A/N: Well, here it is, almost four months late, but in honor of STEAMM Day 2014. Read on, but beware: I cannot be certain when an update will happen. I am working two jobs, co-teaching a class, AND being a mom. So, needless to say I am busy. I will try not to forsake you for long.
IN THE MEANTIME you can read the "prequel" material to this story if you have not already; The Bluestocking (four chapters only) and Ch. 1 of The Nabob's Wife.
Note: This is an AU, so expect some differences in situations. When I wrote The Bluestocking I did not intend to write a sequel. Therefor I thoughtlessly disposed of characters as a background to Edith and Anthony's story, and am now tweaking canon to stay within my own canon.
As always, these scribblings are but a pale reflection of the most excellent works of Georgette Heyer, which I hope you will enjoy, nonetheless. You all are the best!
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Chapter: The First
Lord Matthew Crawley was not an aspirant to the heights of fashion. He did not worship the Beau's every move, nor did he allow his shirt points to rise above a respectable height. He restricted himself to one fob and disdained a quizzing glass, and tied his neckcloth with care and taste without making a melodrama of it. This produced a refined and honorable appearance which perfectly suited his personality—never far removed from the practical elements of life, and with little patience for trumpery or affectation. Sometimes called 'the Eccentric Earl,' by his peers, he consorted genially with persons of all classes, and no amount of chiding from the ton or his fashionable wife, Lady Mary, could persuade him to do otherwise. He was, despite these peculiarities, handsome and good-natured, and so many among his equals accepted his eccentricities with a smile. To his inferiors in birth he was reckoned a fair and approachable man, slow to temper though determined in his opinions.
However, just at this moment either considerations of fashion or temperament would be disingenuous, as His Lordship was arrayed in no more than a pair of tight fitting breeches, stockings, and two leather slippers; his hair was unkempt, and his perspiry face was set into such a foreboding scowl that even the most staunch of his acquaintances might think twice before approaching him. Even more caution might be inspired by his actions, as he lunged swiftly forward and released one powerful fist.
His punch was a bit wide of the mark, as a stocky gentleman needlessly pointed out from the edge of his seat a few feet from where the Earl was standing. Mr. Crawley withdrew his fist, which had missed his opponents' jaw. Grunting, he dodged a swift jab aimed at his own teeth. He was too slow, however, to avoid a blow to his stomach and groaned in mild pain. His attacker smirked, even as My Lord advanced upon him once more, landing a low blow to his thigh, eliciting a curse, and then following it up with a left hook which just found purchase at the gentleman's chin before it was brushed off. Mr. Crawley straightened once more, but he read the challenge in his opponent's face and braced himself for the inevitable attack. Within seconds he was the recipient of several swift jabs to his face, which he only just managed to deflect, and one more keen blow to his stomach which made him double over.
His opponent laughed and placed a gloved hand on Mr. Crawley's shoulder.
"Are you alright?" he asked, panting.
"The Devil, Tom, are you trying to kill me?" Mr. Crawley complained mildly, holding his ribs as he inhaled haltingly.
"Wouldn't dream of it," Mr. Tom Branson, Esquire, responded with a devilish grin. "How am I to face tonight's dinner without you by my side? All three Crawley sisters in one room? And presided over by Lady Painswick no less," he grimaced slightly as both men took nearby chairs and exchanged their gloves for the clean linens and cool refreshments offered them by two liveried gentlemen who sprang forward to serve them.
Their observer clapped his hands together delightedly.
"Well now, that was a fine mill," he pronounced enthusiastically. "But as I keep telling you, My Lord, you can't forget your footwork, or you'll be as a drubbing bag to Mr. Branson."
Mr. Crawley nodded, dutifully. It was not the first time he had been privy to the same admonishment. "Thank you, Mr. Jackson. I shall try to bear that in mind."
"And you, Mr. Branson," he clapped a hand on that worthy's shoulder, "a fine blow to be sure. But he nearly landed you quite a facer."
Mr. Branson rubbed his jaw. "I'm not certain he didn't," he remarked.
"Forgive me, dear fellow," Mr. Crawley said, inclining his head towards his brother in law. "But I am indebted to you for all those muzzlers you've served me."
"Fair enough," admitted Mr. Branson, and laughed.
From Mr. Jackson's Bond Street establishment, My Lord Crawley and Mr. Branson proceeded to their separate establishments, bathed, and dressed for the evening's entertainment. All three of the former Misses Crawley had the previous morning, received an urgent summons from their aunt, the widowed Lady Painswick, to dine with her that evening and to bring their spouses.
