in that manner, but that was the substance behind it -- and Mary did not recall there being anything about having to discuss the matter with great frequency.
But Elizabeth was obviously recalling the pact a bit differently. Instead of growing silent, the sisters seemed to grow even more conversant. "I think that Mr. Percy will like it," Elizabeth nodded significantly to Jane.
Jane returned that look, "Or -- if he doesn't -- perhaps Lord Rodale will find it appealing."
Mary's head snapped away from the window, back towards her sisters. "Who is Mr. Percy?" she asked Elizabeth, "And who is --" she glared towards Jane, " -- Lord Rodale?"
"Oh," Elizabeth looked up to the ceiling in false innocence. "Mr. Percy is a new acquaintance of Fitzwilliam's," she answered. "He's a clergyman, just returned from a missionary posting in India."
"Really?" Mary asked, not impressed.
"He is being considered for the Lambton living," Elizabeth explained further. "It's just now become vacant."
"I see," Mary commented as that sister's motives became clear. "And your husband might just be encouraged to give him the living if he agrees to take me as a wife, thereby getting me off of your hands!"
"It's not like that at all!" Elizabeth protested. "It just that --" she looked to Jane for assistance.
Jane took charge. "It's just that we thought you might -- be suited to this gentleman or perhaps Lord Rodale."
"We might be suited?" Mary asked for clarification, "And who is Lord Rodale?"
"Lord Rodale is a new acquaintance of Charles'," Jane explained patiently. "He's just inherited an estate that happens to be very close to the one that we have bought in Yorkshire. He's unmarried and is, most probably, in London looking around for someone to marry. You might find that you have some things in common with either gentlemen."
"Mr. Percy likes to talk about the Bible," Elizabeth jumped in. "I understand that he's very well versed in the Old Testament prophets."
"He likes to talk about religion and read sermons," Mary cut her off, "How unbelievably dull."
"But Mary, you used to do that all the time!" Elizabeth exclaimed.
Mary winced as she remembered life at Longbourn and how boring her sisters must have found her. "Well, I've lived in the world a great deal since then," Mary whispered, "-- and have found more interesting things to occupy my thoughts." She looked away and gathered some resolve. "It's very good of you to worry about my future for me, but I really wish that you wouldn't."
"We should have taken more care of you when we were all younger," Jane said, as if she hadn't heard what Mary had said at all. "We shouldn't have been so indifferent towards you."
Mary blinked in surprise at this strange confession.
Elizabeth chimed in her agreement to Jane's admission. "If we had been more concerned about you, you would not have run away from home and hidden yourself from your family."
"But, it seems that all we cared about was securing our own happiness," Jane added.
"And, even after we had done so, we still didn't bother to look to you."
Mary was astounded by their revelations. She couldn't say anything in response.
"But, now that you have been found again, we mean to do everything in our power to see that you are set up properly in life," Elizabeth finished. "And -- hopefully -- if you happen to like one of these two gentleman enough to become his wife, you won't be settled too far away from us."
"I should like to be able to call Lady Rodale my sister," Jane explained further, "And Yorkshire is so sparsely populated -- I would like to have a friend to visit at Rodale House."
"And I would be very pleased to see my sister settled in the rectory at Lambton." Elizabeth broke in, "Then I would be able to see you almost every day. I could watch your children grow. You could watch Marianna turn into a young woman."
"You've making all of my decisions for me?" Mary replied dully.
"No!" Elizabeth said as Jane shook her head quickly. "We're just trying to help you to your own share of happiness by introducing you to two suitable men. We would understand if, in the end, you decided that you didn't like either one of them. That's why Mr. Percy is coming to call upon us today."
Mary felt her face flush red. The supposedly suitable Mr. Percy was to be met today? She couldn't think of anything she'd rather do less than meet someone who had potential as a future spouse. Not when her own thoughts were still so occupied by Seth and the difficulties that she was sure he was facing at the parsonage. She winced again when she thought of how brusque and angry she had just been with Seth. She wished that she had behaved better towards him. He hadn't even been able to tell her anything of what was going on back home.
But it wasn't her home anymore, was it?
Her home was now with Elizabeth or one of her other sisters. At least until she found herself another situation.
Mary thought back on her life and recognized that it had already been filled with many compromises. Unlike her sisters, who she supposed lived lives of contentment and had seen their fondest wishes granted, Mary could only recall moments of being half filled. When she was younger, she gave up the prospect of being married for the consolation of remaining respectable as a spinster, only to see that comfort threatened by Catherine's marriage to the man that she loved. After that, she had given up the security of family and a home in order to grow in her ability to heal others. Then, she had lived a lie and kept a secret from her closest friend in order to remain a valued part of his life. Now, it seemed as if she might have to consider making another compromise. Mary could not imagine remaining as an indefinite guest in her sister's home, unimportant and needed only by a young niece. Would she actually consider running away again and attempting life on her own with no friends to help her?
Or could she stomach another course? Could she conceive of marrying someone for the social standing that it would give her and the stability?
If she married prudently, she might even find a way to continue her work. If either this Mr. Percy or Lord Rodale were easy men of little understanding, she could see herself being able to exert some quiet influence in the same way that she understood Charlotte Collins did. Perhaps they would even be weak enough to let her to have her way very often. And, if either this Mr. Percy or Lord Rodale were men of some wealth, Mary could imagine being able to continue to help Seth financially, if she couldn't in any other way.
But she didn't have to wait until she was married before being of use to Seth financially, did she? Mary's mouth almost dropped open when she thought of the fact that her brother-in-law had more than enough money to donate to worthy causes. And Mary couldn't think of a worthier cause than Seth's own parish clinic. Fitzwilliam could easily fund another physician or surgeon to take over her duties there. And Fitzwilliam had been very grateful to her for taking such good care of Marianna's burn. Mary was sure that he would be willing to help if she asked him to. She would approach him about that tonight and then set about finding a suitable replacement for herself.
After that, she might be willing to consider the suitability of these two men who her sisters seemed to believe would be willing to marry her. Mary had to laugh at that. Surely neither of them would be as interested in her as her sisters had considered them to be! Then again, perhaps neither of them would prove to be rational thinkers or attractive in appearance.
Mary pondered that as she waited for Mr. Percy to arrive.
Chapter 8 B
It always surprised Willie Barton just how little the waterfront changed since the last time he had been there. Only the ships that were tied fast to the piers and the cargo that was packed in boxes and organized into piles were different and, as he walked past the prows of the vessels, he began to recognize some of the names lettered next to more immediately familiar figureheads. Willie had always enjoyed looking at a ship's figurehead.
But Willie was in search of a figurehead even more familiar to him than all of these weather-beaten carvings -- and one that was not nearly as attractive as the winsome looking wooden beauty peering down at Willie from her perch at the base of the bowsprit. Willie stopped and stared a bit longer at that one, marveling at the folds of her gown and how they didn't quite cover everything that they should have. He read the name of the ship: The Scarlet Rose.
