The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  "Another one of your beliefs, eh? You make a study of such things, do you, Miss Hathaway?"

  "Yes. You see, my friend, Miss Emma Chance, was treated cruelly as a very young girl. She was looked down upon dreadfully and never encouraged to trust in her abilities, so now she is diffident about her own skills and seldom puts herself forward, because she thinks she's unworthy. As for my other dear friend, Miss Melinda Goodheart, she lives precariously and for the moment, enjoying herself as much as she can and facing the consequences later, because she follows the example she saw all her youth, of her father— a man who lives a life his bank account cannot support. Yet somehow he always seems to get away with it, despite the wretched state of his finances."

  The lady touched her lips with the corner of a folded napkin. "It is not proper to speak of finances."

  "That's unfortunate, since the world revolves around the subject, does it not?"

  "You're very shrewd for one so young."

  "I shall be twenty in December. Age is surely less important than one's experiences."

  "And your experiences have taught you to slide down banisters and cause a ruckus? To win attention perhaps. You mentioned a large family at home."

  Georgiana felt her cheeks warm.

  "I see you don't study yourself, Miss Hathaway. You spare little time on introspection."

  "Other people are generally more interesting," she agreed with chagrin. "Less apt to disappoint."

  The lady's brows arched high and then she drawled, "I suppose that makes a pleasing change. Young folk are most often self-involved and care little for the needs of others. You, it seems, are different."

  For a while they ate in silence and Georgiana expected no further information to come her way in regard to the Commander's unwelcoming behavior and his family history. Lady Bramley was of a class that did not discuss family secrets— such as runaway wives and mothers— in public. Or even in private. In fact, it was a surprise that she'd told her companion as much as she did already. Perhaps she was tired after her journey and had let down her guard temporarily.

  But Georgiana's ideas about youthful experiences making their mark must have stuck with Lady Bramley, for quite suddenly she added, "I wonder...no...I cannot imagine that the departure of Henry's mother affected him greatly. She had little influence in his childhood, even when she was here. As a boy he had a nanny, of course. A very good, reliable sort of woman who thought the world of him and he of her. Sadly she died soon after he got his first command." Lady Bramley shook her head at the last piece of ham on her plate. "Poor Henry, he was closer to Parkes, the nanny, than he was to his mother. But that is often the way of things. It is a pity she is not still here. Sometimes I think Henry's forgotten that she isn't."

  Chapter Nine

  After dinner, Lady Bramley— exhausted from the trials and setbacks of their journey— retired early to bed. Since the master of the house remained locked away in his study and the storm still raged outside, Georgiana decided she may as well go to bed too despite the early hour. Brown showed her to a room in the east wing.

  "It's not the best of rooms, being on this side of the house," he mumbled, glancing around worriedly. "But the master says for tonight it must do. If I'd known Lady Bramley meant to bring a guest I could have sorted out something more suited. A chamber in the other wing would be better for a young lady like yourself, although most of the rooms are beyond repair at this point, I reckon. I'd be ashamed to put you in one of them, until it can be made comfortable."

  Her trunk had already been carried up and left at the foot of the large four-poster bed. A fire lit in the hearth helped warm the room. It was, all things considered, quite cozy and the bed looked welcoming. "I'm sure this is more than adequate for me, Mr. Brown." She smiled.

  "Aye, well...I'd advise you, Miss, to stay in your room and lock this door until morning." It came out in a low rush of breathless words, as if he hadn't decided whether to say it until that very moment.

  "Why?"

  "It's just... for the best, Miss. I'll get you moved to the other wing as soon as I can."

  Georgiana was intrigued. Did the manservant infer that she might encounter a ghost? Such hapless beings must be frequent wanderers at night in a house like this.

  But no, it was not the supernatural she must fear, apparently.

  "Sometimes," Brown added in a hasty whisper, "the master of the house goes wandering at night. Just a habit since he came home. The doctor says he'll settle down eventually and start to sleep peacefully again."

  "I see. I suppose it is understandable since he has been through a great ordeal."

  "More than one, Miss."

  As the man turned to leave, she stopped him. "Have you worked here long?"

  "Since the master were a young lad, before he went away to Portsmouth."

  "Commander Thrasher was wounded some years ago in battle, was he not?"

  "Aye, Miss. Lucky to be alive, he is. It's a brave man that goes into the Navy."

  She nodded solemnly. Even before her brother Guy joined that brave corps of men she'd had great respect for the profession. "If I were born a man I would have been a sailor. It is a most admirable career."

  The fellow's brow unfolded from its tense lines and his jowls lifted. "Commander Thrasher were a very fine seaman," he said proudly. "Destined for great things and in command of his own ship before he were twenty." The candle he held fluttered wildly as he sighed. "All that ended after ...well, when he were rescued from that island after being so long alone. Such a thing changes a man. So he came back here and shut himself away."

  "How very sad."

  "Yes. 'Tis a great shame. A terrible waste of a good man. You mustn't mind some of the things he says and does, Miss. He gets confused at times." He passed her the candle. "I'll leave you to your bed then, Miss. Good night to you. And remember what I said about keeping this door locked."

