Love Then Begins

by Gail McEwen

  “Like a stalk in the autumn if it should seem dead,” he nevertheless managed in a high, squeaky voice while supporting himself on one empty barrel and then making his way back to Mr Derek,

  “or like the willow, hang drooping its head,

  If a female’s the gardener its nature is such

  That it shoots up its length at her delicate touch.”

  He made a few awkward conjuring motions with his hands, gallantly maintaining his balance all the while, and then Percy withdrew his cape to gasps of wonder and awe. The audience stood in appreciative silence at the sight of the grotesquely engorged, papier-mâché member that was tied with a string around his waist in the shape of a tree—leaves, branches and all—but so strategically placed it left no room for anything but the lewdest interpretation.

  The roaring laughter was broken by a man who called out from the rear, “Don’t worry da’ling! I’ll get the tree saw out to rub it down properly for ye!” Raucous laughter, jeering and more catcalls followed, as Mr Derek strutted around the lawn, giving one and all an appreciative look at all his glory with bawdy gyrations and well-aimed thrusts at the awestruck crowd.

  “Ye ladies who long for a sight of this tree,

  Take this invitation – come hither to me;

  I have it just now in the height of perfection,

  Adapted for handling and fit for injection.”

  As if on cue, three women, one holding onto her friend in a deadly grip, rushed forward and tried to catch hold of Mr Derek’s “tree” with the result that they all got tangled up in their skirts and dove head first onto the ground.

  “Get away you stupid cows!” the calls rang out and Mr Morris saw fit to swipe at the women with his cudgel.

  “That ain’t no use!” someone called out to him. “They’re desperate for the lumber, ain’t they?”

  Someone, presumably an individual concerned about his reputation as the domestic provider of such highly coveted timber of one of the fallen women, called out to the man to watch his mouth but Mr Morris swung his weapon a few times in the air and the play was allowed to proceed.

  “Good people!” he called. “Spring is nearly here! The sap is rising in the trees! The birds build their nests and lay their eggs in the blossoming trees! Percy! You got any eggs in there?”

  Mr Derek took an awkward step forward and Mr Pennyweather put both his hands on the crown of his tree, winking his eyes in an exaggerated and apparently female manner. The action, added to the hasty construction, made several branches break off and fall fluttering to the ground while Derek watched forlornly.

  “No eggs here,” Mr Pennyweather squeaked in falsetto, turning to Mr Harris, standing at the ready as Bert the orchardkeeper, having strapped on his own bit of ungainly foliage.

  “My dear father, your son is all ‘bark’ and no bite

  And they say it’s not the size of the cock in the fight

  But more like the size of the fight in the cock”

  He turned to the audience and waggled his eyebrows up and down,

  “I think I might take this old man for a walk!”

  Standing gape-mouthed in outrage, Mr Derek pushed Harris out of the way and charged toward Mr Pennyweather, his appendage bobbing up and down as he ran. “That’s not in the script!” he bellowed. “You’re supposed to say, ‘Well bless me young husband with shoots from your tree’!”

  Pennyweather turned to the audience again with a big wink. “No! I think that old Bert is the better man for me!”

  The audience went wild with laughter and he continued, gesturing at Derek:

  “I’ve no wish to be tumbled in a hell-fire rush.

  I’ll plant a more patient tree next to my bush.”

  But that was all he could say before Mr Derek took a firm hold on Mr Pennyweather’s throat so that his carefully arranged bosum slid down a good twenty inches and settled around his middle.

  “Oh for the love of . . . ” Holly heard a muttering voice beside her and could then feel Mr Darcy suddenly rise out of his seat and stand up. There was an instant hush as the Master of Pemberley just stood there for a while, completely quiet with his eyes at the play in disarray. Mr Derek slowly let go of Mr Pennyweather’s throat and took a few steps back.

  “A wife’s gravest duty is to treat with respect

  No worse can be said but that a husband’s henpeck’d

  I charge you, bold wench, to mind all your ways

  Love, honour and obey, for the length of your days!”

