Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  “My father is unwell and it grieves him to know there is talk of me in our neighborhood.”

  “Ah, a father’s approbation. This, I can understand. But why choose me? Other than pity, that is.”

  She gave me a beguiling smile. “Why not choose you? I would suppose you are beyond annoying, boyish pranks.” I was delighted that the little thing on my arm tossed that saucy reply. “But I think I will withhold my reason until much later. Perhaps it will remain a secret. It will depend.” She was no longer teasing but still an enigma.

  “On what?”

  Now she peeked up at me from under her wide-brimmed hat—“It will depend very much on you, Major.”

  I was not a light-hearted man nor could I ever be described as jocular, but in that moment, I found myself sharing a conspiratorial laugh with… my future wife. I raised her gloved hand and met her eyes as I daringly kissed the bare skin of her wrist above her glove. Her sweet scent inflamed my ardor and I looked to her wide, gray eyes. Her lovely face had flushed all the way to that fine bosom. And my own heart began to race in want of her.

  “Incidentally”—her voice low and breathy—“I do not withdraw my proposal. Thank you for accepting.”

  I could scarce admit what I was feeling. When had this mild-mannered, country girl become such a comely siren? I have had women before but they never inspired me to do the things I hoped to do with Miss Drummond as my wife. The idea of wedding and bedding that Freethy woman might had been a means to an end, but the embers smoldering from this moment threatened to undo me. “And I give you leave to call me ‘Genevieve’ as we are now betrothed after all.”

  I wondered if she felt the same attraction and could only hope that her maidenly blushes and unsteady voice were promising signs for our marriage. When I released her hand to tuck her arm back over my own, we both realized that there were details to be sorted and settled. I needed to ascertain that Genevieve understood that marriage would not mean that I would sell out of the army—that I had not lost my ambition and I would require much from her.

  “We will be partners in a venture.” Genevieve agreed with assurance. “I will do you credit, Anthony.”

  “I have no doubt.”

  Soon our walk was over and I found myself in Sir John Dent’s bookroom requesting her guardian’s permission for a courtship.

  * * *

  After a se’nnight, I escorted Genevieve’s carriage into Essex to obtain Mr. Drummond’s blessing. Genevieve’s father was expecting us as she and Sir John had written. Mr. Drummond was not what I imagined. Her father seemed entertained when Genevieve told him the story of our inauspicious start as children. I learned Drummond’s warehouses once had the outfitting of the English army regiments. Though very ill now, Drummond recalled many of my superiors and his eyes gleamed much like his daughter’s had on occasion. I was not a little hopeful when Drummond said he had neglected his correspondence in recent years.

  Drummond might have been an invalid, but he was alert to his responsibilities to his beloved daughter. I informed him of my circumstances and what I could offer a bride. They already knew I was the heir to Northanger Abbey, our family seat in Gloucestershire, but added that I was also comfortably fixed for the present too. “My army pay is not my only source of income. My mother’s brother died without issue and I received a modest income when his property was sold and the money invested.”

  “We do not doubt you can well provide for a wife, Major. Do not forget what you must receive quarterly from your father.” Genevieve’s father smiled.

  “My father gives me nothing.”

  My betrothed and her father glanced at each other and then back to me before turning the subject.

  * * *

  A few days later, I gravely regarded Genevieve after leaving her father and his attorney in the bookroom with the signed settlements.

  She set down her cup of tea. “What is it, Anthony? Have you changed your mind?”

  I grasped her hand in mine, her father’s words of concern still in my thoughts. “Gen, you have my word that, though your fortune was a strong inducement, it was not my sole motivation in accepting your proposal. I highly value you and want the woman who believes in me, in spite of my faults, by my side.”

  She looked up and I saw tears form in her eyes, but her smile stretched wide. She leaned forward from her seat beside me and brushed her lips against mine before withdrawing a little. My lips chased hers as I succumbed to the temptation and poured my want into a second kiss.