  "Oh, I shall," Georgiana assured him. "Thank you." She slowly closed the door, her head still full of questions about her host.

  The Commander was every bit as fascinating as he seemed at first glance. But today he was curt, ill-tempered, inhospitable. Confused.

  Well, if he walked around the abbey at night in his sleep, it was no wonder he didn't care for houseguests.

  * * * *

  Harry lurked in the passage with a candle until he saw Parkes walking briskly along. He stepped out into her path.

  "Well? What did they say? What are they doing?" he demanded in a low whisper.

  "The young lady has retired for the evening and so has your aunt. What else would they be doing after a long journey?"

  He wasn't sure about that. The young one might go creeping about his house. He had not felt so unsettled and on edge since he was a ten year-old Eton boy, forced to conjugate a Latin verb in front of a very angry professor who had just discovered him doodling naughty pictures in the margins of his book.

  "The dark-haired creature has far too much to say for herself," he grumbled. "I thought young ladies were meant to be seen and not heard."

  "What did she say that got you so upset? You thought her amusing before."

  "That was when she was on someone else's territory. Now she's here, invading my ship. I must be on my guard."

  "And who are you most worried for? Miss Hathaway or yourself?"

  "Dripping all over my sketches and asking me if I'm quite all right! The gall of it. A girl of nineteen, asking me such a question!"

  "I take it you refer to the young lady's polite inquiry into your health." Parkes didn't stop, but walked on, leaving him to follow. Which he did, tripping over his own boots, stubbing a toe against a console table and almost sending a Wedgewood vase to its demise.

  "What did she tell Brown just now? Why is she here asking questions? What did she say about me?"

  "Nothing of any consequence." Parkes had turned back just in time to steady the rocking vase with one hand and then she walked on. "I daresay she's not very interested in you. Why shou
ld she be, a pleasant, quick-minded, lively young girl like that? What would she want with the likes of you— a man with an aversion to good manners and sensible clothing, and who can't string more than six words together these days without a curse for punctuation?"

  He clamped his lips tight. Parkes was right, of course. With ladies in the house, he must try to moderate his language. Damn and blast it.

  "She's a bold, amusing creature though, just as you said she was," she added, a smile evident in her tone.

  "I never said that. I never told you anything about the woman."

  "You didn't have to. I'm inside your mind, aren't I? I know it all."

  Harry frowned and ran fingertips over the wrinkles of his forehead. Yes, there were times of clarity when he understood Parkes was not really there with him in person. But on other occasions she seemed very real. He always knew, of course, exactly what she would say to him if she was there, so she might as well be at his side every day, whispering in his ear, chiding him to get dressed, reminding Harry to eat. His memories of her many kindnesses far outweighed any recall of his mother, who had passed in and promptly out of his life like a fragrant leaf in the wind.

  "She speaks boldly for herself, too," the construct of his mind added with unusual jauntiness. "I can see why Lady Bramley has taken to her."

  Oh, he didn't like that idea at all.

  "My aunt needn't think she can come here and turn me and my house inside out, using that girl to do so. This had better not be one of her matchmaking schemes. As if I'd take any interest in that girl. She's far too young and silly. And nothing much to look at either."

  The housekeeper did not reply, but quickened her steps.

  "Hmph. Something is amiss with that dark-haired creature and her centipedinous eyelashes," he grumbled, still following. "Something is definitely adrift."

  "She's come to the right place then, hasn't she?" Parkes replied drolly. "Ought to be right at home."

  * * * *

  It sounded as if the storm had died down now. Only a sulky sort of rain remained to spatter against the window, and her fire sputtered and danced whenever a draft blew down the chimney. But the rest of the house was quiet, with just the occasional slow creak within its walls and beams. Very different to life at school, where the sounds of whispers, quarrels, and footsteps charging up and down the stairs never seemed to cease for long. The same with life at home.

  Yawning, she let her gaze wander to the writing box beside her. A few moments ago she'd taken out her pens and ink, but she was having a hard time focusing her thoughts. She ought to write to Melinda and Emma, for they must wonder whether she had driven Lady Bramley to an act of desperation yet, as Mrs. Lightbody predicted. But she also had her next episode to write for His Lordship's Trousers.

  Not certain where to start, she procrastinated, staring into the fire, parts of her body feeling as if they still traveled in that bumpy carriage over bad roads.

  Perhaps she should write a letter to her brother Guy too. He at least would be interested to know what was happening to her, even if the other members of her family couldn't care less.

  Both Guy and Edward, her two elder brothers, wrote to her more frequently than their father did. Guy's letters made her laugh, although his spelling was truly atrocious, his writing almost entirely full of exclamation points. He always smudged his ink, being too impatient to wait for it to dry. Edward, on the other hand, labored over his rigid, orderly script and let the sentences run on so long that it was a trial to read. One frequently forgot the gist of a sentence— and certainly lost all will to care about it— by the time the full stop was reached.

  But both brothers had a certain amount of rebellion in their veins. Guy had joined the Navy against their father's wishes, while Edward had disappointed their father by choosing a quiet life and returning to the country, avoiding London society. Edward now had the living of a small, tranquil parish back in Norfolk and was apparently very content there. Staying out of their father's way.

