A Beastly Kind of Earl

by Mia Vincy

  “Ooooh,” everyone said.

  “Who is cruelly wronged—”

  “Awwwwww,” everyone said.

  “By a pair of dastardly knaves.”

  “Booooooo,” everyone said.

  “I present to you ‘The Tale Of—’” He paused, arms in the air, and frowned at Thea. “What’s her name, then, this winsome lass?”

  “Rosamund,” said Thea.

  “Can I be Rosamund?” called out a serving woman, a plump fair-haired woman in her thirties. “I’ve always wanted to be an actress. And you can’t do it all on your own, miss.”

  Before Thea could agree, the woman was at the front of the room, curtsying to the crowd.

  “I am Rosamund,” she called out. “I’m a winsome lass”—she pressed one hand to her forehead—“who was cruelly wronged”—she clasped both hands over her heart—“by two dastardly knaves.”

  Again, the crowd cheered. Thea’s confidence grew. They were apparently very easy to entertain.

  “I want to be a dastardly knave!” called a young man, leaping to his feet, followed by another man saying, “Me too!”

  “Of course,” Thea said, because what else could she do? “You are Percy,” she told the thin, sandy-haired one, who did bear a passing resemblance to Percy Russell. “And you are Francis,” she told the stout, balding one. “And remember, you are arrogant, dastardly, and very, very knavish.”

  While the two men got into character, which meant puffing up their chests and strutting around to the cheers of the crowd, Thea darted back to Lord Luxborough and his baleful glare.

  “The knaves in question are Percy Russell—that’s Lord Ventnor’s youngest son; I suppose you know him as you married his sister—and Francis Upton, heir to the Baron Bairstow.”

  “Those are the two whom, ah, Thea reportedly tried to trap into marriage,” he said.

  She waved an admonishing finger at him. “Just listen.”

  The man named Joe put his chair to one side and then helped Thea climb onto it. She looked out over the faces turned to her in eager anticipation.

  Waiting to hear her story.

  The last time a roomful of people had stared at Thea, it was in Lord Ventnor’s ballroom. Now, after three years of her being silenced, spoken over, sent away, people wanted to hear her story.

  She cleared her throat and smiled. “Now listen, all, to the tale of Rosamund, a winsome lass—”

  “What’s that mean, anyway?” interrupted the woman playing Rosamund. “Winsome.”

  “Why,” Thea said, “it means you win some, lose some.”

  The eager, tipsy crowd cheered again. Thea flashed a smile at Luxborough and began her tale.

  Chapter 5

  Rafe let his head fall back against the wall with a thump. This was meant to be a quiet evening.

  But not with Thea Knight, who couldn’t sit in a simple blasted chair and tell a simple blasted story without involving every blasted person in the entire blasted room.

  And were they involved! Awaiting their entertainment as eagerly as in a real theatre.

  He used to enjoy the theatre, Rafe remembered suddenly. How had he forgotten that? Even as a boy and a youth, he loved watching the frequent amateur performances by his parents and their friends. The magic of it thrilled him, the way his imagination would take over, making it real, so when it ended, he would blink with surprise to find himself seated in the middle of a crowd.

  And then—what happened? In America, even when he and Katharine had no money, he had stopped for performances in markets and fairs by traveling theatre troupes. But since Katharine’s death, he had not watched a single play. It was a simple pleasure, yet he had let it be taken from him.

  “Rosamund,” Thea explained to her tipsy audience, “is the brave, honorable daughter of a rich merchant. One day, at a picnic, she overhears the two knaves making secret plans. She hides in the shrubbery to listen.”

  “Rosamund” curled her hand around her ear in a dramatic portrayal of eavesdropping.

  The audience was enthralled.

  “These two knaves are noblemen,” Thea said, as the knaves strutted about. “They are scoundrels, utter villainous blackguards who deserve to have their—”

  The crowd cheered and booed, drowning out Thea’s words. Rafe didn’t need to hear the words to understand the rage simmering under her good cheer. He found himself sitting forward on his seat.

  She calmed the crowd and continued.

