The Knights of Derbyshire

by Marsha Altman

  “Who said there’s no such thing as curses?” Charlie asked.

  “I do. How much, Mr. Harris?”

  “That’s pure gold, marm. And to have it ready today would cost a sovereign. Assuming you do want a D.”

  “G.D.,” Georgie said. “His full initials. You think you can make that fit?” The plate was not so much a proper square as a small oval, surrounded by the Irish lettering.

  “I can.” He took the ring and set it on his worktable. “It should take an hour. Maybe two, depending on the customers, but they’re all at the rally.”

  Charlie opened his purse and removed a sovereign, setting it on the counter. “What rally?”

  “Nothin,’” he said quickly, realizing he had mentioned something he probably shouldn’t have. “Nothing for a gent like you, or ladies, certainly.”

  “What rally?” Georgie repeated, more insistently than her brother.

  Mr. Harris gave in. “Some o’ the workers are down at the tavern, listening to a man from the south talk. But you didn’t hear it from me.”

  Georgie nodded. “We’ll be back in an hour, Mr. Harris.” She curtseyed and they left the shop. “Charlie, take Eliza to get an ice or something.”

  “I’m not a baby just because I’m not out,” Eliza hissed. “You never take me along when you two get into trouble.”

  “Because you never think I should.”

  “Even I don’t think you should this time,” Charlie said. “Georgie, this is serious. We should wait an hour, get the ring, and then go home and tell Father.”

  “Tell him what? We don’t know anything.”

  “Georgie!”

  But she was already walking in the direction of the tavern. Charlie sighed frustratedly as she turned into an alley, and they gave in and followed their sister. “All right, Eliza, you can be look-out.”

  Eliza was so excited about finally getting to be in on a scheme that Charlie had to pacifying her, giving Georgiana time to sneak up to one of the windows, with no one to stop her as she opened it just a tad, so she could hear what was being said.

  “Do you work hard on your land?”

  “Aye!”

  “Do you see any reason why someone else should claim it as their own?”

  It was a bigger rally than they had ever heard to be in Lambton, not in size but in intensity. The speaker, whom they could not identify but had a sophisticated London accent, was leading the people down a logical road of thought. “He’s using very leading questions,” Charlie said, as he and Eliza crept closer to listen as well. “They’re only going to answer ‘yes’ until he wants them to answer ‘no’ because it leads to the next question.” He turned to Eliza – younger by six and twenty minutes – and explained, “Logic. I take it in school. He can present them with any body of argument and if he presents it correctly according to a logical progression, he can convince them of anything. It was how the French Revolution turned into a mob.”

  “That and the mass discontent of the peasant class,” Georgiana said. “It’s wrapping up. Let’s be off.”

  But they were not off soon enough. They had barely gotten back onto the streets proper when the man who had been speaking emerged, and doffed his hat to Charlie. “Enjoyed the speech, sir?”

  “...It was engaging,” he stammered, and bowed. “Charles Bingley.”

  “Michael Hatcher. I suppose you’ve heard of me.”

  “I have not, Mr. Hatcher.”

  “Really? I’m surprised.”

  A voice from behind them made Hatcher look over his shoulder. “You hold your fame in high esteem for someone with dangerous notions, Mr. Hatcher.” To their surprise, it was George. He bowed. “Mr. Hatcher.”

  “We’ve not been introduced,” Hatcher said, now as off-guard as Charlie had been. Georgie nudged her brother, but he ignored her.

  “George Wickham,” George said, offering his hand. Hatcher had no choice but to shake it. George was still fairly well-dressed, but not as much as the Bingleys, and he walked differently. He was older than Charlie by three years, and more confident. “I have heard of you, Mr. Hatcher.”

  “And you would consider my simple notions about the rights of a man to be dangerous?”

  “Thomas Spence cannot be equated with Thomas Paine. Unfortunately for you, the former’s works were outlawed, though to your credit, you did deviate from them somewhat. Mr. Spence believed that land should be communal and controlled by the parish and leadership decided by vote, while you seemed to imply that these people would own their own land.”

  “Then I supposed I could hardly be accused of being a Spencean,” Hatcher said with a nervous smile.

  “Good for you, then,” George said, and bowed. “If you would excuse me, I have some errands to attend to.”

  “Of course, Mr. Wickham.” Hatcher did not show the Bingley trio his expression as he stalked off.

  “George!” Georgiana said, beating the others to it. “Where were you?”

  “I’d just come along to look for you when I heard about the rally. Since you weren’t with Geoffrey, I assumed you must be shopping for his birthday present. As for the rally, I was in the building. The people of Lambton are not as familiar with my face.” George Wickham, his father being who he was, did not spend much time in Lambton, and in addition, those who would recognize him by familiar looks were mostly women, not present in the tavern. “Come. Let’s be done with whatever you have left.”

  They headed back to the shop. Georgiana punched her brother lightly on the side, but hard enough for him to feel it as they walked. “Why didn’t you introduce me?”

  “Why would I? He was clearly dangerous. I didn’t want you talking with him.”

  “You don’t get to make that decision.”

