B006O3T9DG EBOK (59 page)

“How can I forget, Winnie? We took near a thousand guineas home!”

Sally knew Lady Millhouse’s given name was Winifred, but that was the first time she had heard her called by it. For quality folk, the Millhouses were as lovie as Billingsgate barkers. Their easy affection reminded Sally of the Gardiners.

Fully engaged, her ladyship roared, “We must not miss the classics for they are next! Oh, was I younger I should have loved to take a rail on a fast steed!”

As the start of the next race commenced, Lady Millhouse jumped up and down with the exhilaration of child. She asked Sally something, but the question was lost in the cheering of the crowd. It was difficult to listen to the Millhouses, as they detailed the regulations of each race and the pedigrees of each horse, for all the distractions.

As rousing as the races were, Sally was ecstatic when they went on their way to see the accompanying fair. She had never seen anything quite like it in all her born days (and she had once paid a penny to observe the mummified corpse of a two-headed pig). What with musicians and fortune-tellers, and pickpockets circling amongst the breeders and horse owners, the sounds and smells reminded her of London—on its best day. Someone had a monkey. It was shrieking either in hostility or fright.

“Oh, look there!” cried Lady Millhouse. “I spy the Bingleys!”

Holding out both arms in eagre anticipation, Lady Millhouse seemingly enfolded the entire family within them. With much talk of small worlds and an exchange of the condition of the roads, they were a merry bunch. Lady Millhouse even introduced her to Mrs. Bingley who nodded and spoke to her particularly. That was a surprise and delight, but Mrs. Bingley was Mrs. Darcy’s sister and both those ladies were unassuming and kind. Lady Beecher was with them and extended her hand to Lord Millhouse. Her wrist was limp as me auntie’s and she showed a distinct distaste for everyone else, especially such riffraff as the Millhouse’s lately-adopted waif. Sally did not give a frog’s fart what that so-called lady thought.

Bingley still had his cane and favoured his gouty toe. (It said much for his recovery that he managed to wear his favourite boots.) He had a three year-old filly entered in the Epsom Oaks and they had brought their two oldest boys to watch. Bingley was quite pleased with his odds and wanted to share his enthusiasm with his sons. Their boys were more excited than usual, tugging upon their mother’s arms, pulling her thither and yon to amusements that they had little chance to enjoy at Deering Lodge.

In his inspirited discourse with the Millhouses over the betting odds, Bingley’s purpose for bringing his sons to the races was soon forgotten. It was left to Jane to keep them in check. Happy to have an excuse to see the sights, Sally took the boys in hand and they went to buy some ices.

Whilst her husband and Bingley exchanged their opinions upon various colts listed in the General Stud Book, Lady Millhouse was reminded of her original enterprise and invited Jane to accompany her in quest of the extra shift of ponies.

“After all, Jane dear, had you and Georgiana not informed me of the plight of the pit ponies, I would not be here now.”

Thus, she insisted they take a turn about the grounds to see what was for sale. Not disposed to talk of race horses, Caroline followed them.

Despite gypsies and travellers begging their attention, Sally and the boys soon caught up with them. Lady Millhouse found the gypsies quite exotic. Her upbringing a bit more salty, Sally was less impressed. She finished off her ice with great rapidity, but the boys’ were dripping down their chins. Jane attended them, but some messes are foreordained. As they ran screaming about their Aunt Caroline’s satin skirts, she closed her parasol to use it as a weapon against them. Everyone but Caroline found the antics quite hilarious.

There were many people of all ilk trading horses in the area. Several claimed to have thoroughbreds, though most looked to be lame or excessively old to compete. Amongst them was a man with a string of ponies, noticeable for nothing more than each one of the beasts were more emaciated than the next. The owner claimed their condition was the result of personal privation and not gross neglect. His assertion was not supported by his well-tailored frock coat and ample supply of Geneva. This infuriated them all save Caroline (granted she may have been offended too, but she was loath to draw the long bow upon any injury not inflicted upon her personally). Lady Millhouse took it upon herself to express their collective outrage.

As she was rarely without her crop, her ladyship held it before her and then began a hearty bastinado across the man’s shoulders.

“Fie upon you, sir! Fie, I say! A man who will starve a horse is no man at all!”

Instinctively, Sally caught the tail of her ladyship’s coat and begged her to cease lest the constabulary take her away. She only quit her attack when the man was able to beat a retreat to the safety of the ground between his waggon’s wheels.

Hastily collecting herself, her ladyship sent for her own men to fetch the poor ponies, bellowing to one and all, “There, you have it! Easy as that! Our ponies are bought!”

In fortune, their men had joined them, for the ponies had been spooked by the man’s high-pitched squealing. It was left to limping Bingley, and ageing Lord Millhouse, to scurry to capture the end of the rope before the horse tore lose. The dull-eyed creatures were in no mind to follow anyone.

“Make haste!” Lady Millhouse called to her footmen, “Secure some grain from our stores!”

As they hurried off, she took hold of each pony’s lead rope and one by one yanked each of them free. Bingley’s boys were happy to help shoo the animals towards a nearby field. Initially reluctant, the ponies eventually allowed themselves to be herded. Then one shaggy, brown pony raised its nose and emitted a slight whicker. It was as if a call to arms. They trotted, then galloped until they all came sliding into the wet grass. The herd hastily dispersed into the tussocks and sedge as if a harvest feast had been laid out before them.

