The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  In his time with the Navy that voice and tone was enough to bring bold men to their knees. With his housekeeper it barely made a dent. "Clearly a few female guests would teach you better manners. You're not abandoned on your own island anymore. This lonely life is unhealthy. It's time you had company, if you ask me."

  "I don't believe I did ask you. And I am not lonely."

  "No? Then why surround yourself with those frightful automated companions?" She gestured at the sketches laid out across his desk. "You don't want a proper woman about the place, so you say, but you'll make yourself that unsightly bit of clockwork nonsense."

  "This is a scientific matter. An experiment enlarging on my earlier work."

  "It's another foolish toy, that's what it is. A toy for a grown man. You're afraid, Commander Thrasher. And you are lonely. Nobody knows that better than me. I wouldn't be here, would I, if you weren't in need of some company? It's time to face the truth and real life again. It has to be said, young man. If you don't take that plunge now, you never will."

  Harry clenched his jaw, anger mounting, a hot flush sweeping his body. But he couldn't find the right words to respond.

  "I suggest you get accustomed to wearing a shirt and breeches about the place more often and not just when you remember it," she added. "Your aversion to decent clothing is bad enough for my old eyes, but poor Lady Bramley will have an apoplexy at the sight of your chest hair. Not to mention the other parts occasionally on display."

  "Parkes, you are welcome to seek other employment any time, but you will find, I'm sure, that other masters don't allow their housekeepers to address them in such a forward and disrespectful manner."

  "And I'm sure other housekeepers don't have to put up with the sight of naked flesh on a grown man. 'Tis no wonder I've got a stomach."

  "We've all got a stomach, Parkes."

  "Not like mine," she assured him gravely, before hurrying out.

  Harry stared at the two missives, turning them in his hands as if that might somehow change the words upon them.

  No. Alas, they still declared the same thing.

  He didn't know which prospect was worse— the woman of lapsed virtue procured by his cousin Max, or his meddlesome aunt coming to put him in order. Two entirely different ends of the spectrum, both unwanted.

  His aunt, of course, was lonely herself, as he'd already observed. Max clearly had not followed his suggestion to visit the lady and now she was at a loose end and itching to meddle in somebody's life. Hadn't that dratted Miss Hathaway creature kept her busy enough to stay out of his hair?

  Well, he would let Parkes deal with these unwanted guests. He would pretend to be out. Permanently out. Parkes, being of the same gender, would know how to handle the intruders.

  Comforted by this thought, he tossed the letters aside and returned to his work.

  Chapter Seven

  Excerpt from “His Lordship's Trousers” (censored)

  Printed in The Gentleman's Weekly, June 1817

  Yesterday afternoon's attire: Buckskin breeches fastened below the knee and worn with riding boots. Returned grass-stained and considerably mauled.

  "I am quite undone," his lordship said to me as he flopped forth into his room at a quarter to five and stumbled immediately into the nearest chair, one foot swung upward in readiness to have its boot removed. "It is altogether too much, and I may have to become a monk if it keeps up at this pace."

  I felt obliged to reply that I thought monasteries in general might have rather more stringent rules of admittance than Whites or Boodles, and that his lordship could perhaps merely cut down on the number of ladies he currently entertains. And save us all a vast deal of trouble.

  "Excellent idea, my good fellow," replied he. "But which? I'm fond of 'em all, don't you know? In their own way, they each hold a special place here." And he laid a limp hand to a section of his torso which was quite possibly suffering indigestion at that moment and had— to my knowledge of the human body— never housed a heart. "It is entirely with the best of intentions that I keep so many ladies entertained. After all, what would they do without me? They would be distraught."

  "Some of them might try being entertained by their husbands," I suggested.

  "What wife is ever kept happy by her husband? No, no, they rely upon me. And so, I 'm quite sure, do their husbands who have not my ingenuity or inclination for the wilder sport."