  * * *

  A few moments later, she opened her eyes and her voice was husky with emotion as she spoke, “You asked me why I chose you. Cannot you see?”

  1800, NORTHANGER ABBEY

  He had only had a glimmer then, General Tilney remembered, as he walked along Genevieve’s favorite walk in the cool of the morning. Her spirit walked with him in this place and he talked to her of the past.

  Drummond’s curious need to correspond with old friends produced a new promotion to colonel for his new son not long after he saw his daughter married. Colonel and Mrs. Tilney returned to his regiment after a brief sojourn in Gloucestershire where Genevieve approved of the Abbey but not her father-in-law.

  Jamaica’s climate was hard on her, but she would not be sent home to England. Like a good soldier’s wife, she remained at his side, hosting his officers and the governor himself on occasion. His comfort was her priority and he made certain she had anything for which she expressed a desire including a house by the sea. Genevieve was so proud to provide him a son that they named Frederick after her recently deceased father. He was proud as well, but then she grew ill with childbed fever.

  In the dark of night, his eyes were opened to his feelings for his wife. Desperately he whispered at her bedside, “Stay with me, Gen. That is an order.” Courtenay was right. He did require a lady he could esteem and regard. Yet such insipid feelings did not describe what they shared. “I insist you keep your word, my dear. You said we are partners and you would help me fulfill my ambitions. I must achieve the rank of general. Further I require, at least once, for a duke to accept our invitation to dinner. So, you see, there is much to do before you may even consider your promise completed.”

  She had recovered then and he gave her his words of love in return. His wife had courted him for affection. Every word and action was evidence of her love for him. He was humbled by this new understanding and a need to match her unselfish, tender, loving care—as much as he could.

  And yet, his version of love was paltry in comparison, having never witnessed a love like what they shared.

  * * *

  “Father.” His reverie was interrupted by Eleanor’s soft voice.

  He turned to see her on the arm of the red-haired scarecrow to whom she was partial. He was well aware the pair of them had been exchanging letters through Henry and a mutual friend since Ellicott’s first visit to the Abbey. He knew they had met at a house party even after his adamant refusals to allow their courtship.

  He privately appreciated that this Jago Ellicott looked him in the eye, man to man, and regarded Eleanor with a warm expression. Ellicott seemed honorable and all reports proved he was in good standing. Ellicott’s proprietary hold of her hand on his arm raised General Tilney’s hackles, but the soft whisper of his wife’s voice in warning lowered them.

  Still, he would not make it easy for Eleanor’s suitor. “Well?” he barked lacing hands behind his back and peering down his nose at the pair.

  Eleanor swallowed, but it was Ellicott who spoke. “Good morning, sir. Miss Tilney has done me the honor of returning my affections. She is a dutiful daughter and would not dream of accepting a courtship without your approval. I know, in the past, you have not been inclined to bestow it, but my circumstances have changed.”

  Ellicott wore a black armband and he made the general to understand that he had inherited his brother’s title and estate.

  So, Eleanor is to become the new Viscountess St. Mabyn and reside in Cor
nwall?

  “Sir, may I have your permission to court your daughter?”

  “Oh, go be fools—”

  Behave, Anthony!

  He cleared his throat, observing Eleanor’s stricken expression and St. Mabyn’s tightened lips. Genevieve’s spirit was strong in that moment and her silence roared with disapproval. He needed to be at peace with her; thus, he swung around and stepped forward, startling the young lovers.

  He reached for Eleanor’s hand, gentling his voice, knowing the girl was easily overset. “Is this what you wish, child? Is he whom you wish?”

  Her eyes teared up and she bobbed her head trying to find words. “Mister—that is Lord St. Mabyn makes me very happy, Father.”

  “Very well, you have my permission to court.”

  Eleanor burst into sobs and rushed him with an embrace that he was unaccustomed to receiving. “Thank you! Thank you, Father. And Henry?”

  The tender child was always thinking of her brother who remained incensed with him over a separate matter involving the little vicar’s daughter. “He can go be a fool, too.”