That stirring sight bequeathed another one. It was equally moving, but sweetly askew.

Lady Millhouse was taller than her husband, therefore when she rested her forehead against his shoulder she had to stoop when she wept.

Sally looked away, not because she believed the sight abhorrent, but because she did not. People were peculiar. Lady Millhouse would thrash a man and weep for animals all in a minute’s time. Plain men and innocent babes starved in every corner of the country every day of the week, yet no one wept for them. She shrugged. What more could be done?

On the back stairs of Pennyswope, all manner of tales were exchanged. Most of the stories were nothing but a good-natured laugh. Unsurprisingly, Lady Millhouse’s unguarded conduct was often the topic. She had been known to do more than swat dog-kickers; she took a crop to wife-beaters too. A woman so willing to right a wrong might take on the rest of the world’s inhumanity as well. When the time came, Sally meant to have a word with her about that.

Settling everyone’s nerves took a while. There were arrangements to be made to transport the ponies to Pennyswope. As these matters were attended, another, more peculiarly fractious raucity was heard. It was Bingley who interpreted it for what it was. He ran in the direction of the melee, employing his walking stick as a pivot, alternately waving it in the air as he could. Lord Millhouse was behindhand of him with her ladyship (skirts raised to her knees) fast over-taking then both.

Jane and her boys stood still. Caroline was struck dumb.

Sally told them all, “I will go see what’s the matter,”

She then ran towards the ruckus.

Jane heard her husband holler, “Belay that Kneebone!”

She blanched and clasped her children to her. Caroline blindly dug into her reticule until she found what she wanted. She up-ended the silver flask and emptied it with one long swallow. With a gesture devoid of gentility, she wiped her mouth with the back of her glove.

Thereupon, she fainted dead away.

Chapter 79

Seed of Doubt

When Juliette was roused from her stupor, she heard Alistair speaking excitedly.

“I know the Darcys, they are a fine family,” he said. “There is no finer gentleman than Mr. Darcy.”

Unconvinced, she bid, “You are acquainted with Mr. Darcy?”

“The older gentleman, yes. He’s now long dead,” he said, very nearly falling into his oft-repeated tale of misuse. “The son is quite arrogant. I doubt he would recall me.”

She was resentful of her lapse of discretion and suspicious that he had taken advantage of her inebriation. Moreover, it was morning, a time she disliked to be on display. This was most especially true if she had over-imbibed on wine the night before. All in all, she was in a bit of a snit. Alistair talked on, either uncaring or unwitting of her mood. What he had to say, however, was not to be denied.

“I know enough of the Darcys to say that he has Howgrave’s fortune ten times over. You have been waiting for him to come to you for an interminable amount of time and he has yet to darken your door. I fear he has forsaken you, dearest Juliette. If he has, oblige him to reimburse you for your aggravation.”

She said airily, “What I want of him does not demand anything but an afternoon—no, an hour of his time.”

The implication was clear. In his astonishment, he had not recalled that she meant for this lover—Darcy—to impregnate her.

“Would you but desire an afternoon of amour for amour’s sake? You do not need Darcy for that. I could please you in ways you have yet to imagine....”

“Silly fool!” she snapped. “I desire fornication, not an assignation. I need impregnation. Darcy is a man of vigour and vitality. His loins, they are....”

“Ah, yes. You must provide Sir Howgrave with an heir.”

Why she wanted Darcy of all people to do the job meant only one thing. When the time was ripe, she would toss the name of the father of her child in her husband’s face. Word had it that Howgrave was not to the manor born. Every man and potboy in Kympton knew that he was a child of the vestry called Freddy Dumpstitch. As bastard son of a maid, he had been a local joke.

To be cuckold by Mr. Darcy would be a particularly stinging rebuke. Howgrave would pay for her silence.

He said, “Should Darcy not be tempted, all is not lost.”

Juliette’s head rolled to the side, her eyes turned in his direction. Her expression was unwelcoming.

She said, “I have not given him up as of yet.”

Endeavouring to keep the patronisation from his voice, he said, “You are right to keep that hope alive. But, if he does not come, so to speak, you must have an alternate.”

She saw the wisdom in that, but was not altogether pleased at the offer she knew was to come.

She said, “I trust you want to do the job yourself?”

His scheme had not been as disguised as he might have hoped. That did not mean that it was a bad idea.

He rerouted the unveiling by announcing, “I have a grand notion.”

Her expression was wan. She yawned.

“Imagine me with hair near-black in colour as it once was. Before I went to the wars my hair was black as the night. In height and form, I am Darcy’s double,”

Unimpressed, she said angrily, “I want a child fathered by Darcy, not a garrulous nonentity without six-pence in his pocket.”

“If that tryst does not bechance, do you not see that I am the next best thing to Darcy. I shall bootblack my hair and purposely be seen coming from your chambers.” His words were coming faster, “Surely certain members of your circle had to have known of your affair with Darcy. That knowledge, along with well-placed innuendo and the world will believe that he is your lover still!”