B006O3T9DG EBOK

by Berdoll, Linda

  Disdainful of men in general and politicians specifically, Daisy said, “Yea, he’s given yer a poke and told yer he’s doing yer the favour, now hasn’t he?”

  As Mary Catherine’s apron was tied under her armpits to cover her belly, she had no riposte. In truth, her new man-friend was not her baby’s father, but she did not have the heart to tell Daisy (or her man-friend) that. Belly or not, every night she was in the middle of the raucous speechmaking in the downstairs hall. She saw that as entertaining as any man’s kisses.

  “Cash, Corn and Catholics” was their rallying cry, but the dearth of jobs was the real issue. Once the Lords Lieutenant was given leave to apprehend all printers, writers and demagogues responsible for seditious and blasphemous material, even Daisy was outraged. Whatever Habeas Corpus was, it had been suspended. That meant she had to close her doors to their meetings lest she be drug off to Old Bailey herself.

  Thereafter, the only men who came to Daisy’s house came to visit with her already fiddled-with maids. Peace seemed to have been restored, but unrest simmered near the boiling point.

  Daisy’s foremost concern was the neediness under her own roof. At the rate babies were dropping, she knew time would come to improve her accommodations. A dormitory would be nice. Perhaps after that, a school. Or at least that was how she saw it play out in her mind’s eye. She was no longer known as Daisy Mulroney, but The Marmot Mother of Method Street.

  All in all, she was rather pleased with herself.

  Once in a while she thought of little Sally Frances. If asked, she would have said that she hoped never to see the girl again.

  She meant no ill will.

  Sally gone meant Sally was free. She had escaped St. Giles Parish and all that came with it.

  Chapter 31

  Elysium Fields

  The Darcys had forsworn inviting their children to perform for the delectation of captured guests. However, even the most reluctant parent cannot refuse when the audience is much in want of being amused.

  Young Anne, Cathy, and Janie sat together on the piano bench, each ready to take their turn at the keys. After several months of practise at the pianoforte, Georgiana believed that her young students were prepared to play for a receptive audience.

  She announced, “Lady Catherine admires proficiency upon the instrument. But as she no longer finds herself a good traveller, we shall take Anne and Cathy to Kent week next to exhibit their progress.”

  To this, Fitzwilliam made the aside, “When the bell heralds a caller at Whitemore, there is no longer cause for alarm.”

  Looking all round, Georgiana continued, “Pray, allow us a rehearsal for my aunt.”

  Consent was cheerfully given.

  The little girls were far too young to be truly accomplished, but their enthusiasm was well-represented. Moreover, everyone enjoyed the sight of their tiny slippers dangling from the piano stool as they plunked on the keys. When they compleated the piece (as it was), Georgiana helped them down and they curtsied.

  Before the last notes were wrenched from the instrument, Fitzwilliam had called, “Huzzah! Huzzah, I say!”

  His daughter, Anne was clearly the superior of the three, but he applauded them all equally. Georgiana beamed proudly, insisting that the girls were true musical prodigies.

  Elizabeth whispered to her, “It is clear that Anne has inherited her mother’s talent.”

  Georgiana blushed, clearly pleased by the observation. When the exhibition was concluded, little William was then brought centre stage. The other children were then allowed to trot back upstairs to the nursery.

  The Gardiners had come thither from London just to admire the newest Darcy. All admired his healthy cheeks, strong legs, and happy disposition. He had large eyes surrounded by a tangle of lashes, but William’s hair was a lighter shade of brown than his siblings. Their hair was thick, his was surprisingly wispy. In the sunlight, it was almost gold. Elizabeth held him in her lap for all to admire. By clasping each of his mother’s forefingers for leverage, he tightened his podgy knees and drew himself upon his feet. His legs wobbled like a new calf’s, but he managed to maintain his foothold. His father looked upon the struggle with great paternal pride. Mr. Darcy was not one to crow, but his wife was happy to do so for them both.