  "But I fear, sir, that you shall wear yourself out, if you do not take steps to cut down." Ingenuity and inclination, as I warned him, are worth little without a healthy set of tools with which to practice them.

  While my master ruminated at length upon the impossibility of relinquishing one of his "beloveds" merely to give himself— and his trousers— breathing space during the daylight hours, I tackled the mud-encrusted footwear he offered up to me. I could not help noticing that the buckskins in which he had ridden through Hyde Park that afternoon were not only marked with grass stain at the knees— a sadly common occurrence— but that there was a crescent-shaped, jagged tear in the material at his thigh.

  "While I took liberties with the lady, her lapdog took umbrage with me," his lordship explained, having noticed my inquiring glance.

  "I see, sir. Considering your latest adventures with Lady Loose Garters I could not be sure who or what was responsible for the teeth marks."

  As I tugged the first boot free, his lordship muttered, "I quite understand why medieval knights wore so much metal. A suit of armor would be much easier for you to clean."

  I was startled, to say the least, that he cared for any convenience of mine. But there was, of course, more to it.

  "Could save me from so many injuries too, and I would require you to get me out of it wherever I might be, so you'd have to travel with me...run alongside my horse." His eyes gleamed. "That sort of thing."

  I saw he was rather liking the idea of a constant shadow even more at his beck and call than usual. Mindful of what little spare time I currently enjoyed, I swiftly reminded his lordship of the squeaking and rattling that would forestall any attempts at secretive nocturnal exploits up and down the corridors of country estates.

  "The amount of oil required to keep your lordship in smooth and silent working order, should you don such a suit, would certainly be prohibitive. And on a warm day like today it would leave you with the odor of Lancashire Hotpot. A pleasant enough fragrance on most occasions, sir, but perhaps not when one's intention is to discourage the interest of dogs."

  "Good lord yes! I wouldn't want my tender parts cooked."

  Thus we quickly discounted the idea.

  "Do you think it will grow back?" his lordship asked abruptly.

  "I beg your pardon, sir?"

  Lifting his shirt to show the bald spots where we had earlier removed the spilled wax, he explained, "My chest hair."

  "Oh yes, sir. More abundantly than ever, as befits such a splendid specimen of manhood."

  And so with nothing more trying to challenge his lordship's mind than his chest hair, the number and varying savagery of his female conquests, and the relevant tightness of his breeches, we went about our day.

  * * * *

  "What the devil is that?" Parkes exclaimed, stumbling to a halt in the door of his study.

  Harry glanced up from the newspaper to see what she was looking at. On that afternoon heavy storm clouds lowered from the sky, causing a premature darkness inside the house, casting eerie shadows from every corner. Only the fire in his hearth and a lamp on his desk gave out any light, and it was this flicking amber color that had drawn her attention to a new part of his female automaton, where it rested on the seat of a chair.

  "It's a head, of course," he muttered. "What does it look like?"

  The housekeeper stared, one hand to her throat. "Something from the bowels of hell."

  Harry leapt up, moved around his desk and, with his good hand, proudly lifted the half finished orb he'd constructed mostly of dented scrap metal.

  "See?" A s
udden flash of lightning speared through his gothic arched window and lit up the horror. Well, perhaps "horror" was too strong of a word, but Harry had to admit it was no beauty. It was, however, his creation and as such he was already fond of it.

  "You've been stealing tools from my kitchen again," Parkes exclaimed crossly. "Is that one of my copper jelly moulds?"

  "It is indeed." He had topped it off with a chimney-sweep's brush just to add "hair". Smirking, he warned the housekeeper, "I suggest you look about you, Parkes. By the time I am done with this, she will be serving tea and turning down the bed. You may be out of a post."

  "Good. I'd happily turn you over to someone else. I hope she doesn't get overheated or lose a spring rushing from one end of this house to the other, trying to obey all your commands."

  "She certainly won't be talking back to me." He hadn't given her a tongue since it was utterly unnecessary.

  Parkes had already made her feelings clear about his "mechanical wench", muttering under her breath whenever she came upon the pieces.

