The Knights of Derbyshire

by Marsha Altman

  “How is this supposed to help me digest my meal?”

  “You are old enough now that I can admit to you this: Some things are utterly beyond my understanding. Most of them involve the social habits of polite society.”

  Geoffrey smiled at that and they returned to the study for another toast. No one else was smoking except Bingley and Brian, but their hookah produced only the scent of lemons. He was eventually excused to join his younger relatives for their own revelries, and the older generation watched him leave the study with pride.

  “You all owe me a great thanks, and not for the reasons you are imagining,” Mr. Bennet said, raising his glass of brandy to meet Darcy’s. His son-in-law had an unusually warm smile on his face, a mixture of pride and a bit more liquor than he was accustomed to. “Without me as the last representative of my generation, the rest of you would be the old men.”

  “To that I admit I am quite grateful,” said Bingley with a smile and a gesture toward his graying hair.

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

  “It’s beautiful.” Geoffrey held the ring box in his hands. It was the last of the presents he opened, mainly because it was slipped in at the end.

  “We didn’t know what to get for you,” Eliza said, “so it’s from all us Bingleys.”

  “Thank you,” he said, embracing his cousin as he put the signet ring on his finger. “What’s the other writing?”

  “Something in Irish, we think,” Charlie said. “Even George couldn’t recognize it.”

  “Maybe you could show it to Uncle Grégoire when he comes,” George Wickham said from his corner, where he was sitting in an armchair with a book and his own glass of peach-colored brandy. Grégoire, Caitlin, and Patrick Bellamont-Darcy usually came in the late spring or summer, depending on the weather. “Do you read his columns?”

  “I read a few,” Geoffrey said, finally taking a seat and a bottle of wine. “Don’t tell him this, but I don’t understand them. They’re mainly about family.”

  “What’s wrong with family?” Emily Maddox asked.

  “I mean to say, they’re mainly concerning fatherhood,” he said, in undertone. “Because ever since he became a father, that’s what he writes about.” He leaned back and took a swig from the bottle before passing it to the waiting Georgiana Bingley. “I’m not ready to be a father.”

  “Why is it that girls are ready to be mothers before boys are ready to be fathers?” Emily asked. “Georgie – you could be one at any time.”

  Geoffrey giggled; Georgiana gave her cousin a cold stare. “It doesn’t happen spontaneously, you know. There’s the business of courtship and marriage first.”

  “Hopefully,” Frederick said. “Or there’s the business of running to London to get a license and then marrying the next week.”

  “Will someone please explain to me what that means?” Emily said, and turned to her twin brother Frederick, who just smiled at her. Eliza shrugged. “Georgie – you’re old enough to be thinking about these things.”

  “Don’t remind me,” she said, and took another swig. “What Fred is trying to imply is that sometimes men do stupid things and then suddenly have to marry a girl to save her reputation. Which no one in this family will be doing – right, Frederick?”

  “Please. With my father? And my mother? I’d never hear the end of it,” Frederick said.

  “Don’t think it’s any different for the rest of us,” Geoffrey added. “I think my father would disinherit me.”

  “He can’t; you’re the only son,” George said, not looking up from his tome, but taking another drink straight from the crystal bottle.

  “Papa would never do anything like that!” Anne Darcy said. She reached for a glass but Georgiana, who was somehow the authority for her younger cousins on this matter, shook her head and handed the bottle back to Geoffrey. Sarah and Cassandra were too young even to be in the room. There were already two girls present who were not properly old enough to drink, and that was enough.

  “Of course he wouldn’t,” Georgiana said to console her. “Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t torture Frederick about it.”

  “Why am I the object of scorn?” Frederick asked.

  “Because you brought it up,” Geoffrey said, in support of Georgiana.

  To that, Frederick had no answer, except to go deeper into the bottle. He was younger than the Bingley twins by a year, and he had his sister at his side to watch him, so it was not long before he dropped off and excused himself, taking his sister with him. Anne and Eliza hugged Geoffrey one last time and headed to bed. That left Charlie as the youngest, and with the lowest tolerance (aside from George, a known lush) he lasted only another hour before falling asleep on the sofa.

