Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “Emily, that is uncivil,” the boy admonishes her.

  “Is it?” She sounds surprised. “I was merely being honest.”

  “Do not concern yourself,” I say. “Peg took no offence.”

  And neither did I. I would choose honesty, however stark and blunt, over deception any day. Damn Isobel! I hope Camborne lives to be a hundred.

  I grin wickedly at the thought, then grow rather ashamed when the young girl casts me a bright and genuine smile in return. The candour of children, happy souls. She hands me the apple, and I do my best to set thoughts of revenge aside, at least for the moment.

  “Will your mother not be cross that you gave your luncheon to my horse?”

  “Oh, no,” she assures me, shaking her head. “Besides, we have already had our luncheon. We had a picnic.”

  “Did you?”

  I offer Peg the apple and he takes it eagerly, snorting his satisfaction. The girl claps. “He liked it!”

  “He certainly did. But where is your mother, by the bye? Or… governess? Hmm… minder?” I flounder as I seek to ascertain her condition in life from her attire.

  “They came to walk with us—Mamma, Papa and our cousins, but we ran ahead,” the girl informs me sagely while the boy, far less disposed for conversation, crouches down to study an earthworm in the grass.

  “I see. You have not lost your way, I trust.”

  The girl grins. “Like the babes in the woods? No, sir. We can find our way back, can we not, Edward?”

  “Of course,” the boy replies, his eyes on the wriggling creature he had picked up for closer inspection. “But we need not try to,” he adds, still without looking up. “They are coming this way. Our cousins are almost here.”

  I look around and wonder how the boy can tell, for I see no one, but a few moments later I hear footsteps, rustling, and a murmur of voices from beyond the greenery the children had sprung from. There must be a path behind the bushes, which he can see and I cannot.

  ’Tis a relief that I can be on my way without the encumbrance of returning lost offspring to their parents. I pat Peg’s neck again and turn to bid my adieus, but the girl saunters away to greet the couple emerging into the clearing. A smartly dressed gentleman and a young woman. They are both young, my age or thereabouts. She is— My cursory glance turns into a long, appraising look. She is a strikingly handsome woman. I snort, sounding like Peg. I pity the fool who walks beside her grinning like a love-struck mooncalf. Yet another one fallen prey to the wiles of a good-looking woman. I want to pat him on the shoulder and tell him to save himself while he can, before the oh-so-attractive veil falls off to reveal the ugly truth beneath. I do pity the fool. And then I realise I know him. From Town? Cambridge? Or even earlier perhaps…at Eton?

  That cheerful grin is ever so familiar, the countenance too, but the man’s name not so much. B… B… B… Bradford? No. Burnley? No, that does not sound right either. Some other northern name with a whiff of trade. Ah! Bingley! That’s the one. Thankfully I have it, just as I see the same flash of recognition in the man’s eyes. It would have been devilishly mortifying if he knew my name and I was still struggling to remember his.

  As the young girl proceeds to commandeer his companion’s attention, he excuses himself and strides forth to greet me brightly.

  “What a remarkable surprise! It is you, Weatherby, is it not?”

  “Willoughby,” I correct him.

  “Of course. I beg your pardon,” he cheerfully retorts, nothing as mortified as I would have been had I called him Burnley. I daresay it takes all sorts. “So, how have you been keeping?” he asks. “It has been a while. Too long. I wonder how we never met in Town. Unless you have been abroad? Have you?”

  I shake my head, and before I can launch into a proper answer, Bingley starts rattling on again, chattier than a woman. He was a great deal less chatty at Cambridge, at least in the beginning. Ah, that is good... Now I remember where I know him from.

  I dig deeper once I know where to look, and images come up with greater ease as Bingley goes on about some estate he has leased. I recollect that he turned up at Cambridge when I had been there a couple of years at least, and he was not well-liked, which had at first surprised me, for I found him likeable enough. But then the aforementioned whiff of trade explained it all.