It was half-past seven when the Strallans arrived at No. 16 Jermyn Street, Sir Anthony Strallan very conscious of punctuality. He and his young wife, the former Miss Edith Crawley, had not been married above three months, and had only two days prior returned from their honeymoon in Italy. When they were shown into the drawing room, Lady Painswick rose from her seat in a rustle of green satin and went to embrace her favorite niece.
"My dear Lady Strallan!" she said happily. "How well you look."
After greeting Sir Anthony with less effusion but equal warmth, the gentleman was left to his own devices as his wife was compelled to give a detailed account of their holiday and every hat, gown, and furbelow purchased. This was affectionately given, with some natural omissions. Edith was in the midst of describing her new silver headdress set with purple beads of Venetian glass when Lord Crawley arrived, and her narrative ceased as she went to greet him.
"So, my little country mouse, you've finally made it to London," Matthew said good-naturedly, taking Edith's hand and bowing over it. "Sir Anthony," he nodded to this gentleman, "My most heartfelt felicitations to you both. I'm exceedingly happy for you."
Edith returned his smile fondly. Matthew had met Edith just before he'd married Mary, when the affianced couple had ridden out to Downton to pay their respects to the Dowager Countess. He had taken a liking to Edith, and the two had discovered a shared enthusiasm for architecture and politics that had deepened into sibling-like affection.
"I thank you again, though you have twice bestowed them before," Edith beamed.
Sir Anthony moved away to greet Lady Crawley, who was bearing down upon their hostess. Lord Crawley and Lady Strallan settled themselves on one of the room's curling sofas.
"Now tell me, have you been to visit Bullock's or the Museum?" Lord Crawley inquired.
"As Sir Anthony and I have spent most of the week making our way here from Brighton, I have not had that pleasure," she responded.
"Ah, well then we shall have to make a party of it! Mind you, Mary's not too keen on that sort of thing, but she's just about due for her lying-in, so it don't signify," he said.
"Sounds splendid. I shall bring my new curricle. Sir Anthony, you know, is teaching me to drive," she threw a fond look at her husband, engaged with Lady Crawley and Lady Painswick a little ways from them.
"What's this?" inquired Mr. Branson, who had just entered the drawing room with Mrs. Sybil Branson on his arm, and who was, by all accounts a sporting blood. Most at home in the country, he was reckoned a top sawyer in the saddle, a fair bruiser in the court, and a crack shot. His income did not allow him to cultivate the stables of a true whipster, but his enthusiasm for the sport matched the most notorious of that set. With only a modest living, Mr. Branson attempted to keep a careful handle on his pocket, however this conscientiousness could be broken on occasion by the placing of a moderate bet on a bout at Fives Court, or the outcome of a race at Newmarket. Upon his first acquaintance with Sir Anthony, Mr. Branson had sensed in him a kindred sportsman, and on the one day since their nuptials that the baronet and his wife had deigned to be apart, he had spent the good part of a most pleasant afternoon with both his brothers–in-law at Tattersall's, sighing over the prime bits of blood to be seen, and wishing his purse could satisfy his fancy.
"I am learning to drive," Edith repeated, kissing her sister hello.
"Oh how famous," Sybil approved.
"It sounds as though you are well on your way to becoming quite the fashion," Mr. Branson said kindly.
Mrs. Branson wrinkled her nose. "Only take care. There's a deal of absurdity mixed in with all that fashion, and too little sense of what is really important."
Edith shook her head fondly at her reforming sister, who was greatly affecting the countryside around Branson House in Winslow. In the two years since she had been settled there, Sybil Branson had started a school for girls, improved the one for the boys, and established a mother's hospital and birthing parlour. She was supported in this progressive zeal by her husband, who, greatly aided by his Crawley family connections, stood a good chance of winning the county's seat, and hoped to affect real change for the laboring classes.
Across the room, Lady Mary Crawley stretched one languid arm toward her newest brother in law.
"Sir Anthony. I trust you found Tuscany and Edith both equally enchanting." She spoke this with a sardonic edge to her voice and a cock of her eyebrow that made Sir Anthony feel as though he and Edith were both being mocked.
"While I did enjoy Florence, I could not be satisfied to describe your sister as merely enchanting," he replied.
A muscle at the back of Mary's jaw twitched. "Indeed? Well doubtless you know her far better than I."