  “Could never hold his liquor,” Geoffrey said.

  “He’s my baby brother! Don’t insult him behind his back.”

  “He’s facing me.”

  “She’s facing you is what she means,” said George. “And whatever happened to Edmund?”

  “They’re both my baby brothers,” Georgiana said, opening a new bottle of wine. “’cause I’m older.”

  “Do you remember Charlie as a baby?” Geoffrey said, pouring her another glass, and one for himself. “Because I don’t.”

  “I remember when he was a baby,” she said. “I remember because it’s my first memory.”

  “Of Charlie?”

  “No, but he was there. He was crying in the background. You were there, too, you idiot.”

  He grinned. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  She took a gulp, but did not succeed in emptying her glass before continuing, “I think we were – I don’t know, three or four, maybe. You were at Chatton House and you wouldn’t bathe and I said something to Mama, and I remember it because she fainted. I had never seen someone so big fall like that. I was really scared.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You’ve never asked?”

  “No,” she looked into her glass before taking another sip. She clearly wanted to change the subject. “What’s your earliest memory?”

  “Mother and Father going away,” he said. “Or maybe it was just Father – I don’t remember if it was the time they went to Italy or when he left for Austria. I was at the docks in London to see him off. And maybe Mother.”

  “Why are your memories so melancholy?” George said.

  “Why do you always come in with this booming voice of authority, Mr. Wickham?” Georgiana said with a giggle. “Just because you’re a year older than us.”

  “More than a year.”

  “Wha – what’s your first memory, George?” Geoffrey said, turning his head to face George.

  George looked up from his book. “My father took me to see a military parade. They used to have a lot of those before the war with Napoleon ended – lots of men in red coats. He was one of them, but he wasn’t marching with that regiment – or he must not have been, because I remember him holding my hand and guiding me down the streets of Newcastle. All the other times I remember were with my Mother.”

  “Isn’t that sort of sad?” Georgiana said. “I mean, now.”

  “No,” he answered, and took a healthy gulp from his bottle. “It was the only thing I remember him doing with me and I had a great time. Why should I be sad that I had a good time with my father?”

  Neither of them could answer that properly. Finally Geoffrey said, “You’re always so logical.”

  “And you’re always impulsive, when you can get away with it. And Georgiana – no one can figure you out. We’ve all given up trying.”

  “You’re not supposed to try,” Geoffrey said in a voice that was beginning to be loud and slurred. “You’re supposed to just think she’s different an’ that’s that. People think too much about her.”

  “I’m still here!” she said, waving across the table at him.

  He didn’t hear her, or didn’t acknowledge her, concentrating on facing George
on his other side, “You’re supposed to just like her for who she is, dummy. You think you’re so smart. Even now – even now – why are you smirking? You smirk like my father.”

  “You’ve had too much to drink.”

  “No he hasn’t!” Georgiana proclaimed. “I know because he’s had as much as you and you’re not even drunk.”

  “Maybe I just have a tolerance,” George said quietly.

  “Don’t smirk at me!” Geoffrey said. His voice was not harsh – more playful. “You have my father’s smirk. Only he’s allowed to do that because he’s my father. And me.”

  “Then you do it, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Don’t tease him! Don’t you ever tease him, George, just because he’s smaller than you!” Georgiana shouted.

  Finally now Geoffrey turned his head back to his female cousin. “I’m not small. You’re small.”

  “I’m a girl. I’m allowed to be small.”

  “You’re – not a girl. You – you’re a woman,” he said, gesturing in her general direction, “but still small.”

  “I could kick your arse!”

  Geoffrey slammed his hand on the table. “That I do concede, young lady.”

  “Young lady!”

  “At least I said lady,” he said, and this time, he did smirk.

  “And you’re a young man, no matter what your age,” George said, standing up. “And you’ve had a bit to drink, Mr. Darcy.”

