by Lynn Morris
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To Jackson Gilbert Downs:
You make my heart merry,
and it’s as good as medicine.
(After Proverbs 17:22.)
I love you, Grandson.
Chapter One
The scene was perfectly idyllic. A pale lemon drop sun, set in the high blue sky, shone benevolently down on the still pond. On the bank, heavily shaded by old willow trees, a handsome young man and a pretty young girl sat tranquilly, the remains of a picnic between them.
One detail of this pastoral setting was jarring, however. The girl was holding a fishing rod. She didn’t appear to be the kind of lady to do such an outlandish thing. Yet the expression on her face was typical of the dedicated angler, one of fierce concentration centered upon her line and the cork float bobbing slightly in the reeds.
She was Lady Mirabella Tirel, daughter of the Marquess and Marchioness of Camarden. Her companion was her oldest and closest friend, Sir Giles Knyvet, Baronet. Sir Giles was fishing, too, but he watched Lady Mirabella’s face with secret amusement more than he regarded his own line.
“Neither you nor I has had the slightest nip,” Mirabella grumbled. “It does seem that on such a glorious day even the fish would want to surface and take a look.” She glanced up at the sky. “I can hardly believe it’s All Hallows’ Eve. It seems more like June.”
“So it does,” Giles agreed. “Most unusual for the beginning of November. But I was advised by Old Figge this morning that his bad knees were telling him that the cold rains are on their way, so we’d better enjoy this untimely weather. ‘Farewell, thou latter spring; farewell, All-hallown summer!’”
“Mm…A Midsummer Night’s Dream?” Mirabella guessed.
“No, Henry IV.”
“You do show out abominably. No one save you reads Henry IV, never mind memorizing it.”
Giles grinned, and Mirabella reflected again, as she had countless times, how very engaging that grin was. His mouth was well-formed and his teeth perfect and white, but his smile was crooked, boyish. His sky-blue eyes lit up and he had slight grin wrinkles in the corners. His features were fine, not stunningly handsome, but pleasing. He had thick glossy black hair, and with his light-blue eyes he was noticeable. He had a fine figure, too, at five feet, ten inches tall, he had broad shoulders tapering down to a narrow waist and hips, and he always dressed very well. Today he wore a bottle-green claw-hammer coat, blue-and-green-striped waistcoat, buckskin breeches, and Hessian boots polished to a high gloss. His cravat, though simply tied, was impeccable.
If this scene had been a painting, Lady Mirabella would have been the perfect foil for him. She was tiny, dainty, only two inches over five feet tall. Her complexion was as white as an Easter lily’s, and she had deep dimples that flashed at the slightest hint of amusement. Her eyes were a deep and dark blue, a startling color that sometimes seemed to have purple depths. Her hair was an unusual shade of ivory blonde with red highlights so subtle that the true color was seen only in bright sunlight. The bloom on her cheeks was extremely delicate, a very light pink, exactly the same color as her favorite rose, Rosa x centifolia, more prosaically known as the Old Cabbage Rose. It was by Mirabella’s design that her dress was this exact blushing pink, and several centifolia rosebuds trimmed her bonnet. The three flounces of the dress were trimmed with embroidered bluebells and forget-me-nots, and she wore a light fringed shawl of exactly the same shade as the blue embroidery.
Mirabella impatiently jiggled her line. “Oh, I do so want to catch some tench today! I’ve had such irresistible cravings lately for Monsieur Danton’s tanche à la citronelle. It’s been forever since he’s made it, it seems.”
“Ah, tench, the noble physician fish!” Giles stood, theatrically placed his hand over his heart, and quoted sonorously,
The pike, fell tyrant of the liquid plain,
With ravenous waste devours his fellow train;
Yet, howsoe’r by raging famine fined,
The tench he spares, a medicinal kind.
For when by wounds distress’d, or sore disease,
He courts the salutary fish for ease;
Close to his scales the kind physician glides,
And sweats a healing balsam from his sides.