Lady Painswick interrupted this tilting, sensing a storm brewing. "Mary dear, how are you bearing up? Do sit down and make yourself comfortable. Are you quite well? Shall I ring for something?"
Lady Mary's smug look dissolved into an exasperated expression. "I'm fine my dear. You forget I have many months to go yet. I am, however, terribly curious to know why you called us here tonight."
"Oh," Lady Painswick's face fell. "Well, there's no need to bother with that now," she said brightly. "Sir Anthony, I hear you are making great improvements to Loxley Hall."
"Yes. I fear we rather lost our heads in Florence, buying draperies and such frippery. But the Hall has not been furnished since my late wife's time, and has been shockingly neglected while I have been in India."
Lady Crawley listened impatiently before pressing once again.
"Come now, Aunt, what's this all about? What was so important that you had to see us tonight?"
Lady Painswick frowned. "I shall tell you after dinner, my dear. But for now, we'll just have a nice family chat."
Mary raised her eyebrows. "Is everything alright?" Then, in an undertone she added, "Do you need to borrow money?"
Her aunt looked slightly mortified. "I do not!" she protested hotly, "And anyway, you know it was not for myself. You know it's all Jerome." She turned to Sir Anthony with a conspiratorial smile. "I don't know what young men are about at Oxford unless it is racketing about spending money and "boxing the watch" or some such nonsense. I daresay you never got up to such larks when you were at college, Sir Anthony."
A twinkle sprang into that gentleman's eyes. "I would I could tell you otherwise, but I must admit, I engaged in my share of tomfoolery in my younger days. But take hope that Mr. Painswick may yet transform into the model of decorum you see me today," he joked.
Lady Painswick tittered, glad to be steering the conversation away from talk of her monetary shortcomings.
"Forgive me, aunt, for my bluntness," Mary said testily, "but Sir Anthony is one of the family now. Indeed, you have invited him here tonight which means you must be willing to trust him with whatever this mysterious secret is. What on earth is the matter?"
Lady Painswick sighed. "I'm afraid it's to do with Rose," she said darkly.
"Rose? Susan Flintshire's daughter? What can she have to do with us?"
Lady Painswick gave a harassed expression.
"Patience my dear. All will be revealed after dinner."
As if waiting for his cue, Mead entered and announced that dinner was served.
If Lady Painswick was finding any difficulties in accommodating her household expenses, the lavish dinner she lay before them did nothing to betray that fact. There was Crème d'asperges, a fricando of beef, a fish pie, eggs in croquets with sauce a la crème, and no less than nine varieties of jellies and preserves. For dessert, there were pears in a brandy sauce, a dish of ornately piled macarons, a lemon cream tart, and, in consideration of Mary, a light rice pudding sweetened with sugar and white wine. After this repast, Lady Painswick retired to the drawing room, bidding the men not be too long over their glasses. They obeyed, and barely had they resettled in the drawing room, when Mary insisted,
"Now aunt, out with it. What has Lady Rose done that you should have issued such a writ?"
"Well, it's all to do with this new maid of hers," Lady Painswick began cryptically. "Her old maid was obliged to leave the Flintshires." She paused, her brow furrowing.
"Go on," Mrs. Branson urged kindly.
"Well, this new girl they've engaged is a regular romp. She and Rose are two of a kind."
"That sounds unfortunate for the Flintshires, but I don't see what the fuss is." Mr. Branson puzzled aloud.
"Could be a bad combination," said Lord Crawley gravely. "I have not met the girl above twice, but even with my small acquaintance I know that what Lady Rose needs is a calming hand, not one to put wind in her rackety sails."
"Exactly so," Lady Painswick agreed. "And then little Cathy had to be so disobliging as to go and get the measles," she continued in a despairing tone.
"I do hope you plan to come to the point soon, Aunt, or I shall be conducting my lying-in here in your drawing room," Mary said testily.
"You're right," their hostess said apologetically, "But the point is that Lady Flintshire has taken in the other children and is so taken up with them that she cannot keep a handle on what Rose has been about."
Edith grimaced. "As if she needed the excuse. I sometimes find it hard to believe that Cousin Susan gave birth to Rose, they are so different."
"Well, as I was saying, it is of course perfectly proper for Rose to go out with her maid, but when her maid helps her keep rendezvous at all manner of hours, and allows her to go driving with gentlemen unattended…"
"Well now, you've put a stop to those, surely?' Sir Anthony said reasonably.