  “Look there! Is he not the strongest boy in the county?” she exclaimed. “You are as sturdy as you are handsome, Willy!”

  For a countenance that was so recently overspread with pride, Mr. Darcy’s expression hastily altered. Such a suggestion left him keenly displeased.

  He said to his wife, “I beg your pardon?”

  As it happened, Mr. Darcy had a particular dislike of nicknames.

  The single sobriquet his wife had ever heard him invoke was the diminutive of her name. (When he whispered “Lizzy” against her ear, the susurration caused her heart to leap and her womanhood to tremble.) Therefore, it was Elizabeth Darcy who called his son Geoff, his daughter, Janie. As Darcy had been unaware of her confinement (and she much overtaken by apprehension whilst he was away), their choice of names for their first-borns were not made at leisure. They were chosen in a hasty haze of sentimentality and relief. It was not that Darcy disliked the appellations assigned, to his mind they were just not well-considered. It was also an unspoken agreement that they did not employ shortened names in company.

  They selected the name for their second son whilst at their ease. Darcy had liked William rather than Fitzwilliam only for simplicity’s sake. His wife agreed.

  “If we do not,” she said, “We shall be annotating our conversation evermore with ‘the father’ or ‘the son’ or ‘the Colonel’.”

  As only family was there to hear her, Elizabeth believed she had not erred in calling her youngest “Willy.” She saw the name as an endearment. Mr. Darcy did not.

  Mr. Darcy’s disfavour was well-apparent. As if in the hushed presence of some deity, they fell silent—save for baby William. His chubby face turned red and he directly expelled a rather noisy movement of gas. As Mr. Darcy always avoided that which exposed a strong understanding to ridicule, no one dared laugh. If no one else dared, however, Darcy could, upon occasion, laugh at himself.

  “I fear I have just been countermanded,” said he.

  Made free to give way to merriment, they all did—as did his son. William laughed aloud for the first time.

  “Look, Darcy,” Elizabeth exclaimed, “you have given William his first laugh!”

  Not yet through diverting everyone, William continued to gurgle. Grabbing at his feet, he managed to pull one of his knitted bootees from his foot. It came off with such force that it landed on his head. When Elizabeth held him aloft, he giggled and wriggled like a puppy.

  “It is clear that your son shall add a great deal of dignity to the name of Darcy,” Elizabeth observed. “We must reengage Morland directly. I want him to take a likeness of the children.”

  Darcy had been very nearly beaming, but at the mention of Morland’s name, his countenance altered. He had no regard at all for Morland as a gentleman. However, as a portraitist, he was unrivalled. Hence, in this matter, Darcy acquiesced to his wife’s wishes and nodded his agreement.

  Georgiana said, “It is my understanding that the painter is much engaged at Carlton House.”

  Relieved that the royal commission would put off the visit, Darcy kept his pleasure from being obvious.

  With unabashed facetiousness, he said, “We must, of course, wait our turn.”

  Elizabeth arched an eyebrow in his direction. With the smallest shake of her head, she told her husband that she was not deceived by his feigned regret. His gaze was unequivocally unrepentant. Her eyelids fluttered, an indication that their exchanges would be resumed in the privacy of their chambers. Having made that silent promise, the Darcys returned their attention to their guests.

  Two weddings had taken place. Both were of great interest to them all, but for different reasons.

  To Jane, Elizabeth said, “What are your thoughts on
dear Charlotte’s marriage to Mr. Pratt?”

  “I am happy as can be for them.”

  Indeed she was. But then Jane loved everyone and wished them to have the bliss she and Charles shared. Jane looked lovingly upon her husband’s handsome countenance as he stood semi-majestically by the mantel. Now nearly thirty, Bingley had kept his boyish good-looks and near child-like ebullience. (His extensive enjoyment of the dining table, however, had thickened his waist.)