  "Despicable thing!" She lifted her shoulders in an overly-dramatic shudder. "Whatever next?"

  Thunder rumbled and bumped overhead. The sky darkened further.

  "You've got soot all over your shirt," the housekeeper grumbled, "and all over the hall tiles out there. As if I have nothing else to do but clean up after your experiments."

  "I make this automaton for the benefit of men the world over. A female companion with none of the usual shortcomings. She won't require feeding, grooming, good manners… or clothes."

  The housekeeper gasped irritably.

  "And you will kindly refer to her as Miss...Petticoat." The name came to him quite suddenly as he thought of Max again.

  "Dare I ask what you're intending to do with this Miss Petticoat exactly? I suppose she'll end up in parts all over the house, when she frustrates you, just like the others."

  Another vivid spike of lightning illuminated the room with a quaking silver flare. "She has no purpose but to entertain. I shall teach her to play the pianoforte," he paused, squinting, "or possibly the harp."

  "That'll be useful," Parkes replied scornfully. "Something else to collect cobwebs and dust."

  Thunder bounced across the roof, the storm moving closer.

  "Go about your business, Parkes. Don't let me stop you."

  Once she was gone again, he set the head back upon the seat by the fire and patted its sooty spikes of hair. "Good girl." He smirked as he thought of Parkes and her appalled expression. She was a woman seldom rattled, except by his inventions, and she certainly jumped tonight when she saw that makeshift head. There was still a thrill to be had in terrifying Parkes, he must admit.

  Standing back to admire his handiwork, he thought it seemed almost to come alive with the firelight flickering over its misshapen visage. The sooner he made her a proper face the better. But this was proving a far more demanding process than he could have imagined.

  He looked down at his soot-blackened left hand and wiped the fingers clean on his shirt and the sling, so he wouldn't get marks on his important drawings.

  Rain pelted the windows in the hard, rough patter of gunfire and a quick glance outside showed gusty wind dragging ashy clouds across the sky. Any storm that blew up this time of year hung relentlessly over Woodbyne Abbey for hours, as if the clouds, while on their breezy way across the county, suddenly encountered those chimneys and became snagged upon them, forced to hover there, torn like the sails of a battle-scarred frigate.

  The storm that afternoon was definitely in no haste to move on, but Harry was soon deeply engrossed in his design and had forgotten the weather entirely before the next rumble commenced.

  * * * *

  Howling wind blew cold spikes of rain almost horizontal. Georgiana stepped down from the carriage and tried to hold her head up high enough to take in the grim, bulky shape of the house before her.

  There was no sign of life, no one to greet them.

  "I thought your nephew was expecting us, Lady Bramley," she cried against the wind, one hand on her bonnet.

  "Yes, he certainly is," the lady replied irritably. "And I hope he has not forgotten! Sometimes things just go right out of his head."

  They'd suffered a dismal five-hour journey in this weather, made all the worse by a finding a tree down across the road at one point and then suffering a broken wheel that required waiting while the coachman went for aid. Neither passenger was in a very good mood by the time of their arrival. The coachman was even less happy.

  As he dropped another trunk at their feet, he mumbled crossly, "Good luck to ye," before climbing back up onto the box seat. Georgiana was almost certain she heard him add, "You'll need it with yon madman."

  A moment later she and her chaperone were abandoned in the storm, the coachman having been sent back again the sixteen miles to Mayfair for the retrieval of a lady's maid and several other trunks that would not fit on his first journey.

  As Lady Bramley pulled hard at the bell chord beside the front door, a great, discordant clattering could be heard echoing through the house. But no one came to let them in.

  Lightning flashed around the chimneys, revealing ivy-strewn slabs of the ugly stone structure and wildly overgrown bushes flanking the steps. Thunder followed immediately, trembling through the soles of Georgiana's boots.

  She looked around for signs of life. If Commander Thrasher knew his aunt was coming, where the devil was he?