"Like this one, boy?" a gruff voice startled him from behind.
Willie whirled around and found himself looking at the man that he had come to see. "Stumpy," he said, smiling widely -- a grin that made him instantly recognizable, regardless of how long he had been away from the waterfront.
"Why if it isn't Barton!" the man exclaimed, "How've they been treatin' you in 'dose new digs of yers?"
"Well, I can't complain," Willie admitted. And truly, he couldn't. His life had been very eventful since he had decided to exchange work as a dockhand for a position as a footman in the house where his grandmother was cook. That woman had hoped to keep him out of trouble and give him a more certain future by introducing him to the world of service, but -- unfortunately for her -- had managed to do almost the opposite. Since leaving the docks, Willie had had spent countless nights away from his bed spying on people, had been involved in fist fights and street brawls as a part of his continued association with London's criminal element, and learned how to occasionally circumvent the law. It was a very interesting education, but was not at all what Mrs. Barton had in mind when she had originally spoken to her employer about her young grandson. In fact, there was only one thing that John Barrow had managed to do for Willie that his grandmother had approved of, and that was to make him financially secure. Young Mr. Barton was coming up in the world. He was even able to afford to keep his own rooms in a respectable boarding house, something that he couldn't have imagined doing while at the docks.
But a part of Willie did miss the harbor and the boisterous activity that could be found there. He spent most of his time on his own now, with only the occasional check-in with Mr. Barrow and the more regrettable Tim Scoggins. Willie knew that he was not meant to be such a solitary creature. That's why he didn't mind having the occasional reason to visit his old haunt. So, here he was now soliciting the assistance of a former acquaintance. "I was hoping that you would be able to help me," Willie began, "I need some information."
"Hey," the man chuckled, "If'n I can't help you down here, no one can!"
Willie knew that this was not a hollow boast on that man's part. He had been nicknamed Stumpy after an unfortunate accident with a grappling hook rendered his arm several inches shorter than it should have been. The amputation had reduced him to eking out a living by doing whatever menial tasks could be done by a one-armed man, which left him with a great deal of time to do nothing but observe the activity on the docks. This, and his seemingly endless memory, qualified Stumpy to serve as a sort of "unofficial" harbormaster. And, in this case, Stumpy would prove to be more useful than the man who claimed this title. While the harbormaster's office only recorded the names of the ships, their points of origin, and the date of their entry into the harbor, Stumpy's brain not only retained this information, but could frequently recall details about the disembarking passengers. The passengers were of particular interest to Stumpy since one of the services that he offered to perform was to arrange transportation for themselves as well as their trunks and bags.
"There was a man who arrived from India on one of these ships," Willie began without a preamble. "He's a clergyman who was sent to India on a missionary posting. His name is Richard Percy."
Stumpy put his hand to his scraggly beard and appeared to consider it. "Percy?" he mused. "Yeah," I think that 'e did come through last month. Skimpy little bugger didn't tip me when I found 'im a bit o' transport. Said summin about the Lord's servants not needing to tip."
"Do you remember what ship he was on?" Willie pressed, "Or anything else about him?"
Stumpy nodded. "My mind might become clearer if --" he began.
Willie knew at once what he needed, "Why don't we continue this conversation over at the 'Duck's Back'?"
This was something that Willie knew Stumpy would be more than amenable to doing. Sitting at the bar in the 'Duck's Back' an hour later, Stumpy suitably appeased with drink, Willie was introduced to a Mr. Albert Greenlow, a midshipman on a vessel that was making ready to embark for India. Greenlow was a jovial fellow who appeared to like his drink just as much as his good friend Stumpy and had become just as conversant as that man once his tongue was loosened. This was advantageous for Willie; Greenlow's ship hadn't been in port more than a month and he did remember the clergyman known as Mr. Richard Percy. They hadn't had that many passengers to keep track of on the return passage to England and Mr. Percy managed to distinguish himself to the crew. "Them two was always underfoot," Greenlow said tipping back a mug of ale himself. "Wouldn't stay in their cabins for all the tea in China."
"Two?" Willie asked.
"Yep," Greenlow agreed, "Thick as thieves, those two," Greenlow chuckled. "I wouldna be surprised if that's what they were -- perhaps just pretending to be a clergyman and an officer."
"An officer?" Willie asked, puzzled. "But you said that you didn't have that many passengers on this trip. Was he not with his men?" Willie didn't know that much about the army, but knew enough to realize that an officer traveling by himself to or from the far reaches of the world was quite odd. The army almost always had men travel in battalions.
"No," Greenlow negatived. "That man was the only soljer we 'ad. Mebbe that's why 'e spent so much time with Percy, 'e didn't have anyone else to boss around!" Greenlow laughed out loud this time.
Willie was having a hard time making any sense of Mr. Greenlow's comments. "So -- this officer spent his time bossing Percy around."
Greenlow nodded, "I think that the poor sod was afraid of 'im. But ya can't get away on a ship. There's nowhere to hide So 'e couldn't escape from talkin' to 'im."
"Do you have any idea what they would talk about?" Willie asked, still confused.
"I don't overhear people's personal conversations!" Greenlow raised his head, turning self-righteous and proper rather quickly.
"Of course you don't," Willie attempted to placate, pretty sure that Greenlow wasn't beyond the occasional eavesdrop. "But you might've accidentally picked up a word here or there --"
"Well," Greenlow hedged, pushing his tankard forward in the hopes that it might get filled up again. Willie picked it up and gestured to the barkeep with it. That man came over and took it away to be refilled. Greenlow thought for a moment longer and began, "I think that the soljer was trying to get 'em to do summin that Percy didn't want to do. They'd argue 'bout it late inta the night. I was on watch once and heard the soljer say summin about it bein' in 'is best int'rests to go 'long with 'is plan. Summin about a livin'."
"A living?" Willie asked, completely confused now. Willie knew that it was Mr. Darcy who intended to supply Mr. Percy with a living. In fact, wasn't that the whole reason why he was sitting with Greenlow and Stumpy right now, offering them an unlimited supply of ale to enjoy? Willie's whole purpose for coming down to the docks that day was so that he could make sure that Mr. Richard Percy was a suitable candidate for the living that Mr. Darcy intended to offer him.
"Yeah -- summin like that," Greenlow said taking a long drink from the mug that had just been refilled. "Their words were a bit 'ard to make out -- considering that Captain Linson 'ad 'im around the neck and was choking 'im at the time."
Willie looked up from the book where he had been writing notes to himself, "Captain Linson?" he asked, "Captain James Linson?"
"I think that was 'is name," Greenlow agreed easily. "Right nasty little bugger."
"So, Captain Linson and Mr. Percy know each other?" Willie responded, not at all sure of what to make of that bit of news.