“What does that mean?” Mirabella demanded. “‘Sweats a healing balsam from his sides’?”
Giles took his seat again and picked up his rod. “They’re oily, you know, tench. Very slimy.”
Mirabella gulped. “They are? But—but I thought they had scales, not like eels.”
“So they do, but they’re still slimy.”
“Oh. Oh dear. Anyway, they are good to eat, at least when Monsieur Danton cooks them. And wherever did you hear of that outlandish poem? ‘Kind physician’ fish indeed.”
“I can’t recall, precisely. Perhaps I made it up. Just now. At any rate, if you would ever lower yourself to mind your own fish, you’d know all about his healing balsam sides yourself.”
“You know perfectly well why I won’t do that,” Mirabella retorted. “I’ll never forget the torture it was for the doctor to get that hook out of my hand.”
“You were only six years old, you can’t possibly recall it that vividly. In fact, I doubt you would even remember it at all if it weren’t for the scar.”
“Well, perhaps I don’t exactly recall the pain, but still, I’ll never forget it, the scar mars my hand. I’m so glad that ladies always wear gloves now.”
“Nonsense, you can hardly see it. I’d venture to say that no one has noticed it, or even seen it, save you.”
“You have.”
“That’s because I was there, and I do remember it. I say, Bella, it really was a rum go. I was so surprised you didn’t cry. I’m sure I would have.”
“I’m sure you would not have,” Mirabella scoffed. “You always teased me so unmercifully when tears welled up in my eyes that I’d rather not cry than listen to you.”
All through their childhood, she and Giles had fished together as much as they had played together. Taking a small perch off her hook, somehow Mirabella had managed to plunge the hook straight through the tender meat between her left thumb and forefinger. Now she reflected, with some wonder, that she hadn’t cried. But then Mirabella had never been weepy, as some women were. She rarely cried. When she did, it was simply a welling up of tears in her eyes, with perhaps one or two tracing down her cheek. In fact, Mirabella could never recall having a stormy cry with great sobs, only slight sniffling and dabbing.
The Camarden family estate, Camarden Court, was only three miles from Knyveton Hall, the home of the Knyvet baronets. The two families had always been close, and when Mirabella had been born in March of 1791, and Giles three months later, it was only natural that the two would spend much of their childhood together. Giles was an only child, and Mirabella was like one, for she had only one brother, sixteen years her senior. Lady Camarden and Lady Knyvet had had them rather late in life, and this bonded the two women even more closely. Mirabella’s entire life was filled with memories of Giles. Of course he had been sent to Eton when he was ten years old, and then to Oxford; but still, all his holidays had been spent at home. The only time they had been parted for any length
of time had been when she and Giles were eighteen, and he had left to go on the Grand Tour. For almost a year he had been in Rome, Venice, and Florence, and Mirabella had missed him terribly.
But she had been very sorry for the reason he had to return home. His father had died, abruptly, with no warning. The shock had been so great to Lady Knyvet that she fell ill. When Giles returned he found only unhappiness and regrets. His father had been horribly imprudent with his finances, and Giles was left with near-impossible debts. Lady Knyvet never recovered from her husband’s death, and died only six months later.
Her broodings concerning Giles’s finances weren’t at the top of her mind, however. Today was October thirty-first, tomorrow was Sunday, November first, and the second was the first Monday in November, the traditional opening of fox hunting season. The marquess had made this quite an event in the county. He was Master of the Hunt, he had wonderful fox hunting grounds, and he invited anyone who could find a cob to amble along on to Camarden Court for the hunt. Such generous provision for all and sundry, regardless of rank, was a tradition of the Marquesses of Camarden, begun by Mirabella’s grandfather in 1756.
Giles had not joined the hunt last year—probably, Mirabella thought, because he had sold all of his hunters. Naturally she was hesitant about asking Giles if he was to join the hunt this year. She dearly hoped so. But try as she might, she couldn’t think of a tactful way to broach the subject with him.
