The Knights of Derbyshire

by Marsha Altman

  It was amazing to Geoffrey that his father could talk with increasing sternness without increasing his volume, even though there was tension enough on the tenants’ side as they face the diatribe. Mr. Darcy, despite his fancy clothing and polished boots, was no dandy and could be as intimidating as he liked.

  “My apologies, Mr. Darcy, sir,” Mr. Peters rushed in before his brother in law could recover. “We hear things sometimes, and you know how John gets a hold of an idea. We’ll pay, of course – both of us.” And this time he put his hand down hard enough on John Wallace’s shoulder, and they both removed their coin purses and paid the rent in full. Change was made, and they were offered tea, which they refused, and left in all expediency.

  Darcy did not hesitate once they were gone. He turned to his steward. “Find out where Mr. Wallace is getting his ideas.”

  Mr. Hammond, Mr. Darcy’s steward since the death of old Mr. Wickham, simply nodded in understanding and left.

  “How do you know Mr. Wallace is listening to someone?” Geoffrey asked his father. “Everyone wants to own their own land.”

  “A good question. Mr. Wallace is uneducated. He can’t read and he can’t write, which means he relies on other people to tell him things. Clearly his family is not politically radical, as we saw from Mr. Peters. So for a radical notion to enter into his head—one that his own brother would oppose, but that he would still mention in front of me – he must have been talking to other people. While no man is incapable of independent ideas, I would suspect in this case they are someone else’s.”

  ******************************************

  The case of Mr. Wallace was shelved for the time being with the news that arrived the next day. There was a disaster in the very mine that Darcy had sold to the Duke of Devonshire. The mine was relatively new, and attempts to open up the new vein of iron ended with a cave-in that killed seven workers. It was not strictly Darcy’s business (in fact, by selling the land he had made sure it was not), but he did pen a note to the Duke of Devonshire that there were suffering families who needed some kind of treatment and perhaps appeasement if the mine was ever to be reopened. The Duke, however, was elsewhere far in the south, so nothing would come of it for weeks. There was so much talk of the sadness among his own staff – as Pemberley was not terribly far from the mine, merely some twenty miles – that Elizabeth insisted they send some goods to the grieving families.

  With that the drama of the mine, it was another day before Mr. Hammond’s agents returned with the information wanted. On Saturday night, the steward passed along the information to Darcy, with Geoffrey present as well. “His name is Michael Hatcher. He’s from Gloucester. He has education, and has been working presumably as a clerk or a former steward to a minor gentleman. No wife or children.”

  “He’s a Radical?”

  “I thought Owenite at first, but it turns out he’s a Spencean – or at least, suspected to be one. If it could be proven, he’d be hanged.”

  Darcy told his son with a look that the explanation would come later. “What is he doing here?”

  “That I don’t know, sir. It may just be safe ground. Derbyshire has been quiet since 1817.”

  “His issue can’t be with me, if it’s mining-related,” Darcy said. “Or industrial. I don’t own any factories.”

  “I know, sir, but do remember – Thomas Spence wrote that land was to be held commonly. So as a landowner, you could be a potential target. So far I believe he has been focusing on the Duke, who has become an easier target after this disaster and his inability to offer consolation from afar, but the crowds are practically the same.”

  Darcy nodded. “If he is a Spencean and he’s lived this long, he’s dangerous. I don’t want your man in danger. Or yourself.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  When the steward left, Darcy turned to his son, and offered the needed explanation. “Thomas Spence, who died a few years ago, was a Radical from Newcastle who believed in the common ownership of land and some form of what the Americans call democracy. I believe he wrote numerous tracts about it, and a society formed around him called the Society of Spencean Philanthropists, a secret society that held a rally distributing his works in 1816. The rally turned into a mob, like most of the radical rallies at the time, and they looted part of London. The Spencean leaders were put on trial for high treason and hanged. From there, they’ve largely disappeared, but only because there’s been so much other unrest.” As he explained, he paced in a way that revealed his anxiety to Geoffrey, “This man Hatcher is obviously using the original doctrine in a new form to appease the local masses, to whatever ends he intends. I tell you now, no good will come of him.”