"They more than know each other," Greenlow said, wiping his mouth with the corner of his cuff, "I'd say that they were partners in summin."
Willie closed his book and rose from the bar, wanted to find Mr. Barrow immediately. Perhaps he would know what to make of such a coincidence.
John made sure that he was respectably dressed the next morning, but by no means in his normal style. He had consulted with Simmons, his own valet, the evening before and together they had chosen an outfit that wouldn't mark him as a man who lived above a servant's station in life. John spent the rest of the evening practicing his most deferential manner and attempting to eradicate the somewhat Etonian accent that colored his normal speaking voice.
By the time that he presented himself at the servant's entrance of the large rooming house in Mayfair, he felt as if he were ready to meet with Lord Rodale's cousin and heir, Captain James Linson.
A bootboy opened the door for him and he was escorted down a narrow passageway and up three flights of servants stairs until they had reached the second floor landing. An adjoining door gave them entrance to a large hall upon which opened the doors to sitting rooms. The bookblack stopped in front of the first door on the right and gestured towards it.
John knocked and a voice responded. "Come in!" it bellowed commandingly.
John opened it carefully, noticing that the bootblack had taken no time in scurrying back towards the small staircase at the end of the hall.
"Well?" the voice uttered again, "Come in! I don't have all day."
John entered, his old shoes making no sound on the floor as he crossed the room to stand in front of the man who was still at his breakfast. Two chairs had been positioned at the table, but whether or not a seat would be suggested to John remained in doubt. John stood in front of the man and looked at his face carefully -- attempting to trace in it a resemblance to his cousin's countenance. Physically, there was not much to connect the two men. Where Lord Rodale was tall and dark in complexion, Captain Linson was short, almost barrel-chested, and had the kind of skin that burnt quickly in the heat of the sun. While Lord Rodale had been dressed in subdued tones when John had met him, Captain Linson wore a crimson dressing gown with a large pattern running through it. And where Lord Rodale had been clean-shaven, Captain Linson wore a large mustache under a small, upturned nose, making him look even more like a mischievous brownie that had escaped from the land of fairies.
"Ah," the man breathed, picking up the letter of reference that had been sent ahead. The man who John presumed was Captain Linson scanned over the text. "Brown -- John Brown," he pronounced with what was nearly a snarl. "Your name couldn't be less remarkable, could it?"
John Barrow believed that it couldn't. That's why he had chosen to use John Brown instead of either one of his own names. Instead of pointing this out, however, he simply nodded numbly.
"And I see that your previous master -- a Mr. Horatio Smudge -- speaks quite well of your abilities as a valet.
Again John nodded.
"Why did you leave his employ?" Captain Linson asked, leaning back somewhat in his chair -- relaxing, but not allowing his prospective valet to do the same. It was quite obvious that this interview was to be held while John stood.
John drew himself up even straighter before he responded. "Mr. Smudge went to Africa, sir. The darkest jungle." Let Linson try to check that reference!
"Is that so?" Linson asked, sounding bored and uncurious. "And why did you not accompany him? Not particularly interested in travel?"
"Travel's fine by me, sir," John replied, deflecting expertly and seizing the opportunity to pose a deferentially phrased question. "Are you planning on doing a bit of traveling, sir?"
"Perhaps," Linson replied, somewhat guardedly. "You wouldn't find that difficult, would you?"
"Oh no sir!" John negatived, wondering if he could draw him out a bit further without him being any the wiser. "I've always wanted to see a bit more of the world. Especially the West Indies."
"Really?" Captain Linson said disparagingly. "And what have you heard of the West Indies?"
The slight rankled with John. He was not used to being spoken to in such a way and it was difficult for him to ignore the accent of disgust that colored that man's voice. "I've heard tell of such wonders as you wouldn't believe!" John replied vaguely, making his eyes grow wide with innocence. "Water so clear that you can spear fresh fish at the bottom. Fruit so ripe that it drops from the trees every day of a person's life!"
"And money to be had hand over fist," Linson agreed darkly.
"Really sir?" John didn't need to feign interest this time.
"More than you can imagine," said he, putting an accent on the word 'you', using it to distance himself once again from his prospective valet.
"Are you planning on making your fortune there, sir?" John wondered how far he might encourage this man into confirming the substance of his conversation with his cousin.
"No, I plan on assuming one," Linson chuckled harshly and seemed to grow even more communicative in John's company.
John was pleased to see that the man's reserve was lessening. He could exploit that to his advantage. "Then, should one assume that you have experienced the tragic death of a near relation?" John asked, attempting to look blankly sympathetic.
"Not yet," Linson laughed again and John began to wonder if Lord Rodale weren't in some danger. He wasn't sure how to respond to that, so he simply nodded again and looked down at the table in what he hoped would be perceived as tacit support for such an idea. It was then that he noticed that the table was cluttered not only with the remains of a large breakfast, but with several pieces of letter paper. On one John could just make out a name and direction -- Mr. Richard Percy.
Captain Linson quickly pushed the as yet unsealed note under another piece of paper and John quickly tried to mask his surprise. Captain Linson acquainted with Mr. Richard Percy? It was too wild to be believed. It was yet another unexplainable coincidence in a series of strange coincidences. But what was the nature of their acquaintance? And did it have anything to do with Lord Rodale?
John couldn't take much time to consider these questions, for he had to direct his full attention to Captain Linson and attempt to allay any suspicions that he might have created by looking shocked by the name on the letter. "I see, sir," John replied, voice almost a drone of indifference, "And do you think that I may be able to assist you in your travels?"
"That depends," Linson sat back even further in his chair, seeming to dismiss the suspicion that John had seen too much. "I am in need of a man who is somewhat discreet as well as being --" he eyed John up and down approvingly " -- fastidious in his habits. Obviously, you fit the mark when it comes to your personal grooming -- but how can I be sure that you're trustworthy?"
John barely heard this speech. He was too busy trying to figure out if he could create a diversion that would allow him the opportunity to read what was in that unsealed letter. He momentarily considered suggesting that Captain Linson allow him to test his level of trustworthiness and discretion by allowing him to deliver a letter, hopefully being given charge of the one that had piqued his interest. This, of course, would require a greater time commitment on John's part. Not only would he have to spend time walking from Captain Linson's lodgings to Mr. Percy's and return with a response, but he would also need to spend several minutes efficiently breaking and removing the wax seal that would close the letter and several minutes more replacing it with an exact match. He might even need to stop off at a stationer's shop in order to purchase sealing wax and a and a duplicate seal so that he could create a passable replica of Linson's own.
John wasn't sure that he had that much time to expend on such a project and he certainly didn't have the patience. He was already growing frustrated with Linson's patronizingly rude manner towards him. John knew that he would never last long as the valet of such an individual. So -- instead of considering this plan any further -- his mind began to develop a different one. Could he create a diversion that would force Captain Linson to leave him alone in the room for a short period of time? John eyed the expensive silk dressing gown that the gentleman was wearing and the cup of strong, black coffee that the man held in his lap. His cup could do with refilling and there appeared to be a pot of fresh coffee on the table.