  To my discredit, I had shunned him too at first, and my reason for eventually befriending him was not to my credit either. To put it plainly, I sought him out and even asked him to Coombe Magna solely to spite my father, after one of his rants about how the country was going to wrack and ruin, and men brought up above their parents’ shops were now rubbing shoulders with their betters in the grand salons. I doubt Bingley enjoyed his stay, seeing as my sire was at his most awful. How terribly amusing that it is always the lesser sort who make the greatest fuss about rank and status. Take the late John Oglivie, by way of example. Impecunious scion of the insignificant branch of the family: he profited from the terms of the entail in favour of heirs male, changed his name to Willoughby, and reigned at Magna as though born to riches and swaddled in ermine and purple. But never mind him now.

  Bingley never came to stay again. I gathered he received a better welcome up North, in Derbyshire, once this other Cambridge man took him under his wing. A quiet sort, the very opposite of Bingley but fierce as the devil when crossed.

  I never saw what those two had in common, but I had left them to it, whatever it was. Bingley’s bosom friend had not been my notion of good company at all. Too solemn and reserved a fellow was Darcy, too quiet in his pleasures and too intent upon his studies, as though he were preparing to become some dusty and obscure scholar, and not the master of one of the largest estates in Derbyshire.

  “…and some pretty decent spots for coarse fishing,” Bingley concludes what I can only assume was an enumeration of his estate’s virtues. “I hope you will afford us the pleasure of hosting you sometime,” he kindly offers, before exclaiming, horror-struck. “Here I am rattling on and missing the essentials. It has just come to me that of course you are not acquainted with my wife, are you? Pray forgive me, dearest,” he contritely addresses the flaxen-haired beauty.

  She straightens up from her conversation with the children and comes to join us. So much for my wish to urge him to escape womanly wiles while he can. Too late. The poor fool is already wed and so early in life too. Marry in haste, repent at leisure.

  Bingley performs the belated introductions, his lady curtsies, and I bow. Yet again, I barely begin to utter the blandest of civilities, when natter-jack Bingley is on again:

  “I might be forgiven for singing Netherfield’s praises given that my greatest blessings have sprung from leasing the place. Had I not, we might have never met, and that does not bear thinking,” he says to his wife with the widest smile, then turns to me again. “The same goes for Darcy. He married my new sister. Or I should say one of my four new sisters. You do remember Darcy, do you not?”

  I confirm with a nod, and Bingley motions me along.

  “Come, then. I daresay there are a couple of bottles of Burgundy left in the picnic baskets, to drink to the old times. I would be honoured to introduce my wife’s uncle and aunt to your acquaintance, and Darcy will be as pleased as Punch to see you.”

  I doubt that the solemn-looking fellow I remember would be as pleased as Punch about anything. As for myself, I have no taste for Burgundy nor for new and old acquaintances, and least of all, for waxing sentimental over our alma mater.

  “I must beg to be excused on this occasion. I am expected at White’s within the hour.”

  The lie rolls unnecessarily off my lips—I could have simply said I was otherwise engaged—and Bingley swallows it but with obvious disappointment. He presses me to call upon them whenever I can, and I escape with an ambiguous answer and a collection of tedious civilities.

  But by the time I am back in the saddle urging Peg on, I begin to see some merit in going to White’s. It would be far preferable to returning to
my lodgings or roaming through the parks like a man possessed. A game of cards, a stiff drink, and exclusively male company would serve me a great deal better.

  I nudge Peg along and, sensing my impatience, he, faithful soul, crosses the green apace. And then I spot them—the pair on the rug, lost to the world among a melange of picnic baskets. The woman sits propped up against a tree trunk; the man is lounging at leisure, his head in her lap. She is stroking his hair and they pay me no heed. Perhaps they have not heard Peg’s hoofbeats over the tall grass, or perhaps it pleases them to remain just as they are, without a care for a passing stranger. I cannot see the woman’s face. A host of spiralling dark locks conceal her features as she bends down to speak to him. But the man clearly looks best-pleased to remain precisely where he is. And he is no stranger; even with the years’ passing, I easily recognise him as Darcy but on account of his features alone. Gone is the aloof mien I knew so well, and that is what shocks me. If he, the epitome of cold detachment, and I daresay level-headedness, had lost his wits as well, to the point of lying there—the lion reduced to a mere lapdog—and staring at this slip of a girl with nothing short of adoration, then for goodness’ sake, what hope is there for the rest of us? Bingley, I could pity him for his infatuatio but Darcy? Darcy’s capitulation stuns me. The Derbyshire Monk lost in the fray as well!