  Geoffrey could find no reason to doubt his father on that.

  ******************************************

  “Nadi-sama! Brian-chan!” Georgiana Bingley rushed out of Chatton House faster than any of her siblings to greet her wayward uncle and noble aunt, embracing her aunt before the poor woman had time to take her rush hat down.

  “Why do I get the affectionate kid nickname and you get the honorific title?” Brian said to his wife, which only earned a glare from her. “Well, not honorific. Bad choice of words, my dear.” The rest of the family caught up with Georgiana. “Mr. Bingley.”

  “Mr. Maddox. Your Highness.” Charles Bingley gave Brian’s hand a firm shake. “It is wonderful to see you home at last.”

  “Yes. We tried to arrive in time for Georgie’s eighteenth birthday, but the winds were terrible this year.” Brian removed his own hat and re-strapped it around his kimono. Unlike his trunks, his personal items were not handled or removed by the servants, including the swords in his belt. “We still got her a gift, though. Otherwise, the trip was not particularly exciting.”

  “No Dutch-employed commercial assassins? No fights with roving Punjab street gangs? No ninja attacks?”

  “Not this trip. Sorry to disappoint.” Brian bowed. “Mrs. Bingley,” he said, turning to Jane.

  “Mr. Maddox. Your Highness. Always so good to see you both.” The Maddoxes were good friends of the family, despite the spectacle they always made of themselves, dressing and acting as they did. They only got away with it because Nadezhda was foreign and royal. “I hope you didn’t come straight up here without seeing your brother.”

  “No, of course not. We saw him – and Mr. and Miss Wickham.”

  They all entered the house, and were greeted by the staff and Monkey, who squeaked happily and ran up Brian’s offered arm. The servants knew not to expect Brian or Nadezhda to relieve themselves of their formidable weaponry. Brian took a seat on the settee, removing his long sword and leaning on it as they were served refreshments.

  “What did Mugin have to say?” Georgiana begged, almost tugging at Nadezhda’s kimono. “Did he have a message for me?”

  Brian and Nadezhda exchanged glances. “Jorji-chan,” Nadezhda said cautiously, “We didn’t see him on this trip.”

  “But you always see him!”

  “Japan is a big place. Much bigger than England. And they have very few horses,” Brian said uncomfortably.

  Georgiana frowned. She was eighteen now, too old and too intelligent for games. “You’re lying.”

  “Georgiana!” Jane said.

  “It’s true,” Nadezhda answered. “We did not see him. But – when we sent message, we received his sword, and a note.”

  “What did it say?”

  “It was not for you. It was for me,” Brian said. “I’m sorry, Miss Bingley.”

  His formality immediately told her something was wrong, but it took a moment to sink in. “It’s not true!”

  “I can’t say where he is. I can only tell you what we just told you,” Nadezhda said. “I don’t believe he’s dead. Something may have happened and he may be in hiding – but he wanted us to have the sword. That was what he wrote.”

  “He’s not dead! If he wrote to you, he can’t be dead!”

  “We don’t actually know if he w
rote – ”

  “He’s not dead!” she shrieked. Georgiana Bingley never shrieked, or had a tantrum, or ran out of the room crying – but that was precisely what she did at that moment. Bingley was so shocked by the spectacle that he never expected from his older daughter that he said nothing.

  Jane rose to follow, but Nadezhda grabbed her arm. “Let her go.”

  ******************************************

  Geoffrey was heading down the hill on yet another trip with his father when he saw Georgie running towards him from the direction of Chatton House, her white dress and red hair against the green hill an unmistakable image. Darcy spotted her at the same moment, and tried to find out what had happened. “Miss Bingley – ” But there could be no conversation with the tear-stricken Georgiana as she grabbed hold of Geoffrey, sobbing into his chest.