John considered further. If he managed to spill coffee on Linson's lap, that man would have to change his clothes. John looked around somewhat furtively. As he suspected, the wardrobe was nowhere in sight. It had to be in the bedroom.
John weighed the consequences and decided that this was a more expeditious plan. "Let me get you some more coffee, sir," John said, taking the carafe in his hands and spilling a large amount of liquid into Linson's lap before that man knew what was happening.
Linson screamed as the warm coffee touched his skin and he stood up brushing the cup and saucer onto the floor where the delicate china shattered into several pieces. "You clumsy oaf!" he shouted.
"Oh! I'm so sorry, sir," John said, rushing to the man's assistance with a nearby towel.
Linson wrenched the towel out of John's hands and began patting himself furiously.
"Oh sir, you'd better change! Coffee stains are near impossible to get out of silk!"
Linson growled and his eyes darkened in anger. "You've ruined this!" he said, moving off towards the bedroom door, obviously taking John's intimation to heart.
"I'll just clean up out here, sir," John called after him, kneeling down near the table and beginning to pick up the broken remains of the china tea cup, quite pleased with the success of his little performance. He chuckled quietly to himself -- Arabella should never doubt his skill as an actor! The door to the bedroom slammed shut and John abandoned his efforts to clean up in order to read the letter.
Percy --
Have yet to hear from my cousin regarding his decision but feel sure to very soon. I can tell that he's becoming desperate. I've just learned that his 'mother's' grave was disturbed a few days ago and that her clothes were stolen from her body. I can only assume that this act was done by him or someone in his employ, although I have no idea what he thinks can be discerned by an examination of her dress. Perhaps his hirelings got his instructions wrong and will attempt it again -- something that will not be easy to do now that the sexton and rector of the church yard in which she rests have installed her in one of those newly-fashioned wrought iron caskets. She's as safe as houses in the ground now. As is, I trust, our own agreement. Recall the fact that I know more about you than any other individual still living on this earth if your resolve begins to waver.
It wasn't signed, but John assumed that the man receiving this missive would know the hand well enough to feel menaced by it.
But he couldn't contemplate the penmanship of the letter or the substance of it any longer. Captain Linson was opening the door back to the sitting from, belting another dressing robe -- older and more careworn than the crimson colored one that John had just stained.
"Well?" Linson said gruffly, fixing an angry eye on John. "What are you still doing here? I'll be damned if I hire a clumsy idiot like you as my valet!"
This was exactly what John had hoped would be his opinion. "I'm so sorry," he said, attempting to sound contrite and embarrassed, but failing miserably at it. With one last, badly executed bow and a quick step to the door -- John left.
Chapter 8 C
"So, in the end, what have we learned today?" John said, leaning back heavily in his chair and putting his feet up on the fender to become warm by the fire, "And -- more importantly -- what haven't we learned?"
Barton sat back in his own chair, but did not imitate his employer's decision to put up his own feet. He felt that such an act wouldn't have shown a proper amount of respect for Mr. Barrow. And Willie felt a great deal of respect for Mr. Barrow, as well as admiration and a strong sense of loyalty. He had been with that gentleman for seven years now and his employer never ceased to amaze him. In fact, when Willie had returned to Mr. Barrow just that evening -- planning on astounding that gentleman with his own, hard-won bit of information -- he had wound up being surprised by him instead. It seemed that Mr. Barrow had already discovered that Mr. Percy and Captain Linson were somehow connected and were most likely partners in some underhanded and illegal business.
Mr. Barrow's story of just how he had managed to discover that fact was much more diverting than Willie's own tale of plying old waterfront friends with enough ale to make them swim down the Thames on their own. Mr. Barrow had insisted that both he and Arabella hear all about it before Little Charlie was put to bed, not being content to wait until dinner before relating it, or even until he had changed back into a suit of his own clothes. He called his wife into his study, took Little Charlie from her arms, and regaled them both with a description of his acting prowess -- all the while making their little son giggle delightedly at his antics.
Willie would have liked to have seen the look on Captain Linson's face when Mr. Barrow spilled the coffee into his lap. He could imagine that the man's face would have turned twelve shades of red in three seconds flat.
But, when Willie really began to think about it, all of their effort that day had not paid large dividends. There was much that they still did not know. "Well," he began, fumbling somewhat nervously with his notebook. "While we've learned that Captain Linson and Mr. Percy knew each other on the ship, we don't know whether they had just struck up an acquaintance or if they had met somewhere before."
"Right," John affirmed, "Although Captain Linson's reminder to Mr. Percy in that letter makes me think that they have known each other for quite some time, perhaps only meeting again on the boat. You don't tell a recent acquaintance that you know them better than anyone else still living on this earth."
Willie nodded vigorously, agreeing with that assumption. "So, we still need to figure out how they know one another."
"They could be childhood acquaintances, couldn't they?" Mr. Barrow mused aloud. "We haven't learned anything about Mr. Percy's life further back than his time at Oxford. Perhaps it's time to discover more about Captain Linson's own past."
"Will you be asking Lord Rodale about that, sir?" Willie said.
"He'd be the most logical person to turn to," Mr. Barrow agreed. "But we can't forget that Linson's letter implicates Rodale in the unearthing of Mary Sutherland's body. Linson's supposition might be wrong, however. He did not mention having any proof of wrongdoing on Rodale's part in his note. Regardless, we will have to tread very carefully around Rodale."
"And we still don't know how Captain Linson can prove that Mary Sutherland is Lord Rodale's mother," Willie shook his head, feeling overwhelmed by all there was yet to discover.
Mr. Barrow laughed harshly, "We're not even sure that what he says is true, much less whether or not he can prove it."
"So," Willie attempted to pull all the threads together. "We don't know if Mary Sutherland is Lord Rodale's actual mother, we don't know what proof Captain Linson might have to back up his accusation -- if it is true -- and we don't know if Lord Rodale attempted to take matters into his own hands by having her body dug up!"
"So," Mr. Barrow looked directly at his young assistant, "what should we do next?"
Willie looked down quickly. Mr. Barrow had been increasing the number of times he asked the young man to suggest a next step. He knew that this was a part of learning the business and becoming more proficient at it, but it continued to catch him off guard. "I guess we need to learn what the connection is between the three men," Willie said, trying to sound more confident than he felt.
"Right," Barrow nodded approvingly. "I'll visit Lord Rodale tomorrow morning and give him a report on what we have discovered so far, without mentioning the fact that we know where Mary Sutherland's body is and what has befallen it recently, so that he won't become suspicious, and will ask him where Captain Linson grew up as a child. You," he looked back over at Willie, "You will go home tonight and pack."