"I can only vouch for her behavior when she is under my roof," Lady Painswick said stiffly. "But that's not the worst of it…"
"Never tell me she's been out at night unchaperoned?" Mr. Branson suggested, his mocking tone just heavily enough veiled for Lady Painswick to miss it.
Their hostess gave a small groan. "She was to go to a rout party on Saturday with Lady Dreycott, but once they arrived Rose disappeared and did not return home until well past two o'clock!"
"Oh, what a silly girl!" Edith exclaimed annoyed.
The smile faded from Mr. Branson's face. He exchanged a concerned look with his wife.
"She is also giving very marked encouragement to…well, more than one gentleman…" Lady Painswick said uncomfortably.
"Now I think about it," the Earl said thoughtfully, "I did hear some nonsense at White's the other evening….Terence Margadale?"
Lady Painswick's frown deepened. "Yes. That, at least has been dealt with. It appears the silly girl was unaware that he was married. But there are others, you know…though nothing too terribly shocking has happened yet. However her behavior is such that most don't need the truth. The rumors swirling about her are enough that Lady Jersey is threatening to revoke Rose's voucher!"
Mrs. Branson rolled her eyes. "Almack's isn't the center of the universe, Aunt!"
Lady Painswick eyed her solemnly. "It is at the center of Rose's universe. If she continues in this way, she won't have any chance of making a respectable alliance."
"What of these gentlemen you mention? Surely one of them is planning to offer for her?" Sir Anthony said in his calm, even tone.
"That's what I'm hoping to bring about, before Rose ruins her reputation beyond repair."
"Clearly you have some scheme?" Mary prompted.
Lady Painswick wrinkled her nose distastefully. "I've had to stoop to intrigue, but I've found out the identities of three of her more prominent suitors," she explained.
"I still don't understand what you expect from us," Edith said.
"I was hoping you might help me to clear up this imbroglio."
"But how, Aunt?" Sybil asked.
"I shall be taking Rose in hand," Lady Painswick sighed wearily, "Heaven knows what it will mean for my nerves. I want you to deal with these inamoratos of hers."
"Rosamund, surely this is a matter for Lord Flintshire to sort out, if as you say Lady Flintshire intends to do nothing," Lord Crawley suggested.
"I've told Shrimpy he needs to take an interest in the girl's prospects, but he doesn't comprehend the damage. He thinks that society will just turn a blind eye to Rose's escapades once she outgrows them."
"I agree that Rose's conduct is shocking and terribly ill-advised, but surely it is not our place to intervene…." Mr. Branson ventured.
"Or yours," Edith agreed. "Measles or no measles, why should this fall on you?"
"I…owe Susan a favor," Lady Painswick said elliptically. "In addition, Ms. MacClare is our cousin, and I should think you would care for this family's reputation."
"So we are to interrogate these gentlemen?" Mr. Branson asked.
"Not interrogate precisely. Acquaint yourself with them. Understand their intentions towards Rose, and their character."
"You mean fortune," Lady Crawley corrected archly.
"I'd like to weed out the…undesirable ones," Lady Painswick continued as if she hadn't heard, "and determine which is likely to be the best match."
"You're going to arrange it?" Sybil said with an air of despair.
"I may not be as modern in my sensibilities as you, Sybil dear, but I am not an ogress. It's clear Rose likes these men, as she keeps a great deal of quite public company with them. Surely she must know that a match must be made with one of them; indeed I am sure they all plan to offer for her. Why not help her make up her mind?"
"And if none of them is suitable?" Edith submitted.
"I'm sure one of them will make a decent match. That's what you are going to discover."
"Well, we'll take the youngest," Mary insisted, "he'll be easier to intimidate."
Her husband smirked at her affectionately. "You hardly require the advantage," he said, explaining when he received a querying look, "My darling, you could intimidate Prinny himself."
"At any rate, I couldn't tell you which is the youngest," Rosamund interjected. "You will have heard of Lord Marescot, of course. I imagine he is the oldest."
"Marescot?" Mr. Branson exclaimed disgustedly. "I thought he was married."
"The marchioness died a year ago," Lady Painswick explained flatly.
Mr. Branson raised his eyes to his wife's but found more than mere displeasure there. There was anger and even a hint of distress. He wanted to go to her immediately, to take her in his arms and find out what was wrong, but propriety prevented this.
"Who are the other two parties?" Sir Anthony asked.
"Lord Woolverton, heir to Viscount Woolverton, you'll find him lodging at Mivart's, and a Mr. Aldridge who is rooming at Clarendon's."