Then her cork bobbed, and she sat up alertly. But no, it was merely a light ripple that had caught it in the thick reeds. They were fishing in the Camarden stewpond, a very old legacy from the Tudor beginnings of the house, and the pond was heavily stocked with carp, tench, pike, and perch.
“This is a waste of time,” Mirabella complained. “We may be enjoying an All-hallown summer, but I think that the fish know better, they’re not up here in the reeds as if it’s spawning season. We should go out in the punt.”
In a high falsetto Giles said, “‘You thought, Miss! I don’t know any business you have to think at all—thought does not become a young woman.’”
Mirabella giggled. The quote was from their favorite play, The Rivals, by their favorite character, Mrs. Malaprop. She retorted, “Sir, you offer me a great insult by your implementations as to my becomings.” It was their little game; Mrs. Malaprop’s particular gift was for using words that sounded like the correct ones but were wildly wrong. By the rules of their game, Mirabella was obliged to reply with a malapropism.
“But your becomings are so charming,” Giles replied. Then with a sigh he stood up and took off his coat. “It’s such a warm lazy day that I’m loath to punt you around the stewpond, but your wish is my command, my lady.”
With satisfaction Mirabella said, “One Thousand and One Nights.”
Giles folded up his coat to make a cushion for Mirabella, then loaded their fishing gear into the light, shallow-drafted boat. After Mirabella seated herself, he took the long pole and slowly pushed them out away from the bank.
“Look, look over there, Giles, bubbles! Surely those are tench,” Mirabella said excitedly. “The poem should have been about how foolish they are to give themselves away by blowing bubbles. No, there, over there.” Patiently Giles poled them into the center of the pond and they both sank their lines in the midst of the bubbles.
“They would surely be shocked in London to know that Lady Mirabella Tirel is very knowledgeable of the habits of the tench,” Giles teased.
“And I’ll make you pay dearly if you tell anyone,” Mirabella warned. “Oh, Giles, I must say I’m more excited about this Season than I have been in two years. Finally, finally, Josephine has agreed to accompany me.”
“Yes, I know, Lewin told me. I hope this will be agreeable news to you, too. I’m coming to London this year, and Lewin will be coming with me.”
Oddly enough, considering their exalted stations, the Camardens and the Knyvets had always been very good friends with their rector, the Reverend Mr. Rosborough, and his family. Mr. and Mrs. Rosborough had five children. Josephine was the same age as Mirabella and Giles, while Lewin was two years older. The four of them had always been close friends.
Mirabella’s eyes lit up. “Truly? Oh, how wonderful! You and Lewin will stay with us, won’t you?”
“No, we two bachelors have a flat at St. James’s that’s been loaned to me by a friend who’s in Greece. We intend to enjoy all the delights of two dandies on the town, showing out in Hyde Park, doing the strut on Bond Street, strolling about the pit in the theatres, making a nuisance of ourselves calling on beautiful young ladies.”
“Nonsense, you’re no more a dandy than is Lewin. However, I shall be incensed if you don’t call on us often.”
“And what other beautiful young lady did you think I was referring to?”
“This is wonderful news indeed,” Mirabella said complacently. “Now I know I shall have a brilliant Season. But I’m a little surprised that you managed to talk Lewin into coming to London. He seems much changed since he returned. Of course I know that being a soldier, and in such a terrible war, must sober a man, but he was always so cheerful and high-spirited. Now he seems very grave at times.”
Quietly Giles said, “He has good reason.” Then he roused and said, “But let’s not talk of such dark matters today. And so, after four years you finally managed to persuade Josephine into coming to London. It’s a small wonder you’re excited.”