"Pack?" Willie nearly squeaked.
"I have a feeling that Linson did not grow up in London," Mr. Barrow explained further. "You'll need to go to his hometown and see what you can discover."
"Me sir?" Willie asked for clarification. "Wouldn't it be better if you went yourself? I might miss something that you wouldn't."
"I need to stay here in London," John said, "For one thing, Mr. Darcy also needs to receive a progress report from me."
"It doesn't look good for Mr. Percy, does it, sir? Mr. Darcy will never give him that living now!"
"No it doesn't look like he will," Mr. Barrow agreed. "But, for now, I'm going to ask him to continue to invite Mr. Percy into his home. I don't want Mr. Percy to become overly suspicious just yet. Perhaps, once everything is explained to Mr. Darcy, he will be willing to even assist us somewhat."
"Really, sir?" Willie was surprised. The thought of the upstanding, proper Mr. Darcy assisting Mr. Barrow in his work was a bit shocking.
"He can discover some things better than we can," Mr. Barrow shrugged his shoulders. "He might even be eager once all of the facts have been explained to him."
Willie nodded his assent to this, then closed his notebook and put it away. He wondered if Mr. Barrow was really sure that he was ready to handle such a fact-finding mission on his own. While he knew London, especially the areas near the Thames, Willie had never been out of London before. He wasn't at all sure what he was supposed to do in the country. Would he have to sleep in a hay stack? How would he get around from one place to the next? "Are you very sure that you would like me to take care of this part of the investigation for you, sir?" Willie couldn't help but ask again.
John chuckled and leaned back further in his chair. "I thought that you'd be chomping at the bit to take over this one, Willie," John responded. "It, after all, will get you out of having to meet with Mr. Scoggins on a daily basis. I'll have to go back to performing that task!"
That decided it for him. Regardless of how bewildering the country might be to a boy born and bred in the city -- it had to be easier than talking to Tim Scoggins. "I'm your man, sir," Willie agreed, smiling broadly.
Chapter 9 A
It was an intimate supper, dining room table set for six and only five courses served. Mary knew that Jane had planned it with her sister's condition in mind, attempting to keep it simple and small so that it wouldn't prove to be tremendously taxing on her weakened constitution. It was, after all, the first evening that Mary had been allowed out of the Darcy townhouse, and Mary didn't yet have the stamina to survive through many more courses or a large crush of people. At least, that is what her sisters had contended. Concerned for her health and well-being, they had refused to give their permission for her to set foot outside the front door until she could prove to them that she was fully recovered and wouldn't fall ill again. It was all very frustrating and had only contributed to Mary's sense of being enclosed in a very small space.
After spending two weeks inside, Mary was quite glad to be going anywhere at all and had agreed to attend the dinner party at the Bingley townhouse without hesitation. This innocent-seeming gathering, however, provided Mary with an even greater challenge than having to meet a large number of people or having to recall all of the social rules that governed even the most informal of dinner parties. Tonight's event required that she make the acquaintance of only one new person -- Edward Linson, Viscount Rodale.
Mary hadn't been informed of this challenge before she arrived at the Bingley townhouse in the carriage with Elizabeth and Fitzwilliam, of course, and considered leaving just as soon as she was made aware of the fact that Lord Rodale had been invited as well, but couldn't have done so without causing a great scene by insisting that the carriage be brought from the mews to take her back to Elizabeth's home. In the end, Mary gritted her teeth and decided to endure her sister's continued attempts at matchmaking with the same stoic resolve that she had used to get through an earlier meeting with the Reverend Mr. Richard Percy.
Mr. Percy had called two mornings ago, had been received, and had proven himself to be well beyond Mary's worst expectations. Mr. Percy had salivated over each one of the ladies' hands -- which was something that Mary was not prepared for at all! -- and had then waxed eloquent on his time in India, likening his ministry to that of the Apostles, especially Paul. Mary thought that this was going a bit far, but she had listened politely and had attempted to respond appropriately. This was something that was more easily resolved upon than acted out, and Mary had spent most of her time attempting not to stare at the rather large port-wine birthmark that covered one side of his face. The blemish that ran from the corner of his brow, down to the bottom of his cheekbone was something that was not easily ignored and -- while Mary had been schooled to examine wounds, scars, and deformities without becoming squeamish -- she found the reddish stain a bit distracting.
His birthmark notwithstanding, there was nothing at all about Mr. Percy that could be called attractive. He was pudgy, with a balding crop of curly dark hair on his head, had a slight lisp to his speech, and an annoyingly unctuous way about him. She couldn't imagine what it would be like to endure sermons given by him, much less sweet phrases or tender compliments. That thought made Mary shudder with distaste.
In short, she found him to be even worse than her cousin Mr. Collins, who had once slighted her by not proposing to her after being refused by her two older sisters. Mary had always wondered why Mr. Collins had decided to give up on Bennet daughters and defect to the ladies at Lucas lodge after only going through two sisters and had assumed that he felt that there was something he judged defective about the next one in line. It had been a very mortifying thing to have a man such as Mr. Collins decide that she was not worthy enough to marry! Mary had long since ceased to regret Mr. Collins, however, and couldn't imagine being made happy by a similarly disposed clergyman. And, while Mary could tell that Mr. Percy was better informed than Mr. Collins, she could not see Fitzwilliam giving this man a living, no matter how desperate he was to get his sister-in-law off his hands.
By the end of Mr. Percy's visit, Mary had decided that, regardless of what compromises she had been forced into making in the past and the ones that she might have to contemplate in the future, she was not going to allow anyone to attach her to that man. This she had made quite clear to both Elizabeth and Jane immediately after he had left the house. And, after the strength and intensity with which she had registered her disgust at their matrimonial plans for her, Mary had to wonder at her sister's decision to bring yet another suitor into her life.
But then, she supposed that they thought that Lord Rodale was different.
Mary assumed that Elizabeth and Jane had judged Lord Rodale to be superior to the vile Mr. Percy and, in actuality, that did seem to be the case. Surreptitiously, Mary had watched and listened to Lord Rodale throughout the first courses of dinner and had decided -- by the time that the fish course had been taken away -- that his mind was sound, his opinions were settled, and his appearance was not unpleasing. In fact, if one looked at him from the corner of an eye as Mary happened to be doing as she sat between him and Charles, he might almost be called handsome. His hair was thick and dark, except around the temples where he had begun to turn gray and his features were perfectly regular. There was a pensive, retiring quality to him but it wasn't unbecoming. And Mary had to admit that the sound of his voice was rather pleasant -- deep but with softened, cultured tones to it.
