The Trouble with His Lordship’s Trousers

by Jayne Fresina

  "Miss Hathaway's opinions might liven up the visit," the Commander muttered from behind his paper. "They would certainly ensure we don't get invited back again."

  "Henry, it is ill-mannered to read at the table. How many times must you be told?"

  "Clearly once a day at least."

  "There can be nothing in that newspaper more interesting than my conversation."

  With a great heaving sigh, he closed and folded it. "Not today, it would seem."

  Georgiana had noticed he was reading her father's paper. For the first time in a year His Lordship's Trousers would not be printed in it since the floods had kept her from posting her installment on time.

  "How is your latest invention progressing, sir?" she asked.

  His gaze skimmed Georgiana's face above the rim of his coffee cup. "As well as might be expected with a distraction following me about all over my house, demanding my time, asking me endless questions."

  "I thought she would be finished by now. I looked forward to hearing her play."

  "Good heavens, I am glad that dreadful thing is not finished," exclaimed Lady Bramley. The mere mention of her nephew's work caused her countenance to become hard as stone. "The less said about that in front of the Darrowbys the better. What will they think of you, Henry?"

  "I'm sure what the parson and his wife think of me matters as much as what I think of them."

  "What has got you in such a churlish temper today?" his aunt demanded.

  "A column I like to read seems to have been temporarily discontinued. I don't like my routine meddled with, and I usually start my week by reading it."

  Georgiana's pulse skipped.

  "Do you refer to that scandalous His Lordship's Pantaloons?" Lady Bramley exclaimed, setting her cup down so hard she nearly chipped the saucer.

  "Trousers," Georgiana corrected, before she could stop herself. "The name of it is His Lordship's Trousers." Then she looked down, drawing a breath. "I heard something of it." She felt the Commander's gaze watching her closely above his own cup and decided to keep her hands busy by sweeping crumbs into her napkin.

  "The Gentleman's Weekly is your father's paper, is it not?" he asked.

  She nodded.

  "Yes, yes," his aunt said, "whatever the thing is called. But you must have heard, Henry, there's been such a ruckus about it— although I suppose you are so seldom out and about you may not know."

  "Know what, madam?"

  "Wardlaw Fairbanks insists that column is written about him. He has threatened to bring a suit of libel against the paper if it is not stopped. I daresay that is why there is no episode this week."

  Georgiana stared in horror. Of course, her father would not tell her this news— he had no idea she was the author, and this was a business matter, not something he would share in one of his short, formal letters, dutifully penned to his least favorite child.

  The Commander gave a harsh laugh. "How typical of Fairbanks to assume it's all about him." He paused and then laughed again. "And he is so incredibly stupid that he would actually let the world know that buffoonish character has any resemblance to him. The man is oblivious to his own pomposity."

  "Well, they say he is most irate about that newspaper column, and he is a powerful man." Lady Bramley glanced at Georgiana. "Your father would do well to keep the peace and print an apology if he wants to save his paper, young lady."

  "Why should he?" she blurted. "Why should he not print whatever he wants to print, and whatever people want to read, just because one awful excuse for a man decides it offends him?"

  The Lady popped her eyes, as she often did when her "companion" boldly refused to agree with her.

  "And I'm sure it isn't about Viscount Fairbanks, in any case, madam," Georgiana added in a more civil tone. "How can he prove it is?"

  "There is no need for raised voices and immoderate tones, Miss Hathaway. You are talking to me, not dealing with errant tradesmen. Well, if your father has a similar temperament to your own," she added with a wry chortle, "we shan't be seeing any apology printed."

  She hoped not. Her father had a tendency to bow a little too much to the nobility, however, and he might not wish to earn the wrath of Viscount Fairbanks. Not a second time.

  An awful thought came to her then, as she twisted her napkin into a tight knot: was the incident with the burning wig still smarting in that wretched fellow's pride and now he took it out on her father's paper, using His Lordship's Trousers as a reason? Surely a grown man would not continue a vindictive campaign against their family, even years later, for such a small incident.