  “He’s not dead!” she finally said. “He promised me!”

  “Who’s not dead?” Darcy said, alarmed. Geoffrey was too shocked to say anything.

  “Mugin,” she answered, sniffling. “Uncle Brian and Nadi-sama came home and they said that they sent for him and instead of him coming, they received his sword and a note saying it was theirs.”

  Geoffrey looked to his father, but he was waiting on the response of his son, who knew Georgie better. So Geoffrey, uncomfortable with his cousin’s continued physical nearness, half embraced her, stroking her short locks. “Shh. He’s not dead. If he was, that was the message they would have received. He just gave them his sword.” He smiled at her. “You know Mr. Mugin. Maybe he lost the sword in a bet and had to make sure it was off the entire Continent to keep it safe. Or something silly like that.”

  She nodded, wanting so desperately to believe. It was only then that she realized the impropriety of the situation, and pulled herself from her cousin, wiped her tears, and curtseyed to both of them. “Uncle Darcy. Excuse me.” With that she was gone, just as quickly as she had appeared.

  “That was ... odd,” Geoffrey said, a little hot under the collar himself.

  “How does she run in those wooden sandals?”

  “They’re reinforced with steel.”

  “That does not really answer the question, but I will accept it for the time being, rather than be late.” He nudged his son and they continued down the hill. “Though perhaps you should warn Miss Bingley about such displays or she may end up married to the next person she encounters while upset.”

  Geoffrey hoped his chuckle would defuse his blush, but it did not.

  ******************************************

  The Darcys’ visit was not a hostile one by any means. Mrs. Donovan always paid her rent in kind, which was bottles and bottles of fresh milk, and it was a Darcy tradition to pick up the bottles once a month themselves instead of sending a wagon to pick up the delivery. The old widow was eager to see the young master, who was now just a few days shy of being eighteen, and Geoffrey had to endure her telling him what a nice young man he’d grown into.

  Darcy stepped out onto the front porch, abandoning his son with a smirk, only to have his expression fall when he saw who was outside. Mr. Wallace, whose lands neighbored Mrs. Donovan’s little plot, was standing under a tree with a man Darcy didn’t recognize. Being a gentleman before anything else, he put his hands behind his back (one not far from the pistol tucked into the back of his waistcoat) and approached them, bowing. “Mr. Wallace.”

  “Mr. Darcy,” Wallace said, not looking pleased at being discovered; in fact he looked surprised, despite it being broad daylight. “You here for the milk?”

  “Of course. And would you be so kind as to introduce me to your friend here?”

  Darcy suspected the name before Wallace said it. “Mr. Darcy, this is Mr. Hatcher.” Darcy did not show any surprise; he had none.

  “It is a pleasure to meet you,” Darcy said.

  “Pleasure is all mine,” Mr. Hatcher said, approaching him and offering his hand. Hatcher was short and stout. He was definitely a southerner but his accent was distinctly refined, like that of Town, perhaps a lawyer or a clerk of some kind. He had overgrown hair and a downright hostile gleam in his eye, even though he was all smiles. “I hear you are the big landlord around here.”

  “I am Darcy of Pemberley and Derbyshire, yes, but it is really His Grace the Duke of Devonshire who holds more claims than myself.”

  “So I heard. Well, we won’t keep you from your important business, Mr. Darcy.” He saluted in a ridiculously overextended bow; nothing in Darcy’s nature could allow him to return such a spectacle before they departed.

  “Father?” Geoffrey’s voice sounded out behind him, and he turned to his son, finally out of Mrs. Donovan’s grasp. Darcy was glad his son had not been introduced to Hatcher. “Son, let’s be going.” Geoffrey carried the milk, and Darcy mused on his intuitions about the mysterious Mr. Hatcher.