  Georgiana, like her brothers, planned to carve out her own life, regardless of her father's ideas of what a woman could, or should, do. She would begin as a newspaper journalist. Many respected novelists had begun by writing for newspapers— Fielding, Defoe and Swift, to name just a few— and Georgiana hoped to follow their lead. But her writing would have a twist, for she would reveal the truths about society from a woman's point of view. She would open folks' eyes to the injustices—

  A loud bang somewhere deep in the house made her start, woke her from those airy dreams, and reminded her that she had yet to inform her father of these plans, or even to let him know that she was the author behind His Lordship's Trousers. That was quite a fence to leap before she could get any farther.

  But for now here she was, a guest in the house of Commander Sir Henry Thrasher— a man of whom so little was known in recent years, a man who had withdrawn from life to become something of an enigma. Here before her was another opportunity, for with his experiences and adventures, the Commander had much to share with the world. If he could be persuaded to do so. This could be her chance, she realized excitedly, to pen something more serious than His Lordship's Trousers.

  Spending his days in isolation here, he clearly lived as he pleased, a bachelor who greeted ladies in his shirtsleeves, with his neck-cloth undone, his hair tousled and his shirt half-untucked. A man who stared at Georgiana, not only as if he'd never seen anything remotely like her, but that he might possibly decide to eat her with a bit of bread and some butter.

  Naturally, if this was a Grand Romance, she would be very beautiful with long hair the color of honey and wheat, and a neck like a swan, while he would be a tortured, brooding soul who pounded his chest while reciting poetry. And they would fall in love. At least, until she tumbled to her death from some tall place and her skull was, quite tragically, crushed.

  She yawned loudly.

  Enough pondering about her eccentric host and their unlikely Grand Romance, she thought scornfully. She had a column to write.

  Finally she readied her pen and took out a small square of paper. But before even a page was complete, Georgiana fell asleep on the paper and woke some time later to a renewed burst of thunder.

  That temporary lull before must have been the eye of the storm, for now it was back full force. The candles had almost burned out, wax hanging like icicles from the holders, the wicks sizzling and smoking. She snuffed them both, set the guard over her fire and crawled into bed, but only a few breaths later a loud thump out in the hall made her start, a sleepy yawn stalled half way up her throat.

  She lay still, every nerve in her body on high alert. Rain flung itself hard at her window and spat down the chimney. Wind howled and whistled as it cut around the corners of the house.

  Thump.

  There it went again. She had not imagined it.

  Thump. The sound moved closer.

  Georgiana sat up. Remembering what Brown had warned her about, she turned her anxious gaze to the door. Alas, she had forgotten to bolt it.

  Oh, lord! Did she have time to run from the bed to the door and slide the bolt across? What if he got there first? The bolt might be rusty and stiff.

  What was he doing out there? It sounded as if he dragged a dead body along, letting its head bump into the wall every few steps.

  She scrambled from the bed and ran across the cold floor to the door, but her fingers paused on the old iron bolt. If she never knew what that noise was, she reasoned, it would haunt her imagination with gory thoughts— possibly much worse than the reality. Therefore, she may as well know what was causing the noise.

  Georgiana Hathaway, queen of Reckless Dares, refused to cower under her bedcover like a frightened rabbit. She had always suspected that she was born with a duty to venture where no other woman would dare go. Therefore, rather than secure herself behind a locked door, she threw maidenly caution—and Brown's well-meant warnings— to the four winds. And opened that door to look out.

  Chapter
Ten

  Lightning pulsed through a narrow, arched window at the far end of the passage. Those torn, flickering silver rags of light provided the only color in that dark space, but it was just enough to outline the profile of a man seated on the floor, his back against one wall, his feet against the other.

  The thump was made by a cricket ball, which he bounced at the wall every so often and caught with the hand that was supposed to be sprained. He seemed almost in a dream-like state, quite calm, despite the storm raging outside.

  Georgiana thought about going back to bed, but quickly dismissed the idea. If she turned her back and huddled under the bedclothes, that would make her no better than any cowardly person who put their blinkers on rather than face trouble directly. A problem could never be fixed by simply ignoring it.

  Besides, since she was here, she could try to help this man— and not necessarily in the forceful, bossy way favored by his aunt.

  On the practical side, she was hardly likely to get any sleep with that irregular thumping against the wall to keep her nerves on edge.

  So, with all these reassurances in mind, she took a woolen shawl from the chair by the door, threw it around her shoulders for some additional modesty over her nightgown, and stepped out into the hall.

  Again the warnings of that good fellow Brown sizzled in a fraught rush through her mind. I'd advise you, Miss, to stay in your room and lock this door until morning.

  Brown, of course, couldn't know yet that Georgiana was a young lady of stout bravery. She had an inquiring mind, and was not a timid, easily shocked creature afraid of her own shadow. Again she thought of how she had always felt destined to go where other women would not dare. This was clearly a test of that resolve.

  As she walked slowly down the passage, the man stopped throwing his ball and turned to watch her. His features were not clear, hidden in the shifting shadows.