Of course, he hardly spoke three words to her during the course of the meal, regardless of the many bald-faced attempts Elizabeth and Jane had made to engage the pair in conversation. It had been quite difficult for Mary's two anxious sisters to come up with interesting tidbits about Mary without touching on subjects that were now taboo. Jane mentioned that Mary was quite well-read, and then had to skirt around the fact that her sister knew Latin and had attended Cambridge. Elizabeth expressed how grateful she was to her sister for helping her daughter to recover from a bad burn, but quickly grew silent when she realized that she had no way of explaining just how Mary had become so skilled medically.
Mary's six years of living as a man severely limited her sisters 'abilities to praise her in front of a prospective spouse and, after none of her sisters' attempts seemed to produce a longer response in Lord Rodale, Mary had to conclude that he was either exceedingly shy or that he didn't think that she was worth the trouble of being spoken to. Mary leaned towards the latter; she knew that she had been a rather unattractive young lady to whom even Mr. Collins couldn't be cajoled into proposing marriage. Now she was simply several years older and had lost any sort of youthful bloom that she might have had back then. To make matters worse, her short hair was curled in a ridiculously stupid fashion, and her sisters had not allowed to cover it up with any sort of a cap on that evening. And, while she knew that she was dressed in a more elegant style than she had ever been able to afford while living with her parents, she was sure that the costly dress did not make up for such a plain face. She reached up to adjust her spectacles as she thought of this, remembering at the last moment that Elizabeth and Jane had forbidden her to wear them when she was not reading. She did not need them except for reading, but had grown used to wearing them constantly as Dr. Townsend. She looked upon her glasses as an additional part of her disguise and had always kept them perched on the end of her nose.
Mary's reflections couldn't do anything but depress her spirits further, and she endured the rest of the dinner without uttering a word. At the end of the meal Jane stood up and made ready to lead the other two ladies out of the dining room and back upstairs to the drawing room. Mary momentarily forgot that she was to follow them. She had become quite used to being a part of the masculine ritual of drinking port and smoking a cigar at the end of a meal. She had ended many a meal in that boring fashion as Thomas Townsend, even going so far as to learn how to successfully smoke a cigar.
Lord Rodale had risen to his feet and helped her out of her chair as if it were the most natural thing for her to require such assistance. Actually, she found that it was much easier to maneuver into a standing position without becoming tangled in her gown if she did have someone pull out the chair for her. She had no difficulty in accepting his assistance with a great deal of grace, but still wondered at the difference in behavior that was now expected of her. Instead of being called upon to bravely puff away on a roll of smoldering tobacco leaves, trying to keep from coughing inexpertly in the presence of a boisterous group of men, she was appreciated for the way that she moved quietly out of a room and how quickly she went to wait patiently in another. Had she exerted that same degree of patience and grace when masquerading as a man, she would have been quickly judged to be a innocent little boy, not yet ready to leave his mother. And, if she had now announced her intention to remain in the drawing room, partaking in a share of the wine, she would have been labeled as a dangerous radical.
Mary still hadn't figured out how to resolve these two states of being into one person. It wasn't that she missed being a man; she had long ago realized that there was an undeniable femininity to her that reveled in the opportunity to wear long, silk dresses again. But she did wish that she were able to have her share of the same opportunities and challenges.
She did not care about being allowed to smoke after dinner, so she nodded sweetly to the gentlemen as she passed from the room.
The three men joined them later in the evening and Charles unwittingly provided the next attempt to bring Lord Rodale and Mary together. He suggested a game of whist.
"But that only allows for four people," Jane exclaimed. "Two of our party would be left to amuse themselves!"
"And I'm afraid that I don't play," Lord Rodale mentioned quietly, as he accepted a cup of coffee from Jane. "Although I suppose that I did know the game at one point in time. I didn't have much of a chance to play cards while living in Barbados."
"I'm afraid that I never did learn the game either," Mary admitted as well. "I suppose it was one of the failings of my upbringing."
The other four began to exclaim over the fact that the two didn't know how to play whist and immediately launched into separate speeches that appeared to be attempts to explain the game to them. They kept on using strange phrases like "trump" and "following suit" and "reneging" as if they were in everyone's common vocabulary and they all began to insist that they could manage to teach them quite easily and that it wouldn't take much time at all for them to pick up the nuances of the game. It was all very overwhelming to Mary.
Eventually, Lord Rodale appeared to have had enough of their suggestions. "I'm sure that Miss Bennet and I can enjoy ourselves better by watching the four of you play," he said, looking at Mary as if encouraging her to agree.
Mary was surprised by that but quickly did as he intimated. "It is sometimes better to learn by example than it is to learn by practice," she said, not feeling as if there needed to be any truth to her statement, just as long as it kept her out of being forced to play the game.
As two of the footmen began to bring in the card table, Lord Rodale brought his cup of coffee and a plate of biscuits over to the sofa. He sat down and looked over at Mary as if inviting her to accept a seat next to him.
Mary blushed deeply but picked up her cup of tea and went to the sofa.
"So, how is it that you escaped having to learn the game as a child?" Lord Rodale asked.
"I seem to have been quite occupied in the pursuit of other accomplishments when I was a young girl."
"And you didn't consider whist to be a suitable accomplishment?" he asked further, picking up a biscuit from the plate that he had put down in between them on the sofa.
"I suppose that I did not at the time," Mary shrugged her shoulders and wondered how long it would be until they had run out of things to say to one another.
Lord Rodale took a bite of the dry biscuit and made a face, putting the rest of it back on the plate.
"You don't care for tea biscuits?" Mary asked, whispering in case Jane could overhear them. She wouldn't want her sister to think that they were criticizing the food that she provided.
"I suppose that I've forgotten what they taste like," Rodale whispered back, looking over at Jane as she sat down at the card table. "Not that I would wish to say anything against the cook that your sister keeps. I suppose that I've just developed a taste for other refreshments. We rarely had tea biscuits in Barbados."
"Tell me what you would have for dessert if you were on Barbados right now," she asked.
His eyes took on a far-away expression, as if he were walking around the island in an attempt to select the right memory to share. "A mango, I think," he responded finally. "I'd peel it with my own knife and eat it right off the pit." He looked over at Mary and continued. "It's a terribly messy fruit." He flicked his fingers as if trying to rid himself of the sticky juice.
Mary wished that she knew what a mango tasted like. Although she had seen drawings of the fruit replicated in books, she had never held one in her own hand, much less sliced it open and took a bite. "If only I could try that," she said, voice sounding wistful.
Lord Rodale looked at her as if realizing for the first time all that he had been able to experience when compared to what was possible for most Englishmen -- let alone Englishwomen! "Perhaps you will someday," he attempted kindly.
Mary thanked him for that sentiment and felt a rush of sympathy for the man. "You must miss Barbados terribly," she whispered softly to him, thinking of herself as well and how much she was currently missing her church home across London.
"I do," Lord Rodale smiled back at her, "But I also remember missing Yorkshire very much first left England. At the time, I thought that there could be nothing more beautiful than a wild, untamed moor."