  Or would he? Perhaps it was not so small an incident to have one's vanity and pride trampled by a sixteen-year old girl, in front of a room full of people. She had heard that it was still an event much talked about and even enlarged upon by subsequent retellings. But since she was far more concerned by the effect it had on her relationship with her sister— who never forgave her— Georgiana had given scant thought to the owner of the charred wig and whether or not he recovered from it.

  "Viscount Fairbanks demands to know the identity of the author," Lady Bramley added, signaling to the footman for more coffee. "I daresay it is somebody with an axe to grind."

  "Then the author could be anybody," the Commander replied. "Wardlaw Fairbanks is not nearly as well liked as he assumes he is, and with good reason."

  "Surely you're not still bearing animosity toward him. That scandal with Amy Milhaven was so long ago, Henry."

  Georgiana's ears pricked and she glanced over at him, temporarily forgetting her own worries.

  "That trollop is certainly not worth you sparing another thought for her," Lady Bramley continued. "Not after she betrayed you. Good riddance is what I said then, and I say it now."

  The Commander's eyes were warmly bemused as he looked down the table at his aunt. "Miss Milhaven is not a trollop, madam. Nor did she betray me. That is an exaggeration, to say the least."

  "But she—"

  "My dislike of Wardlaw Fairbanks was ingrained long before he attempted to ruin Miss Milhaven. I had observed his behavior on several occasions and found his attitude quite repugnant. He is a vacuous waste of breathable air, if you want my opinion, and whether or not he is the subject of that column, he deserves to be lampooned. He is, as Miss Hathaway said, an awful excuse for a man."

  Georgiana felt her heart lift and the beat quicken. That explained the comradeship she'd felt on the night their eyes first met. Neither of them could tolerate falseness and hypocrisy.

  Lady Bramley now continued with her instructions for their social visits that afternoon. Henry was to speak more and Georgiana to speak less. Henry was to pay attention and make an attempt to move the conversation along, while Georgiana was meant to sit quietly and smile benignly.

  But Henry always did what he wanted, and Georgiana was finding it hard to listen, far too distracted, her mind spinning with thoughts.

  Despite the good lady's best intentions, this foray into Little Flaxhill society was obviously destined to fail, but she was the only one who didn't see it.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Henry sat stiffly, his clothes irritating him, his foot tapping, arms folded. Although aware of his aunt looking over with a meaningful glare, he allowed his foot to continue its steady rhythm, ticking the seconds away.

  "Do you mean to stay long in Surrey, Lady Bramley?" the parson's wife inquired softly.

  "Just for the summer. I have many commitments in Town, but a visit to my nephew was overdue."

  A short pause followed, before the parson said, "We see so little of Sir Henry Thrasher. I must confess, for a long time I did not know he was in residence. I had often ridden by Woodbyne Abbey and thought such a pity that it was deserted." The small fellow laughed uneasily. "I would have called in, had I known you were home, sir."

  Harry said nothing.

  Lady Bramley exclaimed, "You have not been attending church, Henry?"

  In truth he rarely knew what day it was unless
Brown mentioned it, so Sundays slipped by unnoticed. "No."

  "Henry!"

  "I made my peace with the Almighty seven years ago on the deck of a battle ship. He and I have nothing more to discuss. We both know where we stand. Since the wound that should have killed me left me alive instead, drifting in a state of purgatory with a memory as ephemeral as the morning mist, I decided that God must have no use for me yet. And a very dark sense of humor. He would, therefore, surely not object to me doing things my own way."

  "Henry!"

  "What?" He blinked. "You told me to speak up more."

  Flustered, his aunt said, "You must excuse my nephew. He can be dreadfully stubborn."

  "It runs in the family," he added tartly.

  Another pause followed and then Miss Hathaway said, "That is a very pretty carpet. I'm sure not many people were harmed in the making of it."

  Harry choked on a gust of laughter and leaned his head back so far back he almost tipped out of the chair.

  "Miss Hathaway," his aunt explained apologetically, "is my companion for the summer. I have taken her under my wing."