  “Rosamund overheard these knaves placing bets on who could first ruin fair Lady Letitia, by seducing her and telling the world.”

  Bored gentlemen were known to make dubious bets, although this sounded worse than most. He remembered little of Percy Russell—Percy had still been a schoolboy when Rafe eloped with Katharine—but he recalled her saying that her brother had been almost sent down from Eton over a betting scandal.

  “One hundred pounds says I can ruin the lady first,” said “Percy.”

  “One hundred pounds says I can ruin the lady first,” said “Francis.”

  Boos from the crowd egged them on into a torrent of coarse euphemisms.

  “I’ll feed her pussycat!” one yelled.

  “I’ll visit her at Bushy Park!” cried the other.

  “We’ll honeyfugle!”

  “We’ll fuddle!”

  “We’ll splice!”

  Thea banged a knife against a metal tankard to bring them to order. They muttered apologies, the crowd quietened, and Thea continued. “Brave Rosamund knew she must warn Lady Letitia.”

  “What dastardly knaves they are!” cried “Rosamund”. “I must warn Lady Letitia!”

  “Oh!” cried the other serving woman, running onto the makeshift stage. “I’ll be Lady Letitia!”

  “Then who’s going to fetch our ale?” someone yelled.

  “Fetch your own bleeding ale,” she yelled back. “I’m an actress and a lady now.”

  To demonstrate this, she stuck her nose in the air and pointed one boot-clad toe in a dainty manner.

  “I must talk to you, Lady Letitia,” said the woman playing Rosamund.

  “Do not talk to me, merchant’s daughter. I’m too good for you.”

  The crowd booed and hissed. Thea, looking worried, waved her hands and said, “No, no.”

  Too much, Rafe thought, and surrendered to his imagination, letting the taproom melt away and the play unfold.

  Narrator: No, no. That isn’t what happened.

  Rosamund: Fine, I’ll let them ruin you, then.

  Crowd: [Cheers.]

  Narrator: No. Rosamund does not say that. She’s our noble heroine and she must warn Letitia.

  Rosamund: Very well. I must warn you: Those knaves have a plot to ruin you.

  Narrator: The two knaves approached Lady Letitia and sought to woo her.

  [The knaves go to Lady Letitia and take her hands.]

  Percy: Fair lady, let us play the game of see-saw.

  Francis: Beautiful lady, let us dance the goat’s jig.

  Narrator: Gentlemen. Please.

  Letitia: You have made a bet to ruin me. I shall not be seduced.

  Narrator: The scoundrels’ game was ruined! They were furious and demanded to know who told.

  Percy: I am furious!

  Francis: I demand to know who told!

  Letitia: [points at Rosamund] It was Rosamund, the merchant’s daughter.

  Narrator: The dastardly knaves vowed to get revenge.

  Percy: We must get revenge!

  Francis: Revenge on the merchant’s daughter! Bwah-hah-hah. [Pause] How do we get our revenge then?

  Thea looked around at the crowd. “We need someone to be the rich merchant, Rosamund’s father.”

  A graying man jumped up and strutted across the stage. “I am very rich. I feast on roast beef every day.”

  Unfortunately, this boast set the crowd to booing.

  “No, stop,” Thea said. “He is not a bad man, but he is very ambitious, and he desperately wants
his daughter Rosamund to marry a nobleman, for the good of his whole family. May we continue?”

  Narrator: Percy, to get his revenge, asks the merchant for permission to court his daughter, which pleases the merchant.

  Percy: I am a nobleman. I want to marry your daughter.

  Merchant: Right you are. Ahoy! Rosamund! Shake your tail with this nobleman then.

  Narrator: Rosamund doesn’t like Percy the Dastardly Knave, but she does want to please her father.

  Rosamund: Very well. You may seduce me.

  Percy: Let’s have a nice game of bob-in-joe.

  Narrator: No! That’s not what happened. He doesn’t seduce her.

  Percy: What? Why don’t I get to seduce her?

  Rosamund: And why don’t I get to be seduced?