"And then you discovered that a wild, untamed island might suit you just as well?" Mary asked, wondering if it were possible to appreciate two places at once.
Lord Rodale nodded his head in quiet affirmation. "The beauty of the islands strike you in a different way. At first you think of the West Indies as being all show -- brilliant flashes of color, but no substance. Then you discover that even islands have deep secrets."
"And moors?" Mary asked.
"Moors have a subtle beauty about them. You come to understand it slowly and -- once that realization comes upon you," he looked at Mary closely before continuing, "you can't understand how you didn't see it before. You always recognize it then... in the plants, in the rocks, in the animals ..." Lord Rodale drifted off.
Mary felt slightly envious of him. She had never ventured out of the midlands for all of her uneasy adventuring as a man. She had never even seen the moors that he spoke of with such affection, much less the West Indies. She looked away, afraid that he would read some sort of longing in her eyes and perhaps ascribe it to the wrong cause. She would not allow herself to appear interested in Lord Rodale! "Perhaps we should move to chairs closer to the game?" she suggested, "Then we could observe it better."
"Would you really like to learn the game?" Rodale asked.
"No," Mary said, "But perhaps my sisters would feel better if we were a part of their group."
"I think that your sisters are quite pleased with the fact that we're over here," Lord Rodale stated, looking directly at Mary. Almost too directly. Mary had to raise her cup of tea again and felt her face growing hot with embarrassment.
"Surely they --" Mary attempted.
"I believe that they're trying to find a way for us to get to know one another." Lord Rodale stated. "Didn't you hear all of their attempts to start a conversation between us during dinner?"
Mary blushed further, knowing that her sisters' behavior at dinner had been all too easily read.
"I've made you uneasy," Lord Rodale said softly and with a degree of sympathy. "I didn't tell you this so that you would be upset. I thought that you might find it just as diverting as I did."
"It's hard to find your sisters' blatant attempts at matchmaking laughable," Mary looked down.
"No it isn't, but I do know how you feel. I find myself in the same muddle. Every lady in town with a daughter has decided that my future marital happiness depends on their interference."
"Except that you have a choice in the matter," Mary pointed out darkly.
"As do you. I should think that a lady's power of refusal is stronger than the gentleman's ability to propose. You have no idea how frightening the idea of being rejected is to a man."
"Somehow, Lord Rodale," Mary said candidly, "I don't think that you have any reason to fear rejection."
He laughed somewhat harshly and looked away for a moment, and Mary began to wonder if she had spoken too frankly. He turned back around. "It's the money and the title that a woman wouldn't reject. I'm sure that if I were judged by my own merits, I wouldn't find myself lodging very deeply in a lady's heart."
Mary didn't know what to say to that. If she had chosen to continue speaking so openly, she might have told him that his own merits were perfectly good and that he certainly could stand on his own in the marriage market without the title or the money, but she couldn't seem to make such an honest confession.
"I see that you agree," Lord Rodale looked down.
"No!" Mary negatived quickly, "It's not that at all! I'm sure that you are perfectly capable of making a woman fall sincerely in love without her worrying about the size of your pocketbook or the length of your family's history."
Lord Rodale smiled appreciatively and looked somewhat relieved.
"Surely, you have already learned that," Mary continued. "From what I understand, you have not always been Lord Rodale."
"No," he admitted, "That is true."
"And weren't there many ladies in Barbados who were more than willing to fling themselves at your feet?" Mary prompted, hardly believing what she was saying. Her sisters would gasp at her honesty if they happened to be overhearing this conversation. Ladies were not supposed to talk this way to their close acquaintances, much less men who they barely knew! She looked over to make sure that neither Elizabeth or Jane were close enough to hear what was passing between herself and Lord Rodale. The two sisters appeared to be engaged in an earnest discussion themselves, but sent two very pleased smiles in Mary's direction. They seemed to enjoy the fact that Lord Rodale had chosen to sit next to her on his own, and no doubt their minds were moving with great rapidity to the purchasing of Mary's wedding wardrobe. That idea made her burn with even more shame, so she quickly turned her attention back to Lord Rodale.
He appeared to be unruffled by the level of intimacy that Mary had assumed in their conversation. He smiled conspiratorially again. "One of the secrets of the islands is that there are not that many ladies to be met on them."
"And what of other secrets?" Mary smiled back, attempting to recover some of the lightness that she had started to feel while conversing with Lord Rodale.
"Of the islands or my own?" Lord Rodale asked, looking somewhat wary for a moment.
Mary was surprised by his change in expression. She wondered if there wasn't some secret that was haunting him just now. "Oh, either type of secret will do," she said breezily, attempting to put him at ease again.
"I shall not reveal either kind of secret until you deliver up one of your own." Lord Rodale tried to imitate her lightness, but was having a difficult time of it. The cheerful, easy tone had gone out of his voice.
Mary stopped smiling. She too had a secret, but could not imagine sharing it with anyone, much less Lord Rodale. What might he have thought if he had learned that she had lived as a man for six years? She had to remember to be more guarded in society. "I fear that I have very few secrets," she whispered soberly. "And the ones that I do have are not worth telling."
Lord Rodale nodded to this, but Mary realized that he seemed to sense something about her as well. It was as if they both knew that the other was keeping secrets, but neither felt as if they knew the other well enough to share them. Mary's spirits sank at that realization. As they began to converse on lighter topics, ones that weren't at all personal, she began to wonder if she would ever know someone well enough to tell her secret to. Would she ever feel safe enough to reveal that she was the one that the London papers were all calling the 'doctoress Miss Townsend'? Wouldn't Lord Rodale be shocked to learn that? Wouldn't that make him want to rush away as quickly as possible?
Mary realized that Jane and Elizabeth's plan of marrying her off to anyone was doomed to failure. How was she to attach herself to someone with whom she couldn't be completely honest and share such a large part of her own history?
The tiny pawn shop at the end of a narrow lane was deserted, but for the aged broker perched on a stool behind a tall desk. It was well near closing time and the man was just allowing the clock to run out before he could lock the door and retire to his back room. In fact, the man was probably just getting ready to slide himself off of the seat and make his way to the entrance when Tim Scoggins walked in. That was typical. Scoggins never could arrive during normal business hours. If it would inconvenience anyone in the least bit, this obstinate soul would be sure to do it.
"I see that you 'aven't sold this yet!" Scoggins began conversationally, gesturing towards a silver urn that he had 'located' on a mantle shelf a few weeks ago and was kind enough to bring to the man for the measly 'finder's fee' that it would bring.
"That ugly old thing?" the man behind the counter wheezed, scraping his rough beard with a corner of a card, feigning disinterest. "No one's gonna buy that! Shouldna 'ave taken it orff yer 'ands!"
"You know a bargain when you see it!" Tim contradicted, walking further into the shop. "I only bring you the best quality goods!"