  When he sits up and draws her to him to kiss her with sickening passion, I dig my heels into Peg's side and ride off as if chased by Beelzebub himself. Not for the sake of decency and discretion. If they have no qualms about such displays in a public place, then I see no reason why I should fret over sparing their blushes. No, I leave my erstwhile schoolfellows to their insanity simply because I cannot stand witnessing it any longer. Picnic with them and their respective Circes? Heaven forbid! Let them call upon me three years hence, when they awake from their delirium. For now, I cannot lay my hands soon enough on that stiff brandy awaiting at White’s. Or better still, maybe I should opt for a flagon or two at Molly’s Tavern.

  * * *

  I did not opt for Molly’s Tavern, more’s the pity, and not for White’s either. I went to Brooks’s instead and, sadly for my purse, I ran into Captain Tilney and an acquaintance of his, a Mr. William Elliot, who plays cards far too well to be a gentleman. Long story short, between too much brandy and Elliot’s uncanny skill, on the following morning, I had found I lost one devil of a larger sum than I can afford.

  Unmitigated folly it was, with dire consequences. No, I am not merely speaking of the loss itself, but of the fact that as a result here I am, bored senseless deep in the wilds of Devonshire, visiting Mrs. Smith, my mother’s distant cousin and the future provider of most, if not all, my earthly joys. I am to inherit her vast fortune, which will finally set me free from my sire’s debts and mine. And there is also Allenham, her home, which is due to come to me as well. A handsome place, airier than the gloomy Coombe, but cast upon this distant shore and dreary as the devil. In all the time I have been here, a month to the day, there were just two dances at Barton Park, and the Middletons also asked me once for dinner. No shooting parties, ’tis too early in the season. No roistering companions to alleviate the tedium. No plays, no assemblies, and no card parties to see if my luck has turned. Nothing to do but either ride along the coast through mist and rain, or sit all day conversing and playing piquet with Mrs. Smith in her parlour.

  I generally choose the rain and I return soaked to the skin and in foul humour for bitter thoughts keep intruding as I ride. The heartache is mostly gone, but the anger is not. Anger at Isobel of course—my Lady Cambourne now—and even more at myself, for bending to her will and failing to see for such a length of time that I was merely her plaything.

  When I inherit Allenham, I will rise and make her pay for every humiliation. I know not how, I know not when, but my turn will come.

  As for safeguarding my inheritance, I cannot abscond every day. I do penance in the parlour too. I cannot risk offending the dear, old bat when so much is at stake. I would scarce have a penny to my name were it not for her allowance, and somehow, I must persuade her to increase it to compensate for the debts of honour I had to pay. So, I sit drinking tea or reading to her from some dull tome or playing her at piquet and chess, simpering and smiling till even I grow sickened by my guile. “Needs must when the devil drives,” they say. All I can say is that Lucifer has assigned me a very crafty devil. No greater punishment than boredom for my sins!

  * * *

  Lucifer has granted me a respite and boredom was alleviated in a rather pleasing manner. But I would do well to start from the beginning.

  Mrs. Smith asked me to escort her to Bath, and little as I wished to spend my mornings squiring her to the Pump Room and my evenings escorting her on her outings to drink tea and gossip with an assortment of dowagers, I told myself that at least it would be an improvement on the Devonshire tedium. And so, it is. There are assemblies and card parties, and the dowagers invariably have some some daughters, or a niece or two, in attendance.