  Mr Pennyweather hitched up his sagging breasts, shot a nervous look at Mr Darcy, and then smiled sweetly at Mr Derek.

  “Oh husband your words cut me right to the quick

  And you’ve given my womanly conscience a prick

  Come. I’ll be your doe, if you’ll be my buck

  Lie with me now and you’ll get a good—”

  “Oh no . . . ” Elizabeth moaned, dropping her head into her hands, but before the fateful word could be uttered, Mr Darcy once again stood. He did so in a slow, dignified gesture that in its stillness demanded more attention than Mr Morris and his threatening cudgel could ever hope to achieve. His eyes were on his wife as long as he was straightening his back but then he turned them onto the scene before them all. All eyes turned to him, including Mr Pennyweather’s, who had let his bosom fall alarmingly again and was staring at Mr Darcy without any possibility of rallying. They all fell quiet and watched as a smile spread over the master’s lips, a smile that did not quite reach his eyes but which to those not close enough for scrutiny could not see. He then slowly brought up his hands and began to applaud, signalling the end to the performance.

  At first, the abrupt and harsh sound rang alone around the lawn but after just a few moments, Mr Darcy’s solitary appreciation was echoed by an equally determined sound from the other side of the lawn.

  “Bravo!” Lord Baugham exclaimed to his companions and they soon joined in as well, if a little surprised at the sudden end. However, after such an agreeable time together, they had no difficulty trusting his lordship’s opinion on the merits of the play even if some of the details remained sketchy.

  The players stood dumb for a moment, but then took their bows amid a smattering of groans and laughter from the rest of the crowd before they shuffled back to the curtain in confusion.

  Holly looked over to her husband where he had now abandoned the conversation with his neighbours and was watching her thoughtfully. She raised her eyebrows at him in a gesture both of reproach and question. He broke out into a smile, raised his tankard at her and then slowly made his way towards them as the crowd was breaking up.

  “They promised,” Mrs Darcy turned to her husband in despair when he sat down beside her again. “They promised something appropriate for the day.”

  “I daresay they thought a wedding theme was appropriate,” he smiled tightly, “but, this is par for the course for the mummers. It is what they’re renowned for, after all.”

  “But, ‘all’s well that ends well’, don’t you think, Darcy?” His lordship’s voice was suddenly behind them and Holly could faintly smell the ale on his breath. She felt his hands, surprisingly warm under the circumstances, discreetly sliding down her sides.

  “Did it end well, my lord?” Mrs Darcy asked with a sceptical gleam in her eye.

  “It ended at any rate,” he laughed, using the opportunity to pull his wife a little closer in to him, “I suppose that’s all that matters. Miss Darcy,” he turned to the silent young woman standing by Holly, “I trust you are no worse off for the experience?”

  “Oh! No! I suppose . . . I mean, that is . . . ” Miss Darcy stammered and dropped her eyes, which took in the sight of his lordship’s hands resting upon his wife’s waist in a show of casual intimacy on their way down to her feet.

  “Oh really, Baugham,” Darcy shook his head and held out his hands. “Come Mrs Darcy, come Georgiana. I think we must go greet some more of our neighbours. I cannot imagine what the reverend will think of
all this. I suppose we will have to extend some sort of invitation to shoot and dine as soon as possible.”

  “Oh,” his wife said but Mr Darcy had a smile for her. “If you can make him smile just once and not pick his nose in nervous agitation while I speak to him, all will be well. That will amply make up for having to walk out in the woods with him like I probably must.”

  “He likes to talk about chickens,” Georgiana said with a sigh, looking down the lawn where the poor offended clergyman presumably was clucking away. “He usually calms down when he gets to tell us the impossible places around the rectory he must collect the eggs each morning.”

  “Hm . . . ” his lordship whispered into the back of his wife’s neck when the Darcys walked away, “I think that’s a very good idea.”

  “What,” she turned in surprise, “you want to go greet their neighbours and talk about eggs?”