  Upon learning that Charlotte had remarried, Jane and Elizabeth were genuinely happy for her. Yet Elizabeth suffered an unyielding ache when she pondered the union. Mr. Pratt was an odd man. Together, they made an oddly constructed couple. Elizabeth had never heard Charlotte jest in such a manner as she had with Mr. Pratt at the Pemberley ball. Granted, they seemed equally matched (Charlotte had revealed a stinging wit; one to which Elizabeth had never been privy.) A sensible, deserving woman of steady age and character, Charlotte had been left a handsome living. She had no financial need of a second marriage. One Mr. Collins in a lifetime seemed more than enough. Another might be thought of as inviting misery. However, more than one woman enjoyed verbal frays.

  “And you, Mr. Darcy,” Elizabeth inquired. “What say you of Charlotte’s choice of husband?”

  “I have no opinion upon a matter wholly unconnected with me. I offer Mr. and Mrs. Pratt my best wishes.”

  A smile tempted the corners of Darcy’s mouth when he spoke. Elizabeth knew better than to ask him to speak candidly in the presence of others.

  However, she did not quit the subject, musing, “Once again Charlotte has been wed, despite a compleat absence of esteem for both men and marriage.”

  Startled at her own frankness, Elizabeth apologized. Whereas Darcy kept his countenance, Charles Bingley laughed and took no pains to pretend otherwise.

  Without a single measure of reproach to her sister, Jane reminded Charles, “Charlotte has not our sensibilities, dearest. She has remarked that she was not a romantic.”

  “In Mr. Pratt’s defence,” Elizabeth added, “He does seem quite able to laugh at himself. Many of us are in want of that meritorious trait.”

  Bingley said glumly, “Mrs. Collins marriage to Mr. Pratt was far more fortunate than some.”

  Jane and Bingley had come from London having attended to financial matters in regards to his sister Caroline’s marriage to Sir Beecher. Although pleased that Caroline had finally wed, Bingley could not pretend he was happy with the match. Accompanied by the Hursts, Caroline and Beecher were enjoying an extended honeymoon on the Continent. All wished them well and enjoyed their absence whilst they could.

  Aunt and Uncle Gardiner sat upon a satin settee. The fabric of Mr. Gardiner’s breeches kept him making continual adjustments lest he slide off his seat entirely. Mrs. Gardiner placed a pillow behind him for support. As that redistributed his weight, he was able to allow their conversation his full attention. Elizabeth looked in Darcy’s direction, wondering if he noticed this small, but telling kindness. But he had not. Instead, he reached out his arms to William, for the baby had begun to struggle in her lap. With him in his arms, Darcy walked over to a Bingley, who then began to make silly faces for William.

  Although they understood all implications and nuances of the discourse surrounding them, the Gardiners had the good manners to keep silent. (The Gardiners had had the dubious honour of meeting Mr. Collins.) Mr. Gardiner was Mrs. Bennet’s brother, hence they were not disposed to criticise Mr. Bennet’s relations. Their Aunt Gardiner, however, was a lady her nieces’ heads naturally turned to when in want of a sensible opinion.

  Elizabeth bid, “What say you, Aunt, of Charlotte’s match?”

  Mrs. Gardiner had made Charlotte’s acquaintance prior to her understanding with Mr. Collins. She did not know Charlotte so well as her nieces, but they had shared a cup of tea more than once. It was enough time for Mrs. Gardiner to deduce that, although Charlotte Lucas had appeared accepting of spinsterhood, she was not. Her deduction was proven true when Charlotte accepted Mr. Collins’s proposal on the heels of his rejection by Elizabeth.

  Mrs. Gardiner said, “It has been my observation that, just as some ladies find the company of anyone is preferable to no one, others admire the familiar above any other evil.”

  No one could argue that postulation.

  Piercing a brief silence, young William shrieked in the inexplicable way that only a baby can. As if on cue, Margaret and Franny came with the twins. Geoffrey held Mrs. Heff’s hand, Franny held Janie’s. This was not by assignment, but by chance. Margaret was more tolerant of boyishness and Franny loved tying bows (that never seemed to stay put) in Janie’s hair. Upon their reentrance into the parlour, the twins were all sweet-smelling and sleepy-eyed. However, they were not altogether willing to go upstairs to bed without a fuss. Hence, Elizabeth handed William to Margaret and took a small hand in each of hers and led them away.