The shopkeeper rolled his eyes and chose not to comment. "Wot is it you've brought me today?" he said, slipping off of his stool and coming to stand behind a display case.
Tim smiled wickedly and looked down at the display case. "Actually, I've come as a customer," he revealed.
"Really?" the man was skeptical. "You've come to buy summin? That's not exactly in yer nature, now is it?"
No, it wasn't in Tim Scoggins' nature to purchase items when they could be had in other ways. Then again, his reasons for needing this particular item were somewhat different as well. "It's a gift," he explained, continuing to let his eyes wander among the crowded shelves of the case, considering rings, bracelets, hair combs, and necklaces in turn.
"A gift?" the pawn broker raised one eyebrow significantly. "Since when are you in the market fer gifts? A young woman made you go all soft?"
"I'm not going all soft!" Scoggins replied indignantly, even as he wondered if that wasn't just what was happening. To be perfectly honest, Tim still hadn't figured out why he had decided to purchase a small token of his appreciation for Bette. Perhaps it had something to do with that last amazing night that they had spent together, leaving her room that morning much later than he normally did. He very nearly had to run to make his appointment with Barton in time. Not that it would bother him one bit to be late for that man, but he didn't want to annoy the guv'nor by not showing a proper amount of respect for that man's hired boy.
The man scoffed loudly at Tim's weak protests, but decided not to antagonize a potential paying customer much further. "And wot are we in the market fer today, my fine young gent'man? Summin for my lady's 'air? Summin for my lady's neck?"
"Not that any of yer wares'd be good enough fer the likes of her!" Tim chose to spit back, his bartering skill beginning to warm up. He supposed that purchasing an item worked the same way as selling one, just in reverse. He'd turn his nose up at anything that the pawn broker chose to show him and, in turn, the pawn broker would insult his taste. Tim had certainly insulted the broker's taste often enough in the past! Eventually, Tim would select an item that he actually liked and then the real fun would begin. He'd make a ridiculously low offer, the broker would counter with one that was ridiculously high and they would weasel their way to the lower end of the middle, with Scoggins threatening to walk out twice during their deal making as he always had in the past. It was a ritual with which he was quite familiar and he took a great deal of comfort in it.
It was what might happen next that he wasn't at all sure of. He supposed that he should take the purchased object over to Bette's tonight and give it to her. That, he understood, is what men did in his position. But did they have to say anything as they did so? Would she expect fancy words or a flowery confession of his appreciation for her? Would she think that such a gift testified to stronger feelings for her than he would like to admit to?
That's not what he wanted to see happen! He liked Bette, he liked her a great deal. He thought that she was a interesting girl, attractive, and with many good qualities. And he always enjoyed being with her. But that did not mean that he wanted to become attached to her in any more time-consuming way!
He was far too busy for that!
"I'm sure you wouldn't be int'rested in this little gem," the man broke into his thoughts, pulling out what looked to be a very large piece of yellowish glass, surrounded by a ring of cloudy-looking crystals. It was strung on a long, dully-colored gold chain. "But then, again, it might be a bit too elegant for yer young miss," The man made a show of putting it on a threadbare piece of dull, black velvet.
"It's not elegant, it's hideous!" Scoggins exclaimed in disgust. "Where'd ya get such a foul lookin' pasty object? That's not even fit for the stage!"
"This piece used to belong to a very fine actress!" the man retorted, "She said the Prince Regent himself gave it to her!"
"You shouldna have believed her!" Scoggins flicked his hand at the offensive necklace, "Even the Prince Regent chooses better!"
"Well, there's no accounting for some people's taste, now is there?" the man shoved the piece back inside the case and pulled out something else. "A lovely li'tle ring for me lady's hand?" he asked, holding up a gold band between his thumb and forefinger.
Tim shuddered and shook his head quickly. That ring looked too much like a wedding band.
"What about a nice li'tle cameo?" the shopkeeper attempted again.
The brooch reminded Tim of too many little old ladies he had borrowed items from. Tim wrinkled up his nose at it.
"No necklaces, no rings, no brooches," the broker sighed elaborately as he continued to paw through his goods. "Yer a diff'cult man to please." He brought something small and thin out from a drawer. "'Ow about this 'at pin? It'd go well with all of her bonnets."
Scoggins took that item and considered it. The pin had the added advantage of being very long and sharp. He could see Bette using it to fend off the advances of any man who chose not to behave respectfully. Tim could even pass off his generosity as his way of giving her a little bit of extra protection. He rolled it around in his fingers. The hat pin might just fit the bill.
The polished stone that sat like a bead on top of the pin was also quite intriguing. It was opaque and green-gray in color, but with a small vein of red running within. Scoggins brought it up to his eyes and examined it closely.
"You like that?" the broker asked, "It's called a bloodstone."
"A bloodstone?" Scoggins asked.
"Yeah," the broker agreed. "It's named that because the ancients used to say that it was Christ's blood that made them little red marks."
Tim rolled his eyes. He was not in the least bit religious. Regardless, the stone was intriguing. It was not quite beautiful, nor was it quite ugly. In fact, if anything could be considered both at the same time, this would have to be it. When Tim thought about it further, he decided that it's worth couldn't really be measured by conventional standards. "Is it rare?" he asked.
"Oh sure!" the broker agreed, but in a tone that Scoggins didn't know whether to believe or not. Like any businessman, he was skilled in the art of lying. "You jest don't find these things laying around!" he went on.
"Where did you find it?" Scoggins asked.
"It's been so long ago, I can't remember," the man tried to think back. He shook his head.
Scoggins continued to hold the pin, considering it somewhat disdainfully. It wouldn't do to have the broker think that he was too interested in it. It might drive up the price that he would have to pay for it. And, by this time, Scoggins had decided that this was the perfect thing to give to Bette, the stone being somewhat similar to herself in interest and complication. They were both beautiful, but difficult to fully understand.
"I do remember reading a story in the paper about a bloodstone brooch recently," the broker went on, "Seems that an important society lady was robbed of one. Funny thing is that she didn't discover it until some years later. The brooch was long gone by then. The list of potential thieves is a mile long."
"Really?" Tim said, not really listening. He was busy considering his first offer for the pin. "I'm willin' to take this orff yer hands," he placed it on the top of the display case and suggested a ridiculously low amount.
"Oh, you've got to be joking!" the other man replied and the bartering began. It finished only when a relatively satisfied Mr. Scoggins left the shop, a wrapped paper present in hand, and a better satisfied pawn broker closed and locked his door. He thought that he'd never get that ugly object out of his drawers. He could just imagine what Mr. Scoggins' young lady would have to say when presented with such a gift.
By the time that Mr. Scoggins had walked back down the narrow alleyway and had turned into the larger thoroughfare, he had decided not to give it to her just yet. He was quite satisfied with the current state of affairs. Why should he make any changes to something that was already quite good? He'd wait a bit before presenting it to her.