  “No,” he smiled slyly, “not that. It’s the use of the commanding tone. The imperious gesture. The sense of purpose.” He held out his hand and adopted a stern voice, “Come, woman, I am in sudden and urgent need of some private conversation with you. And if it must include chickens, so be it.”

  “Conversation?”

  “Yes. A private, stimulating conversation. A little social . . . intercourse behind the pavilion.”

  “Won’t it be cold back there?”

  “No. I can promise you that you will not be cold,” he pulled her close, despite the milling crowd, and pressed his lips against hers. “So? What about it?”

  “You’ve been drinking,” she said.

  “I have,” he grinned, still pressing his lips on hers, “and so have you! Spiced wine, madam . . . ”

  “And so you think I should follow you, and give in to your unmastered importunities?” she smiled back.

  “I do,” he answered, adding, “Wife!”

  “When you’re in such a state?”

  “Especially when I’m in such a state.” As his hands slid down her back and pulled her in close to him, she could feel that he was in such a state indeed, and the affect the discovery had upon her made her realise the necessity of removing themselves from public view very soon.

  BAUGHAM LEANED INTO HER AND put the cold tip of his nose into her ear before he removed it and dramatically exclaimed,

  “Come with me, my sweet, I’ve got something to share

  And nothing you’ve seen yet tonight can compare

  What’s striving between us is no feeble shoot

  Come with me, my sweet, and let rapture take root.”

  It might have been the tension from watching the play earlier or the wine that was burning in her veins or that cold nose changing into a very warm breath that caused it, but Holly could not help but burst out laughing.

  “Is that a ‘yes, please’?”

  “Yes, please,” she giggled. “Oh, but I don’t know . . . ”

  “The pavilion,” his lordship breathed in her ear again. “Not a drop of drink in sight over there so we can have our conversation quite undisturbed.”

  It was madness, of course, but she was so relieved that the excruciating mummery was over and she did need to chase the cold away with something other than another mug of wine, so she followed him through the shrubberies and past the maze to the little Grecian pavilion peeking behind the greenery. Once there, Baugham threw himself down on the little stone bench and drew her with him to sit on his lap before he dove in to claim a hungry kiss. It warmed her up very quickly, indeed, but since she was not certain her toes were quite warm enough, she pushed her gloved hands in under his coat and drew him even closer.

  “Mmm,” her husband said under her lips before he gently opened her mouth with his again. “Best spectacle I’ve experienced all day.”

  “Well, I’m sure it won’t be but a few minutes before we are discovered so save your reviews until then, please sir.”

  “‘Please, sir’ will do,” he mumbled. “Oh God, Holly, you smell so good—”

  But suddenly his eagerness was interrupted by a loud crash and screams and shouts breaking through the faint music and the sounds of the crowd enjoying themselves behind them. Baugham froze and Holly clasped her husband to her even closer in a startled move.

  “What was that?” she whispered.

  Baugham turned his head towards the revel to listen. “Sounds like a brawl.”

  “A brawl! Oh no!”

  But her incredulity was countered by another high pitched scream mingled with more enthusiastic noises of people cheering.

  “Oh yes,” said Baugham and grabbed Holly’s hand. “Damn. Come on.”

  Back on the lawn between the tents and the little pavilion, Baugham’s fears turned out to be justified. A mill of what looked like arms and legs and fists were knocking heads together and reaching for throats and faces without seemingly heeding the calls either for ceasing immediately or giving Johnny, Ralph or Peter a ‘go at it’. In the terrible melange, Holly could clearly see Mr Harris with his ‘tree’ broken in two but with the fastening ribbons still fluttering about his waist, attacking Mr Pennyweather, who by this time seemed to have lost the last of his costume. Mrs Darcy was on the edge of the crowd holding her sister by the arm and taking small steps backwards. Mr Darcy stood amidst the fighting mass of humans, trying to break it up with the help of Mr Derek and his steward, while giving directions to a young boy to get more help.

  The rest of the spectators were either enjoying the commotion, turned away in disgust or too happy with the company and food and drink to care either way to pay any attention to it.