  I have not been in Bath a se’nnight when my morning stroll has some interesting consequences. I am enjoying the first spell of dry weather I have seen in weeks, and also the satisfaction that I cut a rather dashing figure in my new coat, if I say so myself, when, all of a sudden, I hear a cry and something flies right at me, misses my face, and lands on my lapel. Fortunately for my new coat ’tis nothing worse than a sheet of paper. Instinctively, I raise my hand and catch it, and I barely have the time to discern what it is, when it turns out ’tis more than one sheet. I have one clasped in my hand, but the other flies over my shoulder. That is when I notice that the girl, whose trim figure I had equably admired as she stood some ten yards away with her elderly companion, is now facing this way in dismay, a sheet of paper fluttering in her gloved hand. A second is all I need to put two and two together: the wind has blown away most of her letter. My chivalrous instincts come alive and spur me on. One page still in hand I dash in pursuit of the other, and presumably make a spectacle of myself as I clutch repeatedly at nothing but thin air, until the wayward page is finally in my grasp. Regrettably, I collide into another person. Not full-on, thankfully, otherwise I would have sent her flying, for she is a waify sort of girl. I crash into her shoulder, which is bad enough, but at least her companion has enough time to grab onto her other arm and steady her.

  “Goodness!” she cries out—the companion, that is. “Have a care, sir! Martha, are you injured?”

  “No. I am well. Still in one piece and on my feet, so no harm done. Pray, Eliza, do not fret so.”

  I apologise profusely, of course. There is nothing to be done about it: I declare myself a clumsy fool and offer to rush for a coach or a sedan chair to convey the injured lady to her destination for, despite her protestations, I notice she is limping. I must have trodden on her foot—the clod!

  “I can assist with transport. I feel it is my duty,” a voice says behind me, and I spin around. It is the owner of the flying letter, and I return the stray pages to her with a bow.

  “I thank you, sir,” she says, blushing prettily, her eyes cast down, then she looks up again with some determination. Lovely eyes. The brightest blue with a scattering of aquamarine specks.

  I bow again, declaring it my pleasure. And so, it is. The lady is uncommonly handsome, and I have no regrets about being of service—the waify, young woman momentarily forgotten. But the owner of the letter is quick to bring the victim of my gallantry back to my attention and quietly addresses her.

  “I fear I am to blame for the mishap. I should have waited and opened my letter in my carriage but I was too impatient for the contents. My carriage is ready and waiting, and you would oblige me greatly if you permit my coachman to escort you home.”

  The injured lady is quick to consent, and all I can do is offer her my arm to help her hobble to the carriage. I hand her in, and likewise her companion, who glances askance at me and seems rather cross, presumably because I hurt her friend. I assure her of my
deepest remorse, and she flashes me another glare, but says nothing, as the attending footman fusses around the other passenger.

  The owner of the carriage expresses wishes for a swift recovery, the elderly companion joins us and clucks in sympathy, I struggle for something more cogent to say other than more apologies, and before I know it, the door is closed, Miss Blue-Eyes orders the coachman off, drops me a curtsy, her companion nods, and they wander off towards the entrance of what must be their lodgings. I take note of the address. No._ Royal Crescent, although at present it serves me not. I cannot call. Vexingly, we have not been introduced. But they do not seem intent upon quitting Bath. Hopefully our paths will cross again under more auspicious circumstances.

  With a smile and a spring in my step, I twiddle my cane and amble towards the Pump Room. When I pass Miss Blue-Eyes’ carriage still struggling to negotiate the throng in the Circus, the two occupants, Miss Eliza and Miss Martha, seem to have forgiven my clumsiness already, for they flash me a matching set of smiles.

  * * *

  I did encounter Miss Blue-Eyes in more auspicious circumstances, and courtesy of the Master of Ceremonies, Mrs. Smith and I were favoured with an introduction. Miss Blue-Eyes is in effect Miss Malcolm, visiting Bath with her companion, Mrs. Wise. I have also become properly acquainted with the other two young ladies. Miss Martha, I can now address as Miss Matthews. She is staying in Bath with her father, who came to take the waters for his gout, and with her friend Miss Eliza Williams.

  Miss Matthews’ foot mended swiftly, so my guilt is appeased. I have come across them often in the Pump Room, the circulating library, and in Sydney Gardens. Mr. Matthews is rarely with them—almost never, in fact, on account of his severe attack of gout, which pains him exceedingly. His daughter informed me that apart from the Baths, he only left his lodgings to take tea in the Royal Crescent, at Miss Malcolm’s gracious invitation.