  Chapter 9 – The Ring

  It finally seemed to be warming up. After a long, cold winter, this brought a particular joy to everyone, even if some of the roads had been washed out by melting snow. Sawdust was tossed onto the wet roads and Lambton was alive with people as three Bingleys climbed out of their carriage. Georgiana was out and able to walk about in society with her brother, Charlie, as an escort. Eliza insisted on coming, though she wore a broad-rimmed hat and kept her hair down. Still, there was not likely to be a soul in Lambton who did not know the Bingley children and their individual statuses – for what was there to do in a country town but discuss the doings of the rich and their alternately adorable and meddlesome children?

  In public at least, Georgiana was a proper gentlewoman, even if her hairstyle was a bit unusual, hidden beneath a wicker hat. She led and Charlie had to keep up with her, with Eliza walking behind them. Their mission was singular but hardly easy – find a birthday gift for Geoffrey. The delay in winter post had prevented them from ordering anything from London and his birthday was in two days. Their relatives were due to arrive from Cambridge and from London the next day.

  “What do you get a boy who has everything?” Georgie said. “And don’t say ‘ribbons.’”

  “I wasn’t going to,” Eliza chimed in. “We could get him a book.”

  “I doubt we could find one in Lambton that cannot be found in Pemberley’s library.”

  “We could get him wine,” Charlie said, and endured his elder sister’s glare. “What? He drinks as much as any boy his age.”

  “Man. He is to be a man now. Remember that.”

  “Maybe you should remember that.” This comment provoked another harsh stare from Georgiana to her brother.

  “We have to get him something better than just more booze,” Georgie said. “Besides, I already bought plenty.” Every year, Georgie, Geoffrey, and the oldest other cousin available – usually Charlie but sometimes George – got drunk on Geoffrey’s birthday, long after their parents had gone to bed. “You’re nearly his age. What do men want for their birthdays?”

  “So you admit I’m a man then?”

  She rolled her eyes as they entered one of the finer establishments in town, a sort of odd-and-ends shop that sold items of refinement, like jewelry and pocket watches. “We could get him a ring,” Eliza said, her gloved hand tracing the glass of the display case for signet rings and even a few wedding bands.

  “We can’t get him a signet ring if he’s to inherit the Darcy one from his father. What will he do then?”

  “Plenty of people wear two rings. Some wear more.”

  “He wouldn’t, though. Too ostentatious,” Georgie said.

  “God willing, Uncle Darcy will live for many years to come. He could wear it until then,” Charlie said. “It could be the ‘Darcy heir’ ring instead of the Darcy signet ring. And then for his son.” He turned to the shopkeeper, who had little to do but listen to their conversation, though he made a pretense of reading the paper. “Mr. Harris, what would a gentleman of eighteen want for his birthday?”

  Mr. Harris chuckled. “I could tell you want a gent o
f eighteen would really want, but that would hardly be proper in front of the ladies.”

  “Geoffrey’s not like that!” Georgie shouted from the back of the shop, as Eliza covered her own mouth to stifle a laugh. “Don’t laugh!”

  “She’s allowed to laugh,” Charlie said. “She’s just not allowed to get the joke.”

  “While you try to internalize and discover the stupidity of what you just said, I will try to find him a proper present,” Georgie said. “Mr. Harris, what is this?”

  “’s a signet ring, marm,” he said. “Gold. I could make an engraving this afternoon if you’d like.” The plate was blank.

  Eliza joined her sister. “The band is funny. Is that Latin?”

  Mr. Harris put on his spectacles and opened the case, lifting the ring up so the light through the window from the noonday sun hit it just right. “No. ‘Tis Irish, I believe.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Don’t know.” He fingered it. “It’s all been here since my father let me start workin’ hours in the shop ‘tis all I know, Miss Bingley.”

  “You don’t suppose it’s some kind of old Irish curse?” Eliza whispered, though not particularly softly.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. What kind of shop would be selling cursed rings?” Charlie said.

  “Not my shop, certainly,” Harris defended.

  “There’s no such thing as magic and curses anyway,” Georgie declared. “How much?”