  Narrator: Wait and you’ll see. Settle down.

  Percy and Rosamund: Oh, very well, then.

  Narrator: So Percy took Rosamund and her father to a fine ball, where Rosamund and Percy danced.

  There followed an interlude where the crowd sang and clapped a rhythm, and “Percy” and “Rosamund” danced. Rafe fell back against the wall, his unease growing. Thea caught Rafe’s eye and shrugged, apparently cheerful, as she continued her narration.

  “But Percy’s father—a great lord, mind you—was very angry!” She stopped. “We need a great lord to be very angry.”

  Two men bounded forward, both loudly insisting they had the necessary anger to be the great lord. While they argued, Thea dashed over to Rafe.

  “That’s Lord Ventnor,” she whispered. “But it didn’t happen quite like this.”

  “Did it not? You astonish me.”

  “I mean, I—” She stopped short and bit her lip. “Thea only knew about Francis Upton and another man, so she had no idea Percy Russell was involved. I simplified it so as not to confuse anyone.”

  Rafe looked past her, to where the two men were rolling around on the floor.

  “No,” he agreed dryly. “We wouldn’t want to confuse anyone.”

  “This is going very well, I think,” she said.

  Before Rafe could respond, she dashed away, sorted out the two men fighting, leaped back onto her chair, and the play resumed.

  Narrator: The lord was very angry and stopped his son from dancing with Rosamund.

  Lord: [separates Percy and Rosamund] Son! How dare you dance with a merchant’s daughter!

  Narrator: At which point, with every eye on the ballroom upon them, Percy loudly announced that he would marry her, for he had seduced her.

  Percy: What? But I didn’t seduce her.

  Rosamund: You said he wasn’t allowed to seduce me.

  Narrator: Precisely. He told everyone he seduced her when he didn’t.

  Percy: You mean, he lied?

  Narrator: Dastardly knave, remember?

  Percy: Very well. I had a brush with her and now I shall make her my bride.

  Lord: Oh no you won’t.

  Percy: Oh yes I will.

  Narrator: Then the other knave, Francis, runs on and— Where is the other knave?

  Francis: [puts down drink] Sorry. What?

  Narrator: Francis tells everyone that he also seduced Rosamund and intended to marry her.

  Percy: What? How come he got to seduce her and I didn’t?

  Francis: Because I’m better at it than you are.

  Narrator: He didn’t seduce her! No one seduced her! It was a plot. Their revenge.

  Thea’s words were greeted with uncomprehending silence. Everyone stared at her blankly, actors and spectators alike. Her exasperation palpable, she tried again.

  “The two of them told all of society that she lay with them both, separately, to trap one of them into marriage,” she said. “But she didn’t, you see. It was all a lie.”

  More blank faces.

  Thea looked around desperately. “If she lay with only one of them, he would be honor-bound to marry her,” she explained, almost frantic. “But if she lay with both of them, then neither would have to marry her, and she would be ruined and called names besides. Don’t you understand?”

  Finally, they understood. Jaws dropped and spines straightened, and the audience members launched into a round of enthusiastic booing.

  Crowd: Those dastardly knaves! Cads! Villains! Boooo!

  Francis: We played a game of pully-hawly. She might be carrying my baby.

  Percy: We played a game of rankum-spankum. She might be carrying my baby.

  Francis: I’ll knock your teeth from your skull.

  Percy: I’ll tear your guts from your body.

  The two knaves hurled themselves at each other in an exuberant mock fight. The spectators cheered, the other actors laughed, and Thea…

  Thea watched, one hand over her mouth, looking lost. She made no move to intervene.

  “So does either of us marry her?” asked the man playing Percy.

  Thea said nothing.

  “Miss?” prompted the other knave. “Who does she marry?

  Again, Thea said nothing.

  Faced with Thea’s silence, the actors continued alone, the script an old one, already well known. Thea watched the scene unfold, her light gone, as if her life was yet again falling apart before her eyes.

  It was the man playing Lord Ventnor who spoke first.