  The newly courting couple were well-pleased if somewhat suspicious he would take it all back.

  St. Mabyn rushed into action. “Thank you, sir, and I would like to extend an invitation, as well. I would like for you and Miss Tilney to journey into Cornwall so I may introduce my mother and sister.”

  With a handshake to the new viscount, the general then waved them off. He watched the pair out of sight as they happily chattered over their future.

  Well done, Anthony!

  “They have been thwarted in love and now appreciate what they have as a result. Like our difficult beginning, Genevieve.”

  And your actions toward Miss Morland?

  “I am still not convinced of that pairing for our son”—but she has some income and she can grow and learn under Henry’s guidance. I suppose it will be Frederick to take up the cudgels and challenge me most. War with France again is only a matter of time. Frederick knows this and remains in anticipation. So much like I was at his age.

  He drifted along the path at a leisurely pace pondering the present, still touched by his thoughts from the past and sense of Genevieve beside him. She had kept her promise made those many years before. They had also made new promises together. Even now, he loved her as much as he could.

  SOPHIA ROSE is a native Californian currently residing in Michigan. A long-time Jane Austen fan, she is a contributing author to The Darcy Monologues, Sun-kissed: Effusions of Summer, and Then Comes Winter anthologies, short stories based on Jane Austen’s works. Sophia’s love for writing began as a teen writing humorous stories submitted for Creative Writing class and high school writing club. Writing was set aside for many years while Sophia enjoyed a rewarding career working with children and families. Health issues led to reduced work hours and an opportunity for a return to writing stories that continue to lean toward the lighter side of life and always end with a happily-ever-after. Click to connect with Sophia Rose

  Novella X

  The Art of Sinking (none) J. Marie Croft

  JOHN THORPE

  A supercilious braggart, who contrived tales of his own heroics, John Thorpe proved to be more than a buffoon but the real villain. Though his ambitions drove him to covet the life of a rake, without the means to afford such extravagance, his character was fixed as a grasping, lying social-climber whose guile was only surpassed by his sister Isabella’s. Catherine listened with astonishment; she knew not how to reconcile two such very different accounts of the same thing; for she had not been brought up to understand the propensities of a rattle, nor to know to how many idle assertions and impudent falsehoods the excess of vanity will lead. —Northanger Abbey, Chapter IX.

  “Give me but a little cheerful company, let me only have the company of the people I love, let me only be where I like and with whom I like, and the devil take the rest, say I.” —John Thorpe to Catherine Morland, Northanger Abbey, Chapter XV.

  THE ART OF SINKING

  J. Marie Croft

  No one who had ever seen John Thorpe in his infancy would have supposed him born to be a beastly buffoon. At that tender age, there could be no telltale sign of the rattle, the rogue, or— heaven forfend!—the rat.

  Even had such an indication been evident, the mother of that bundle of joy could not but own a markedly tender feeling for her first-born son. Of course, every man’s wife, be she baseborn or noble, was put upon, so to speak, to provide an heir. By dint of his birth, therefore, John had become Mrs. Thorpe’s finest achievement.

  Cosseted by his parents and by those household servants not directly involved in his daily routine, John soon sank in favour with the nurse assigned, at first happily, to his care and feeding. Her charge proved to be a choleric, raucous creature whom she would just as soon have thrown out with the bath water had she not feared someone might eventually notice the quiet. With coarse cloth and a scrap of lye soap, she scrubbed the wailing child in a washtub of tepid water and, in frequent fits of pique, held his head beneath the surface until he bubbled.

  As dutifully tended by the same nurse was a subsequent brood of two more boys and three girls.

  Cherished by their doting, indulgent mother, those six children were the sole source of Mrs. Thorpe’s pride and braggadocio, merited or not.

  When he was in leading strings, John’s mother announced to a room of guests that, although he had recently turned one-year-old, he had been walking since eight months of age. To which report Mrs. Shepherd, one of the bored visitors, just before being shown the door, replied, “Really? Well, madam, your precocious youngster must be dreadfully tired by now.”