"Woolverton," Sir Anthony said contemplatively. "I believe I may have been at Harrow with his father."
"Or older brother, perhaps," Edith chided lovingly.
"If you wouldn't mind, I'd as lief meet with him. I may be able to use the advantage of that acquaintance."
"Well my nerves won't survive a conversation with Marescot," said Mary peevishly. "So we'll take this Aldridge fellow."
"I guess that means we'll have to fight our quarter with the Marquis," Mr. Branson said, and saw the fire return to his wife's eyes once more.
"Then it's settled. Make your calls within the next few days, and report back your findings at dinner on Monday."
The rest of the evening was spent in several rubbers of whist and pleasant conversation, and it was well after eleven when the last of the company departed. When Lady Painswick retired to her bedchamber, she took mild tonic and steeled herself to face her headstrong niece on the morrow. In spite of this looming confrontation, she was comforted by the prospect that very soon that same foolhardy girl would be well-settled. That was, if she could avoid turning the town on its ears until seven-o-clock on Monday.
XXX
Regency Expressions Used in this Chapter and their Meanings:
the Beau: George Byron 'Beau' Brummel; a paragon of fashion who espoused cleanliness and well-tailored simplicity and who was slavishly imitated by scores of gentlemen in the dandy set
the ton: from the French phrase "le bon ton" meaning the good taste/fashion, the ton was Britain's high society including peerage, aristocracy, and wealthy merchants
drubbing bag: punching bag; to drub = to punch or beat
land a facer: to punch someone in the face
muzzler: A violent blow on the mouth
"Gentleman" John Jackson: Lord Byron called him "the Emperor of Puglism," who, after winning one infamous bout, opened the quintessential boxing saloon in Bond Street, where gentlemen of the ton could learn the subtle art of boxing
Bullock's: that is, the exhibition hall in Piccadilly built by William Bullock in 1812, which housed artefacts and art and was designed in a lavish Egyptian style; sadly in 1905 the building was demolished, but in 1821 Edith and Matthew could go see Belzoni's renderings of the tomb of Seti I or James Ward's large Waterloo Allegory (a work now lost to history)
The British Museum: The same that stands today; a popular amusement for visitors to London during the Regency era, displaying mostly Greek, Roman and Egyptian artwork
Curricle: stylish and speedy (in the right hands it could reach speeds of 16mph!), the curricle was a two-wheeled carriage which required skill and perfectly matched horses to drive. There were recreational models and racing models; Edith's would be more on the recreational side, and formed for beauty rather than speed.
top sawyer: person who handles horses superbly; a skilled rider
bruiser: boxer
whipster: a driving enthusiast
Fives Court: in the West End, where all London prize-fights took place
Newmarket: the center of horse-racing during the regency period; bets could be placed through clubs, at the course, or at Tattersall's
Tattersall's: still a leader in horse auctioning, the company was founded in 1766, located in the fashionable district near Hyde Park, and by the Regency was the place to buy horseflesh in England. A gentleman could linger at Tattersall's, admiring and bidding on horses and carriages, as well as talking horseflesh with fellow enthusiasts and placing bets on various races.
Prime bit of blood: fine piece of horseflesh
boxing the watch: a young gentleman in certain sets might win high esteem with his fellows by jumping his horse over all manner of seemingly insurmountable objects, imbibing generous amounts of blue ruin (gin), and harassing or actually coming to cuffs with the night watchman, landing themselves in the watch-house overnight
rout party: A crowded party, akin to a modern cocktail party
White's: one of the premier gentleman's clubs in London, whose patrons were predominantly Tory (debated making Matthew a member of Brooke's its Whig counterpart)
Lady Jersey, Almack's, and Vouchers: Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey; was one of the four patronesses of Almack's Assembly Rooms, the premier social club in Regency London, where young ladies on the hunt for a husband could be introduced and dance with several eligible bachelors under the watchful eyes of chaperons. One could only gain admittance upon receipt of a voucher which had to be bestowed by one of the four patronesses, and could be revoked due to conduct they felt unbefitting the dignity of their establishment.
Prinny: George IV of England, the Prince Regent from 1811-1820; nicknamed Prinny
Mivart's Hotel: founded in 1812, what is today Claridge's in Mayfair; a hotel for members of the ton who did not own or want to use their townhouse (usually single men)
Clarendon Hotel: another hotel which catered to the upper classes, which boasted a chef who had once served Louis XVIII
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