  “Oh no!” Holly said and nudged her husband. “Do something!”

  Baugham rolled his eyes at her but then walked away from her without a word. Holly rearranged her disarrayed clothing and then hurried over to Elizabeth and Miss Darcy.

  “Oh,” Miss Darcy said as soon as Holly reached them. “You must believe me, Lady Baugham, this never happened in my mother’s day.”

  Holly shot a look at her cousin and was awarded with another pair of rolling eyes.

  “I’m not sure you should be watching this, dear,” Elizabeth said in a tight voice.

  “Oh . . . ” Miss Darcy said and kept looking, “but I’m sure they’ll stop soon. His lordship will put an end to it, won’t he?”

  Lord Baugham, with his shirt neck open and his coat undone, threw his hat to the side and strode over to the musicians, now completely silenced by the uproar. Without preliminaries, he snatched the flute out of the piper’s hand and put it to his lips.

  “Right, boys,” he muttered. “I’m sure you know this one.”

  And he struck up a tune on the flute. At first the musicians stared at him, then they blushed and then a few of them laughed.

  “Well, come on then!” Baugham said and took a short pause from his work, waving his hand to get them to follow his efforts with some singing. “A little enthusiasm, gentlemen, please! We are on a mission of peace here!”

  The man with the fiddle followed, but it took some minutes of his lordship’s encouragement before the now fluteless man and his friend the second fiddler could bring themselves to obey him.

  “ . . . in working a joke, as will lather like soap, and ye hair of her joke, will draw more yn a rope,” they sang timidly and would have gone on doing so had not a big-bellied man with a tankard hanging on a string around his neck given a great howl of a laugh, struggled to get to his feet and joined them, dragging his thin and obviously already inebriated friend with him for the chorus.

  “The first that came in was an English boy,” the belly man then started up enthusiastically and with his large and booming voice he attracted the attention of quite a few bystanders. The familiar tune and the more than familiar words caught their ear and soon a few more were singing along and ignoring the fight, which seemed to also have slowed down.

  “Then hastily came in a Hilland man,

  His chanter and pipe both in his hand,

  To her black joke, and belly so white,
”

  They all now sang, women and men, looking at each other in mirth and titillating conspiracy. This was better than a fight! This was better than drinking on the lawn! This was singing a bawdy tavern song outside Pemberley House!

  Baugham grinned and tried to catch Darcy’s eye across the crowd. He managed to send him a wink as Darcy finished dragging one of the fighters out of the mêlée which was now looking ever more immovable and stale, and depositing him by a tree with a rag attached to his bleeding nose. All he could see was Darcy shaking his head at him with a defeated look and then his attention turned to the women.

  Before Darcy could reach them, Baugham jumped up on an over-turned barrel and gestured for the fiddlers to walk about. They were cheered and the singing grew ever louder. Seeing Darcy taking the arm of his wife and sister, Baugham abandoned his post and walked through the crowd.

  “Now then!” he said cheerfully. “If this little tune doesn’t make you want to swing your skirts and tap your toes, I don’t know what will! Fancy a turn in the hay barn, my sweet?” he asked an old lady, reluctantly humming the words.

  He had picked his co-conspirator well, for she gave him a toothless grin and then sent him a kiss.

  “Don’t mind if you do, what mother?” a man cackled.

  “Well, we can’t have your dainty feet and silk slippers on this turf, can we?” Baugham continued and walked on to wink his eye at a younger woman sitting on the ground. “Time to show those fine ankles in a ballroom. Or would a barn be a more familiar setting for them, do you think?”

  The laugh that followed convinced Baugham that it was time to reap what he had sown and he paired up the old lady with his fluteless friend, pulled up the young woman from the ground and attacked the chorus of his tune before leading them on again. Then he swept past his wife and the Darcys.

  “Time to dance, I think!” he said breathlessly to Darcy. First he was met with silence but then Mr Darcy said, “I’ll send Palmer around the coaching stables.”