  The Thorpe family—which resided in Bartlett’s Buildings, Holborn, in rooms above Mr. Thorpe’s ground floor office—was in neither particularly good nor poor circumstances. Nevertheless, with consistent and conscientious regularity, they coveted the perceived advantages, achievements, and accoutrements of their betters and peers. The latter class consisted of tradesmen and their ilk rather than the “realm” sort of peer, for Mr. Thorpe was engaged in commerce. Whilst not genteel, the man was not uncommonly disrespected … though he was a lawyer.

  Jouncing John on his knee, the attorney watched a fine carriage drive past his window. “One day, my boy, I shall purchase for us all the best trappings money can buy—the most hellish good guns and fox hounds, sweet goers with the most spanking trots, and a one-of-a-kind, well-hung, town-built curricle rigged with silver mouldings, splashing-board, lamps, the springiest of springs, and all that. ‘Why, there goes that dashing Aubrey Thorpe with his prime rattler and four matching prads,’ the neighbours will say upon catching sight of my finery. Every gentleman within fifty miles will be damned jealous.”

  Such envy never came to pass, alas. While John was a stripling, his father kicked the bucket in a manner quite beyond the pale. In his office one evening, with Mrs. Thorpe and his eldest son as witnesses, the man, who never would have been afforded the privilege of becoming a barrister, acted out his court debut as prosecutor at the Old Bailey. Demonstrating to an imaginary judge and jury his gift of persuasive oratory and that the defendant’s pistol could not have discharged accidentally, Mr. Thorpe accidentally shot himself while play-acting with the fatally authentic exhibit.

  Bereft of a father, the three Thorpe brothers were spared the rod or any sort of discipline; and John—being, then, the eldest male of the family—gloried in high regard and deference. Of course, vanity, working on a weak head, produced every sort of mischief. If trouble was at hand, John was sure to be in the thick of it; and, like others of his sex, if there was anything disagreeable going on, he was sure to get out of it—until he was sent off to Merchant Taylors.

  “But I do not want to attend school,” he whinged, stamping his foot. Stacks of china in a nearby cabinet rattled and threatened to topple.

  “Not to worry, my darling,” said Mrs. Thorpe while knitting him some socks. “The headmaster informs me you will
only be called up to have your work assessed twice a term.”

  “Twice a term! Gadzooks!” John staggered backwards, bumping into the cabinet and wincing at the sound of splintering porcelain. “I will not go! I am sure I heard somewhere that a little learning is a dangerous thing!”

  At the Suffolk Lane school founded by a merchant guild for boys of middle rank, John received discipline, derision, and indignities most dreadful––as well as a moderately priced education in the classics and drama. Beatings dispensed by a harsh headmaster, while painful, were nothing to the deliberately hurtful remarks and abuse meted out by the senior rank of boys living under their own set of rules. John, in his juvenility, had never been so vilely quizzed.

  Young, irrepressible, and of a hot character, he acquired a tough skin—due, it was conjectured, to scarring—and embraced a philosophy. The rest of the world be damned! Mother, my sisters, and brothers all set great store by me. ’Tis us Thorpes against the world! As a whole, the family practiced economy with their modest income and also with the truth. The latter commodity stretched with far greater flexibility than the former.

  One day, between school terms, their neighbour, Mrs. Shepherd, came to call and to lodge a complaint. “Mrs. Thorpe, I shall no longer allow my Tom to associate with your eldest. Like his late father, John swears horribly.”

  “Yes, yes, I know.” Sighing, Mrs. Thorpe shook her head while admiring the lace on the other woman’s dress. “The dear child puts no feeling into it at all.”

  “Well!” Mrs. Shepherd turned her scorn upon the object of it. “Young man, I have heard alarming reports of your disruptive behaviour at school—shooting paper darts into your teacher’s hair and making him resemble a fretful porcupine. I understand the headmaster wants to see you nearly every day.”