  As soon as William began to walk, Mr. Darcy believed they would need to begin interviews for another nurse. Elizabeth might well oppose that. She liked to keep the nursery help to a minimum.

  Darcy would just as soon not again be caught “looking for shoes” under the bed.

  Chapter 32

  The Fortune of War.

  All things have their season.

  The Newgate scaffold was erected directly across from the Debtors’ Door. The Fortune of War Inn stood at the intersection of both, making it a prime location to watch public hangings. Because it also sat on a busy corner situated midmost between Guys Hospital and Kings Bench Prison, the place was a handy cabstand. The regulars lived down near Naps Head Court.

  With the decline of public executions, the simple inn had disintegrated into nothing but a slag hole—one thick with the purveyors of a spanking new, and very noxious trade. Its propinquity to the teaching hospital made it a haven for body-snatchers.

  By the ghoulishness of their business, one might expect these grave-robbers to be yellow-eyed, fang-toothed demons. Those who dared cross the walk in front of The Fortune of War knew that they were vastly more frightening than that. Men such as they wore the same thick features, dirty coat, and waistcoats of the average tradesmen. That was not to say they were indiscernible. Their one commonality was a penchant for furtive glances and low conversation. Tips on where fresh corpses could be found came from both sides of the street—sextons, gravediggers, undertakers, and local officials. As they passed on their information, all of them took a cut of the sales price of a cadaver. (There was a long tradition of subornation in all business dealings, not just those of the left hand.)

  Indeed, money for the taking tickled the fancies of men of all levels.

  Anatomist liked older children. They labelled them by size—smalls and big smalls they called them. It was the bodies of young men who fetched the highest dollar—something about their tendons lent them better to dissect. A good solid fourteen-year-old was worth eight pounds, if a shilling. As always, times were hard and money was difficult to come by. A good resurrectionist could dig up a corpse in half an hour. A night’s work would feed a family of five and have enough left over to drink away the thought of what he had done to earn it.

  More than one housebreaker turned to body-snatching to make ends meet. If caught, burglary got you a long stretch picking oakum at Newgate. The law called stealing children from their graves “Unlawful Disinterment.” So long as the coffin was not marred or stone busted, grave-robbing cost a man only a fine.

  If they were lucky, a snatcher could avoid the night work by claiming an unidentified accident victim or a dead pauper as a relative. Sometimes the snatcher’s wife would rent out their services to tend a sick bed. Once the “subject” expired, they tied their bounty up in a blanket and threw it in hamper. To cart him away took only minutes. Even if they were caught in possession of a dead body, the charge was only “Improper Possession of a Subject” and the penalty was as lax as disturbing a grave.

  No one was better acquainted with the lower echelons of a
lehouses than Daisy Mulroney. In her previous office of harlot, Daisy happily brokered the sale of teeth—a full set of snappers or a single tooth. Teeth were easy to come by for plenty of folks would willingly have their choppers knocked out for the price of a drink or two. Daisy, however, had her limits. The abomination of a corpse to obtain teeth was not well-looked upon by the public at large either. Therefore, when young boys began to be throttled to feed the anatomy seminars, outrage grew. Something had to be done to stop it. But the end was not in sight. More and more doctors attended these anatomical lectures, observing autopsies of three corpses a day.

  Now ensconced in her elegant townhouse, Daisy did not care to think of such baseness. However, it was a hard truth and no one dared chance an unwatched grave. That meant that grief-stricken mourners had to lay out good money to hire someone to see that their loved one was not dragged from their final resting place and sold to the highest bidder. There was but one blessing to the victims of this trade. The window of opportunity was small. Unlike some crimes, time was of the essence. Depending on the weather, in a day or so the body would be too putrid to be saleable.