  “Shut-up! I can stand!” But he couldn’t. His attempts ended when he collapsed into George’s arms, and Georgie dissolved into a fit of laughter in her own chair. While she was busy collecting herself, George helped Geoffrey to his room. He returned to find Georgiana standing up (somewhat unsteadily), holding his brandy. She took a swig and spit it out.

  “This – this is juice! Some kind of – ”

  “It’s peach,” George said. “Peach juice. You know quite well I can’t hold my liquor.”

  “You weasel bastard!”

  “I wanted to see what you would say,” he said. “I don’t have many opportunities. You think you’re subtle – and I admit, you are – but it’s easier when you’re both drunk.” Knowing Georgiana had not the wits to oppose him, he called for a servant to wake Charlie so the eldest Bingleys could be carted off, home to Chatton House. He returned to his own guest chambers, still wearing the very Darcy smirk, to think for some time before finally drifting off into sleep.

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

  Unfortunately for Geoffrey, his Eton days had trained him to be up at dawn for services, and that dawn awakening was not a pleasant one. Fortunately today he was not hurrying out of bed and had Mr. Reynolds, the grandson of Mrs. Reynolds and Geoffrey’s manservant, to attend to him. Reynolds had all of the appropriate brews ready as Geoffrey lay in bed, a pillow over his head. “Thank you, Reynolds.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “I didn’t – Who carried me back last night?”

  “A servant. On Mr. Wickham’s orders, I believe.”

  He rolled over. “Oh. So it wasn’t Georgie?”

  “It was not, sir.” If Reynolds was smirking, Geoffrey couldn’t see. His vision was still a little blurry in the darkness, as the curtains had not been drawn. It would not have been the first time that Georgie, who was tiny in comparison to the heir to Pemberley, had carried him back to his quarters and passed him off to his man.

  As his headache abated, or at least slowly came to a tolerable level, he sat up and ordered the curtains opened as he inspected the signet ring on his finger. Even if it was mostly inscribed in some strange Irish runes (if there were such things), it was quite beautiful in its own way.

  It was a normal morning, and he was still on holiday from school. He was eighteen and a day, which was somehow less significant than the previous day. He did not feel changed in the least, except that he was older and perhaps learning how to tolerate his liquor better.

  Even after lying around for some time, he was still up earlier than most of Pemberley. His sisters were not awake, nor was George, probably sleeping off his own hangover. If his mother was awake, she was off on one of her morning walks. He had a certain appreciation for early morning exercise, probably from her. “Do I have any appointments today, Reynolds?”

  “No, Sir. Nothing scheduled. The master did leave a note that if you intend to go out, there is a delivery to Mr. Jenkins.”

  Old Mr. Jenkins, lately a widower, paid his rent on time every month but also a small addition for supplies, as on cold mornings his joints bothered him and he could not carry heavier supplies, like coal or firewood. “I’ll get that over with, then.”

  “Very good, Sir.”

  He was dressed for outdoors, and took the bag of coals from the storeroom, whistling for Gawain to follow as he stepped out the servant’s door and began the walk downhill to the old house, just outside the boundaries of Pemberley proper. The morning air was brisk; the dew on the tall grass still drying by the sun, so much so that Gawain was well-soaked when they finally reached the road.

  “I know the feeling,” Geoffrey said, as the dog looked reproachfully at him, his own boots quite wet. He set down the bag for a moment as his hound shook himself out. “Here, Boy.” Gawain was now ten, getting on for a hound, but with luck he would have some active years left in him. Still, he was no puppy, and when Geoffrey knelt and stroked his head, scratching behind his ears, he noticed that the dog’s hair was not as smooth and soft as it had been. “Did you at least steal some bacon from one of the cooks today?”

  The noble hound’s response was to jump up on his knees. Geoffrey laughed and let Gawain lick his hands. “Well, I’m as hungry as you are. We’ll head straight back after this, I tell you that.”