  "I see," the parson's wife smiled, surprisingly undaunted. "How do you like Surrey, Miss Hathaway?"

  "I have not seen much of it yet, but I look forward to exploring now that the weather has improved."

  The conversation turned to the best paths for walking and the prettiest groves for an afternoon's wander. It was evident that Miss Hathaway's cheerfulness — even slightly subdued under his aunt's hand, as it was today— appealed to the young Mrs. Darrowby. As his aunt had said, the Darrowbys were not long married and the young wife gravitated toward that spirit of youth brightening her parlor. Understandable, since she was not much older than Georgiana and had married a man of gentle, but somber demeanor, ten years her senior, and whose interests lay in studying ancient texts.

  The imbalance was one Harry had observed before in marriages. An age difference of ten years or more was not rare in a couple, and from the business-like way most marriages were conducted, it was not necessary that a husband and wife should share anything more than a toast rack. But today something unsettled Harry, as he watched the Darrowbys being dreadfully polite to each other in the rather grim parlor, which still contained the decorating choices of a bachelor and had yet to make way for anything feminine except for a bowl of roses on the windowsill.

  They were more like teacher and pupil in the way they acted— the parson often correcting his wife if she mispronounced a local place name or got a direction wrong in her description. And if this habit annoyed her, she managed to keep a respectful tone in her voice when she thanked him continually for setting her straight.

  Harry sighed and shook his head. The marriage was a mistake, of course. Darrowby had been a happy bachelor for a long time and was set in his ways. Must have been hard for him to clear space for a wife. The fellow did appear rather bewildered by it, as if he did not know what he had done. Or why.

  Well sometimes there could be no explanation for the thoughts and ideas that crept into a man's mind— and Harry knew that only too well. Parkes had often said that reaching thirty was just as difficult for a man, as it was when he arrived at the age of two. It may be that she was right and he must take care not to slip into the same mistake as poor Parson Darrowby— get some foolish idea in his head and let everybody convince him he was lonely.

  He looked over at Miss Hathaway, who without any particular beauty or remarkable skill, had begun to dominate his thoughts and his attention.

  He may be, as she had said, undone, but he was not incapacitated. Harry was fine the way he was, wasn't he? He told everybody, all the time, that he was quite content.

  She had considerable sauce, in fact, to give him her unwanted, uninvited diagnosis. Few people he knew would dare talk to him as she did. He was a Naval Commander and a war hero, for pity's sake. What was she?

  He did not yet have an answer for that.

  Harry narrowed his gaze upon her face as she nodded and smiled at the parson's wife. The very picture of innocence, if one did not look too closely for the ever-smoldering perceptiveness beneath those thick lashes, or observe the meandering trail of freckles that seemed to have been placed there solely to distract a man's thoughts when she stood near.

  Now she had tricked him into posing for a sketch— her purpose yet to be discovered. He did not know how he felt about that. What prank would she try next?

  His aunt seemed convinced that a husband was the best thing for her young charge, but any man who attempted to keep Miss Hathaway's curiosity to himself was destined for trouble. She would quickly become bored, resentful and unhappy. A woman who wanted company and new experiences, she was not afraid of life. Rather, she rushed at it without due thought given to the possible consequences. That too would be something any man willing to take her on must consider. He would never have a moment's respite.

  "And you," Parkes whispered in his ear, "want only to hide from life."

  Yes, exactly.

  His gaze roamed the room again and landed on Parson Darrowby, who now prepared to correct his wife again, on some issue that mattered to nobody else, while she clenched her jaw in a pained smile for her guests.

  But then, as he watched, the young Mrs. Darrowby turned and put her hand upon her husband's, where it rested on the arm of his chair, and the Parson briefly raised a finger to brush against her palm before she took it back again. It was a slight gesture that might easily have been missed in the blink of an eye— if Harry was not so absorbed in watching, and the sort of man who took in every detail.