“Yes, but I must say that her decision not to come out until Constance was married showed great sensitivity and sisterly love.” Constance was the eldest of the Rosborough children, and had married only the previous June, when she was twenty-five years old. Mirabella continued, “But I’m a little concerned for Josephine. At first she seemed deliriously happy to have a Season in London, but for the last few days it appears she has doubts. I can’t imagine why, she’s so pretty, and so charming, I know that she’ll be a success.”
“You don’t know why she’s hesitant? That’s unlike you, Mirabella. It’s her clothes, of course. I thought you always knew all about the earth-shattering importance of the clothes.”
Mirabella’s eyes widened. “Oh, how could I have been so stupid! Of course, of course, but however did you know?”
“Because after at least eleven years of hearing you nattering on about clothes I finally comprehended that such must be the center of a lady’s existence. Also, Lewin told me. I had much the same problem with him, when he learned he had to wear knee breeches and stockings and beribboned pumps.”
With determination Mirabella said, “Never mind, I shall take care of that little problem, for Josephine at least. You’ll have to worry about Lewin’s stockings and pumps.”
They fished in silence for a while, and under her breath Mirabella began to hum a tune.
“Sing for me, Bella,” Giles said.
Mirabella began to sing a lovely little canzonet by Haydn, “The Mermaid’s Song.”
Now the dancing sunbeams play
On the green and glassy sea,
Come, and I will lead the way
Where the pearly treasures be.
Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Follow, follow, follow me.
Come, behold what treasures lie
Far beneath the rolling waves,
Riches, hid from human eye,
Dimly shine in ocean’s caves.
Ebbing tides bear no delay,
Stormy winds are far away.
Come with me, and we will go
Where the rocks of coral grow.
Follow, follow, follow me.
Mirabella had a lovely voice, not operatic, but clear and sweet and true. Smiling a little, Giles said, “Thank you, Lady Mirabella.”
“You’re welcome, Sir Giles.”
Just then Giles’s line jerked, and he began to pull and wrangle the line.
“Oh, how I hope it’s a tench!” Mirabella said excitedly.
After much s
truggle, Giles landed a fat carp that must have weighed seven or eight pounds. “I diligently tried for a tench, but I’ll settle for a juicy carp.”
Mirabella rolled her eyes. “Monsieur Danton flatly refuses to cook carp. He calls them poissons stupide sans goût.”
“‘Stupid fish with no taste’? Hm. They may have no taste to Monsieur Danton, but they are certainly not stupid. It’s the devil to catch one.”
“I cannot understand why you catch more fish than do I,” Mirabella complained. “We use the same tackle, the same bait, and fish in the same place.”
“Since you won’t bait your own hook, or even watch while I do it, then I am obliged to tell you that I never actually do put any bait on your hook.”
“You lie, sir,” Mirabella said complacently.
“So I do. Anyway, that’s the first hint we’ve had all day that there are even any fish in this pond. I think you must have charmed them with your singing.”
Promptly Mirabella sang, “‘Come with me, and we will go / Where the rocks of coral grow. / Monsieur la tanche, follow, follow me. / Come—’”
A great jerk on her line, and Mirabella pulled, hard. “I have him! I have him, Giles!” She yanked, but the line played back out, the cork went far underwater. Mirabella fought hard, but her strength was small compared to that of the fighting fish. Gritting her teeth, she stood up and strained backward.
Giles was still stringing his carp, but he dropped it, started up, and said, “Bella, no, wait! Let me—”
Mirabella’s line snapped. The fishing rod shot up and backward; her feet flew up over her head, and as neatly as if she had practiced it, Mirabella turned a backward somersault into the pond.
Giles leaped in. The water was about two feet over Mirabella’s head; she stood on the bottom, motionless. He clasped his arm about her waist and gave a tremendous kick off the bottom. It propelled them toward the bank, into shallower water. With one more hard propelling bound they were in waist deep. Giles immediately picked her up in his arms and carried her out and up the bank. He was deeply frightened for long moments, for she was motionless, her eyes closed. But as he stood looking down into her pale face, her eyes flew open and she started coughing and spluttering.