  Throwing the bag back over his shoulder, he trudged the last few feet to the house, and stepped onto the porch to knock on the door. There were voices inside – multiple ones. He frowned. “Mr. Jenkins?”

  The door eventually opened, and the old farmer looked at him with a surprised smile. “Master Geoffrey. I’m sorry – I was so caught up with my guests – ”

  “I just have your coal here – I would leave it but it’s rather heavy and I wouldn’t wish you to strain yourself. Do you mind if I just slip in and put it near the stove?” He had never come upon Mr. Jenkins with visitors.

  “Uhm – yes. Of course, Mr. Darcy.”

  Geoffrey nodded and entered, proceeding straight to the kitchen. In the other room was the sound of multiple voices, but he ignored them for the moment, setting the coal down in its place. He had come just in time, too – the other bag was nearly used up. “If you need more – ”

  But when he turned around, the man approaching was not Mr. Jenkins. It was that man his father said was Mr. Hatcher, and behind him, more recognizable faces like Mr. Wallace and some other field laborers. “Good morning,” he greeted cautiously.

  “Hello, Mr. Darcy.”

  Jenkins stepped in. “Mr. Hatcher, this is Master Geoffrey.” To which, Geoffrey tipped his hat.

  “Michael Hatcher.” The man didn’t bow. Gawain growled softly at Geoffrey’s side. “Your dog doesn’t seem to like me much.”

  Geoffrey patted his hound with a nervous smile. “Do not mind him. He’s just hungry.”

  Jenkins squeezed in through the hallway to come between Geoffrey and Hatcher. “Mr. Hatcher, please, he’s just comin’ through to give me some coal – ”

  “A generous offering,” Mr. Hatcher said coldly, “from the giant stocks of Pemberley.”

  “Don’t talk like that to ‘im, Mr. Hatcher – that’s the young master. You shouldn’t – ”

  “I am a free man and so is he, so we can speak as we please,” Hatcher said. “As for you, Mr. Darcy, I am quite aware of who you are. There is not a person in Derbyshire that does not know of the heir to the fortune of Pemberley.”

  “Pemberley is more than just to be measured in monetary terms,” Geoffrey said, his Darcy indignation rising before he put a stopper in it. “B
ut this is not the time to discuss it. I am due back at home and I did not wish to interrupt your meeting – ”

  “Hatcher,” the man to his left said in a hushed voice. In the confusion of the moment, Geoffrey could not properly recall his name. “He’ll tell his father.”

  “Don’t you think I know that?”

  “Tell him what? There’s nothing wrong with hosting guests, Mr. Hatcher. You’ll find us quite hospitable in Derbyshire,” Geoffrey said, with a nervous glance to Jenkins.

  “Really?” Hatcher stepped forward. “So you say I would be welcome in the great house of Pemberley?”

  “If you had an issue to discuss with my father, he would be happy to see you, sir.”

  “But I must have an issue.”

  “Most people usually need some pretense to just up and enter someone else’s house,” he said. The fact that Gawain was tense at his side wasn’t helping his own nerves. “I assume you have some business here that is not my own and if you’ll excuse me, I will tarry no longer.”

  Geoffrey tried to move between the men in the narrow hallway, past Hatcher and the man he didn’t know, then Wallace and the others. A man even bowed to him more respectfully, but he only made it as far as the end of the short hallway before Hatcher said, “And what if it was your business?”

  He could leave. What would his father do? Think to come armed, probably – not that Geoffrey could think of drawing a gun on a man he had just met in the house of a man he knew quite well and respected. He could not think of drawing a gun on anyone. His father would try to end the conversation. “Then I would have appreciated an invitation, Mr. Hatcher.”

  Hatcher approached, and Gawain barked this time, and Geoffrey grabbed his collar. “Excuse me. You are right; he doesn’t much care for you. He is an old dog and he is temperamental when he is hungry. We should be off.”

  “You really have no interest in a discussion concerning yourself, happening behind your back?”

  “I have no interest in political Radicalism, Mr. Hatcher.” He bowed, as if to further indicate he wished to leave as politely as possible.