  It occurred to him then that perhaps the Darrowbys were awkward in front of guests because they had not expected callers to interrupt their afternoon. Perhaps they were as eager to be left alone as he was to leave.

  Feeling ashamed of studying them so closely, Harry returned his gaze to Miss Hathaway. Their eyes caught and she smiled, as was her habit. The damn woman was too affable for her own good. But something about her smile suggested a shared secret, in the same way that the gesture between the Parson and his wife had revealed a warm connection.

  Damn! Surely she was not forming some attachment despite all his efforts to put her off? He thought he had made his position clear.

  Suddenly Harry felt stifled, slowly suffocating. He needed to get home again, to get out of his clothes and back behind the sanctuary of his locked study door.

  He checked his fob watch yet again, trying to ignore the sweat that made the lines on his palm glisten. Almost eleven minutes had passed since they arrived. That meant four more at least must be spent to be "polite".

  "Henry, do not forget to invite the Darrowby's to the party you have planned," his aunt urged between gritted teeth.

  "What party? I'm not planning any party."

  She ignored him and told the parson's wife, "Just a small gathering with cards and some music. On Wednesday. I hope you will attend."

  "That sounds delightful, Lady Bramley. Thank you."

  Harry was horrified. The sooner his aunt bored of this project the better. He looked again at his watch and muttered, "Three minutes."

  "Thank goodness the weather has improved," Miss Hathaway exclaimed so loudly that Parson Darrowby almost leapt out of his chair. "I thought the rain would never end."

  "Of course it would end," said Harry with a sniff. "Everything ends sooner or later. Thankfully." He stood. "Well, that's it. Time's up."

  * * * *

  Other visits paid that day were no less painful and ended with an equally abrupt lack of finesse. Two local widows and the village doctor all suffered calls and did their best not to look too shocked by the Commander's temper. At last, this wretched experiment with Little Foxhill's "most consequential" society behind them, Lady Bramley's carriage took the trio back to Woodbyne Abbey at a brisk trot.

  "Well, really, Henry!" his aunt grumbled every few yards.

  He had tugged down the sash window as soon as the carriage pulled away from the last visit an
d was already loosening his neck cloth. "I did as you wanted, madam," he replied eventually. "I made an effort. As you see it’s entirely pointless. Perhaps now I might be left alone and you can concentrate your efforts on Miss Hathaway, who is far more worthy of your attention. She did very well today, I thought. The parson's wife seemed especially taken with her."

  "Yes, Miss Hathaway has shown much improvement."

  "There you are then. She's much more likely to do you credit. I'm too old. With Miss Hathaway and her bright, inquiring mind, you have scope."

  Georgiana caught his eye and received a very quick, sly grin. Oh yes, he would very much like his aunt to focus all that attention upon her. But Lady Bramley had known that from the start. Her nephew underestimated her, as he did all women apparently.

  He looked intolerably handsome today and she wondered if he knew it. With a woman one could always tell if she knew she looked well, but men were more difficult to read. Or at least, he was. She often had cause to wonder how much he was aware of, for she could not be exactly sure that he had no memory of his nightly encounters with her. Occasionally she caught a look, or a devious smile suggestive of his amusement at her expense.

  "You have more chance of getting Miss Hathaway well shackled to some unsuspecting chap," he added, "than you have of making me presentable to good company."

  "If you expect to put me off by that truculent display, young man," Lady Bramley exclaimed, "you can think again. Today's little performance has only reassured me of the absolute necessity of getting you out of that study and among good people who are not run by cogwheels and levers, before it is too late and you are quite lost to civilized behavior."

  He turned his head to look out of the carriage window, but Georgiana could still see his lips smirking, even if his aunt could not.

  Once they got back to the house, the Commander returned to his work, impatiently stripping off his coat as he strode across the hall and tossing it, along with his hat, into the air as if there was somebody waiting to catch it. There was nobody, of course, and both items fell to the floor. Did he think his old nanny, "Parkes", would pick them up for him, Georgiana wondered. At least she had not heard him banging that dreadful gong lately. That must be a great relief to poor Brown too.