  Lord: She will not marry either of you, since she lay with you both. And who knows how many others there were? Once these women start, they never stop.

  Rosamund: But I didn’t!

  Lord: Women like you always say that.

  Rosamund: They’re lying!

  Lord: My son and his friend would never lie. You tried to trap them. Everyone knows your father wants you to marry a nobleman. You harlot!

  Percy: Ha ha! She is ruined!

  Francis: We have had our revenge! Ha ha!

  Crowd: Booooo. Hissssss.

  Merchant: But what about me? She’s my daughter.

  Narrator: [says nothing]

  Merchant: Oi! Miss! My daughter. Don’t I say something to help her?

  Narrator: No. You don’t say anything. You hide in the crowd.

  Crowd: What?

  Actors: What?

  Merchant: [looking around, bewildered] But she’s just standing there, with these toffs telling filthy lies. Where’s her family? These people are saying shameful things, and she’s all alone.

  Narrator: Yes, she is, isn’t she?

  The spectators muttered, confusion on their faces, and the actors exchanged looks, full of questions. The whole room waited for Thea to elaborate. She said nothing.

  The man playing the merchant scratched his head, face screwed up. “But I’m meant to be her father. I should stand at her side. I should knock their teeth out. I should… I should…”

  “But you don’t,” Thea said softly. “You hide in the crowd and pretend you don’t know her. You just leave her there, standing alone.”

  The crowd fell silent as understanding crept through the room like an icy November mist.

  Rafe realized he was leaning forward, tense from his jaw to his shoulders to his thighs. He wanted to smash heads against the wall, starting with her father, because Thea’s joie de vivre was a gift that she gave to the world, and they had robbed her of it.

  Something inside him ached, something he could only call his heart. Ached for that bright young woman, whose life had been ruined in such a malicious, meaningless way. Who continued to bear the burden, because of people like him, who nodded and asked no questions because they thought they already knew. That was the genius of the plot against her: People would believe that a scheming woman had used wiles to trick a man, because that was one of the stories people always believed.

  And Rafe, damn his own eyes, had chosen to believe that too. Hell, he had believed it so deeply he had based his entire scheme upon it. But watching her now, he could not doubt she told the truth.

  Yet still she teased and laughed and played, even with this scar upon her heart.

  She was a s
urvivor. When people talked of survivors, they meant battle-scarred soldiers and shipwrecked sailors, people like Rafe, who wore his trauma on his face. But how many other survivors walked through the crowd? Unmarked, unnoticed, keeping their scars hidden as they went about their daily lives. Pasting on a brave face, putting others at their ease, hiding their pain beneath a smile. Of course: Life treated most people roughly, once in a while. Who didn’t, at some point, feel like they had been mauled by an indifferent beast?

  The crowd grew restless, murmurs swelling, and the serving woman playing Rosamund waved at Thea.

  “Miss?” she called. “What happens to me, then?”

  “Your parents cast you out,” Thea replied dully. “Your presence in their home jeopardizes your younger siblings’ futures.”

  “But when I tell them.”

  “They do not believe you. They demand that you leave. You find a position in an isolated country house. You make no friends there, and you never quite belong.”

  “What about us?” demanded one of the knaves. “How do we get our comeuppance?”

  Thea said nothing. The crowd muttered and shifted angrily.

  “Miss?” the other knave persisted. “We do get our comeuppance, don’t we?”

  Thea shrugged. “No. Why should you? You are the sons of wealthy noblemen. There is a small scandal, but it soon blows over. Your life continues the same.”

  Then the man playing the merchant said, “What about me?”

  “You have another daughter. Perhaps she will fare better in helping the family.”

  “That’s a rotten story,” said the first man, the man named Joe. He leaped to his feet and paced about. “It was a good story and then it turned rotten. Whoever heard of the heroine not triumphing? Whoever heard of the villains not getting their comeuppance?”

  Thea said nothing.

  The grumbling grew. The crowd stirred angrily. Some stood. Others banged the tables. A riot was brewing.

  Rafe lurched to his feet. The angry faces swiveled toward him and quieted at his glare.