  “As your brother, in this case he does,” George said, and endured his own punch from Georgie. Fortunately, he knew it was coming. “What I said still holds.”

  “Who was Thomas Paine?” Eliza said. She was not bothered by not being introduced to a random man.

  “Author of the Rights of Man,” George said. “Very different from Thomas Spence. He emigrated to America before the revolution.”

  By the time they returned to the shop, the work was done and the ring was carefully wrapped and placed in a box before their eyes. It would be a gift from all of the Bingley children, as George had, as he often did, acted on his own.

  “I got him a book,” he said.

  “Of course you did,” Georgie said. “What makes you think he wants a book?”

  “I didn’t say what kind of book,” he answered. Apparently the months under the care of the Maddoxes had been kind to him, as his calm balance was restored.

  The girls went into the carriage first, of course. Charlie gripped George’s shoulder to stop him for a moment before they climbed in. “I’ve never seen you like that.”

  “Like what?”

  “I don’t know. Assertive.”

  “Do you have any idea how much danger you were in?” George said very seriously. “I’m the oldest, so I’m the protector. With this man about, Lambton isn’t just a quiet little town. Don’t come to town without an escort from now on.”

  Charlie chewed on this notion all the way back to Chatton House.

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

  Despite his gregarious nature, Geoffrey Darcy wanted to keep his birthday to family and close friends, and since he spent little time in London, his friends were largely his family. He had never spent a Season in Town, being an Eton boy, and he did not want to contemplate marriage at eighteen.

  While not all Geoffrey’s aunts came, the Bertrands made three out of five (Lydia was invited but apparently did not wish to venture to Pemberley again) and the Maddox clan came as well, being close enough to Derbyshire to make the journey. There was a relaxed supper and many toasts, though few of his rights and privileges had changed upon his birthday. They had already happened; he was a man able to sign legal documents, be a member of clubs, play the
field as an eligible bachelor, gamble, drink, and consort with prostitutes – the fact that he did few of those things was of little consequence. In fact, the most significant milestone was not to be his birthday but his University entrance in the fall, and that was the real cause for celebration. There he would learn some classics, make all the notable friends he would need for social success in life, perhaps have a bit of fun (or more than a bit), and then graduate to a life of bachelorhood and possibly matrimony before his father died and he inherited the estate. Such was the future as he imagined it. He knew what was expected of him, and he had never failed to rise to the occasion before, so everyone gladly toasted to the Darcy heir.

  But the day did not begin with celebrations. It began much earlier, in the morning before the guests rose, in one of the back rooms of Pemberley.

  Geoffrey Darcy relished many things about fencing, but the occasional spar with his father was not one of them. Not that there was anything particularly unpleasant about the situation, but he found it positively confounding to face an opponent who fought on his left side. His usual experiences, in his sheltered existence at Pemberley, were with his coach, and with the only one of his cousins who practiced the sport, Frederick Maddox, and both fought properly, with the right hand. But his father was left handed, or had been since an accident long ago, hazy in Geoffrey’s memory, which made his right hand slightly lame; Mr. Darcy had nearly full use of it, just not to do anything precise. And fencing was indeed very precise.

  Though he was in his late forties, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley had not fully abandoned his favorite sport, even at an age when it was quite appropriate to do so. Occasionally he lacked in stamina, but when the match came down to wits, he was a master. And he made it abundantly clear that if his son was to bother at all with a foil, he should become a master as well. He was remarkably patient, even with his son’s occasional fit of frustration, even the time when Geoffrey actually tossed his faceguard across the room with such ferocity that it put a dent in the stone wall. The anger was not at his father, of course. It was that damned tricky left-handed foil! But his father only shook his head and said, “You will succeed. Though I would prefer if your youthful exuberance did not destroy all of Pemberley.”

  “Then you should never let me spar with Frederick again.”

  Darcy merely raised an eyebrow, his way of demanding a thorough explanation.

  “It wasn’t my fault.”

  “Or you would not have admitted to it. Does this have anything to do with the pillar I needed to replace?”

  His parents were astoundingly, frustratingly clever. “Perhaps.”

  “And the fact that he pushed you into it?”

  “You – you knew?”

  “Of course,” his father said, allowing the servant to take his foil and armor away. “Very little in Pemberley happens without my knowledge.”

  “But – you didn’t say anything?”

  “You admitted to me that a pillar had been destroyed and did not supply specifics. If I wanted them from you, I would have asked.”

  Geoffrey sat down beside his father on the bench, trying to puzzle out exactly what his father was expecting from him. There was clearly something deeper here, but he could not get at it. His father always wanted him to think things through, even when his mind was in a daze from the rush of combat, and he wanted nothing more than to dunk his head in cold water and rest for a while. Perhaps he was mistaken and nothing else was required – but it was better to be safe. “So – are you asking now?”

  “As I have said, I already know the specifics. But, while we are on the topic, I would like to hear your commentary. I think it would be interesting.”

  Interesting. It was probably not that simple. His father was probably expecting to glean something from the reply. He knew that much. “I don’t have much to say about it. Fred shoved me into the pillar and since it was wood and half-eaten by termites on the inside, it broke.”