  Aha! There. Candlelight pooled like melted butter around the corner of a crumbling buttress.

  Battling the wind, Georgiana set off for that light at once, determined to rouse someone to their aid.

  * * * *

  Harry felt a tickle against his spine, a frisson that traveled up to the nape of his neck.

  What the devil—?

  He looked up. Firelight and shadow dodged and darted about the room. It almost made his book shelves and that dead, brown potted plant in the corner come to life.

  Thunder growled above, and rain rattled at his windows. He ought to get up, close the curtains and light another candle since it was suddenly so dark out.

  Instead, he fumbled, dropping his pen as a very loud bang shook the walls of the house and the stone under his feet. Slowly, with unsteady fingers, he scratched the back of his neck where some sense of great unease had made itself felt by pricking his skin with little bumps like those on the belly of a plucked goose.

  "Sir. Hello, sir?"

  It was a woman's voice. And definitely not Parkes.

  His gaze went immediately toward the chair where he had set his automaton's grotesque head.

  Did that voice come from Miss Petticoat's bodiless appendage?

  Harry laughed uneasily at his own foolishness. It was the storm, of course, making the commonplace eerie and menacing.

  Another flash of lightning tore through his windows and lit Miss Petticoat's head so that the dented metal seemed suddenly to move, forming features among the bolts.

  "Sir! I see you!"

  His pulse quickened, his heart thumping away against his ribs like a brutal fist trying to break out through his chest.

  "I see you sitting there!" the woman's voice howled in a ghostly pitch.

  Good God. He had finally gone insane, lost his last grip on reality. He knew it must happen one day, naturally.

  Now his heart was beating so hard it echoed around the study, even rapped against the window, louder than the rain.

  He stood, staring unblinking at the automaton's head while it stared back from the chair. Leered might be a better description of that expression, he thought, chilled to the bone.

  "Let us in!"

  Suddenly he caught the movement of something at the window. Finally he tore his gaze from the chair and saw a real, moving, agitated woman leaping about in the rain, trying to get his attention.

  His heart slowed to a more manageable pace. For the first time in his thirty years he was actually relieved by the sight of a woman. Althou
gh it was but a brief sensation.

  Miss Hathaway? She of the burning wig and the flying buttocks?

  What the devil was she doing outside his window?

  She gestured wildly, reminding him of a dancing monkey he once observed in a bazaar. Good lord, she was soaked through, her bonnet drooping, her face pink with cold and shining wet. Why on earth would anyone be out on a wild, windswept, dark afternoon like this?Eventually, with great caution, he sidled up to the gong. Keeping his wary gaze on the creature through the window, he banged the mallet hard into the copper disk. "Parkes," he yelled for good measure, in case she failed to hear the urgency, or decided to drag her feet. "Parkes! The door!"

  The woman outside his window stopped bouncing and scowled, rain dripping off the brim of her hat and the end of her nose.

  "Parkes!" he cried again, his temperature rising. "Something at the door!" Armed with the mallet still in his left hand, Harry walked slowly to the window.

  The vision on the other side looked hopeful, her lips opened to speak, her eyes gleaming brightly. He placed the mallet between his teeth and, with his one good arm, drew first the left curtain and then the right one shut. Let Parkes deal with this. He was in no fit state to manage a woman— everybody said so. "Everybody" being the voices in his head.

  What would she be doing outside his house, on an afternoon of premature darkness and violent storm? But then she did rather seem to make a habit of appearing where and when she was not expected.

  With horror he concluded that his aunt had arrived. And not alone.

  Chapter Eight

  A stout fellow with graying hair and a hooked nose finally let them in.

  "Brown! Thank heavens. I began to think nobody was in," Lady Bramley swept over the threshold, gesturing for Georgiana to follow.

  "I am sorry, Ma'am. Didn't hear a carriage in all this thunder."

  "And I see my nephew still has no footman to answer his door."

  "No, your ladyship. He says the fewer staff the better."

  "But how is your rheumatism?"