  “And nothing about that strikes you as odd?”

  “Well - ,” Yes! Now he had it. “It is not gentlemanly behavior to engage in physical combat in a duel of swords.”

  “Correct. But it is also not gentlemanly behavior to pass judgment on another fighter. But I will take into account that until I pressed you, you clearly did not intend to, except for your original comment, which was another response to mine.”

  “But he’s a cousin.”

  “So are you making a judgment on him or his fighting style? Because they are, to all effects, the same.”

  Geoffrey looked at him quizzically.

  “A man reveals almost everything when he fights. Very few are capable of subterfuge in the heat of battle. On the most basic level, if he constantly attacks, then he wishes to either scare you or defeat you quickly. This you know.”

  “Right. And if he parries constantly, he is waiting for an opening.”

  “Yes. But it goes beyond that. If you know the fighter, you can take your knowledge of his character into account. If you don’t know the fighter, you can learn a lot about him from fighting him. It requires astute observation, but it is often the key to winning a match. For example,” his father said, “you are very young – ”

  “I’m not a child!”

  “ – in comparison to me, are at an age when you have a certain ferocity that is fueled by the particular position of being eighteen. And also, when your face is particularly flushed, I know that you are about to be too aggressive for your own good, and will fail to block. In fact, I have just told you the great secret to how I beat you, because I assure you, it is not by stamina, or skill, as my left side was, originally, my weaker side, and not the one I trained with.” He gestured and the servant brought them water. “I win not because you lack any particular skill for your age, or do not have the coordination. I win because I have spent many years learning to read my opponent.”

  Geoffrey nodded and swallowed that particular information with his refreshment. His father seemed tired, and needed a breather anyway, even from talking. He could remember a time when his father did not have so much grey in his hair. After some silence he asked, “Did grandfather fence?”

  “As a boy, I believe so. He had long given it up when I was of age.”

  “Then who was your partner? Uncle Bingley?”

  “No, I had not met him, and he has never once fenced. I spent a great deal of my years before Cambridge sparring with your Uncle Wickham.”

  “I never met him, but I remember his funeral.”

  “You met him when you were very young and therefore simply may not remember it. I vaguely recall that Bingley hosted him at Chatton House while you were there. It was not a remarkable visit or they would have informed me so.”

  “What was he like?”

  His father hesitated for some reason before answering. “As a fighter, very aggressive. But then again, so was I. I would say, we were equal until the day I first beat him, and then he threw down his sword and would not fence with me again. Or did not, for a long time.”

  “So, Fred is rather like him.”

  “I would hardly put them in the same category,” his father said. “This is not to make a permanent judgment of Frederick. You should be very careful when making assessments of people, Son, and especially careful not to mention them to others. It can be misconstrued as gossip.”

  Geoffrey knew his father held gossip in very low esteem, even though everyone seemed to do it, all the time. It seemed to be the entire purpose of any social gathering, as far as he could tell.

  “On the other hand,” his father continued, “if you felt that your cousin was engaging in behavior that was unsafe, you should bring it to my attention, as I am responsible for your safety – and his, while he is under my roof.”

  “But you said already you will learn it anyway.”

  “Slowly and through many mediators. Entirely different than if you say it yourself. And it is partially your own responsibility to bring it forward.”

  “I’m confused,
” Geoffrey said. “Am I supposed to say it or not?”

  “Well, since we’ve gotten this far, I suppose you should.”

  He swallowed and decided that he would. “I don’t think Fred is very ... gentlemanly ... when he fights.”

  “How so? Besides shoving you into a pillar hard enough to break it.”

  “He is – ferocious. When he fights. He is so different from his normal self.” Frederick Maddox was often mischievous and devious, but had an otherwise gentle nature.

  “Both a danger and a weakness. It is important to look out for one and take proper advantage of the other – in a duel that is.”

  “He’s so – I don’t know. Different. From, say, his father.”

  His father said nothing.

  Geoffrey took this as encouragement to continue. “Does Uncle Maddox know how to fence?”

  “He does not.”

  “Because – I can’t imagine Uncle Maddox fighting anyone. He’s so proper and – not to say this isn’t proper – pacifist. Fred is so different from him.”

  Darcy did not respond directly. After a few moments of sitting, when his breath was truly and finally caught, he slapped his son on the shoulder. “We’re all different, son. The changes just happen more gradually in some than we perceive them to in others. We celebrate a year’s growth, all in one day.” He added, “On the other hand, the day you beat me, that will be very dramatic. And traumatic, for me.”

  His son smiled as he smiled, and Darcy thought inside, But I’m looking forward to it.

  Chapter 10 – A Gentleman of Eight and Ten

  Aside from the younger children’s usual boisterousness, the celebrations that day were appropriately subdued. Geoffrey was a man, which involved celebration with food and wine, and his first cigar, or at least a puff of it before he was out on the terrace, coughing, trying to breathe in some fresh air.

  “I never cared for it myself,” Darcy said to his son, slapping him on the back, which only brought on another round of coughing, “though it is a good idea to get used to the smoke, as it seems as though every study is filled with it.”