The Knights of Derbyshire

By DJ Clawson

This story continues the series that began with "A Bit of Advice." At this point, you really have to go read the others before trying to read this one. New characters abound. This is story 6.

Updated twice weekly or 10-15 comments, whichever comes first.


Chapter 9 – The Ring

It finally seemed to be warming up. After a long, cold winter, this brought a particular joy to everyone, even if some of the roads were washed out by melting snow. Sawdust was tossed on the wet roads and Lambton was alive with people as three Bingleys climbed out of their carriage. Georgiana was out and able to walk about in society with her brother, Charles, as an escort. Eliza insisted on coming, though she wore a broad-rimmed hat and kept her hair down. Still, there was not likely to be a soul in Lambton who did not know the Bingley children and their individual statuses – for what was there to do in a country town but discuss the doings of the rich and their alternately adorable and meddlesome children?

In public at least, Georgiana was a proper gentlewoman, even if her hairstyle was a bit unusual, hidden beneath a wicker hat. She led and Charles had to keep up with her, with Eliza walking behind them. Their mission was singular but hardly easy – find a birthday gift for Geoffrey. The winter post being held prevented them from ordering anything from London and his birthday was in two days. Their relatives were due to arrive from Cambridge and from London the next day.

"What do you get a boy who has everything?" Georgie said. "And don't say 'ribbons.'"

"I wasn't going to," Eliza chimed in. "We could get him a book."

"I doubt we could find one in Lambton that cannot be found in Pemberley's library."

"We could get him wine," Charles said, and endured his elder sister's look. "What? He drinks as much as any boy his age."

"Man. He is to be a man now. Remember that."

"Maybe you should remember that."

Again, another harsh stare from Georgiana to her brother.

"We have to get him something better than just more booze," Georgie said. "Besides, I already bought plenty." Every year, Georgie, Geoffrey, and the oldest relative available – usually Charles but sometimes George – got drunk on Geoffrey's birthday, long after their parents had gone to bed. "You're nearly his age. What do men want for their birthdays?"

"So you admit I'm a man then?"

She rolled her eyes as they entered one of the finer establishments in town, a sort of odd-and-ends shop that sold items of refinement, like jewelry and pocket watches. "We could get him a ring," Eliza Bingley said, her gloved hand gracing the glass of the display case for signet rings and even a few wedding bands.

"We can't get him a signet ring if he's to inherit the Darcy one from his father. What will he do then?"

"Plenty of people wear two rings. Some wear more."

"He wouldn't, though. Too ostentatious," Georgie said.

"G-d Willing, Uncle Darcy will live for many years to come. He could wear it until then," Charles said. "It could be the 'Darcy heir' ring instead of the Darcy signet ring. And then for his son." He turned to the shopkeeper, who had little to do but listen to them, though he made the pretense of reading the paper. "Mr. Harris, what would a gentleman of eight and ten want for his birthday?"

Mr. Harris chuckled. "I could tell you want a gent of eight and ten would really want, but that would hardly be proper in front of the ladies."

"Geoffrey's not like that!" Georgie shouted from the back row, as Eliza covered her own mouth. "Don't laugh!"

"She's allowed to laugh," Charles said. "She's just not allowed to get the joke."

"While you try to internalize and discover the stupidity of what you just said, I will try to find him a proper present," Georgie said. "Mr. Harris, what is this?"

"'s signet ring, marm," he said. "Gold. I could make an engraving this afternoon if you'd like." The plate was blank.

Eliza joined her sister. "The band is funny. Is that Latin?"

Mr. Harris put on his spectacles and opened the case, lifting the ring up so the light through the window from the noonday sun hit it just right. "No. Tis Irish, I believe."

"What does it say?"

"Don't know." He fingered it. "'is been here since my father let me start workin' hours in the shop 'tis all I know, Miss Bingley."

"You don't suppose it's some kind of old Irish curse?" Eliza whispered, though not particularly softly.

"Don't be ridiculous. What kind of shop would be selling cursed rings?" Charles said.

"Not my shop," Harris defended.

"There's no such thing as magic and curses anyway," Georgie said. "How much?"

"Who said there's no such thing as curses?" Charles asked.

"I do. How much, Mr. Harris?"

"That's pure gold, marm. And to have it ready today would cost a sovereign. Assuming you do want a D."

"G.D.," Georgie said. "His full initials. You think you can make that fit?" The plate was not so much a proper square as a small oval, surrounded by the Irish lettering.

"I can." He took the ring and set it on his worktable. "It should take an hour. Maybe two, depending on the customers, but they're all at the rally."

Charles opened his purse and removed a sovereign, setting it on the counter. "What rally?"

"Nothin,'" he said quickly. "Nothing for a gent like you, or ladies, certainly."

"What rally?" Georgie repeated, more insistently.

"Some o' the workers are down at the tavern, listening to a man from the south talk. But you didn't hear it from me."

Georgie nodded. "We'll be back in an hour, Mr. Harris." She curtseyed and they left the shop. "Charles, take Eliza to get an ice or something."

"I'm not a baby just because I'm not out," Eliza hissed. "You never take me along when you to get into trouble."

"Because you never think I should."

"I don't think you should," Charles said. "Georgie, this is serious. We should wait an hour, and then go home and tell Father."

"Tell him what? We don't know anything."

"Georgie!"

But she was already walking in the direction of the tavern. Several men bowed politely as they passed, until they moved into the alley. "Okay, Eliza, you can be look-out."

Eliza was too excited about finally getting to be in on a scheme that Charles was busy pacifying her and Georgiana had time to sneak up to one of the windows, opening it just a tad, so she could hear what was being said.

"Do you work hard on your land?"

"Yeah!"

"Do you see any reason why someone else should claim it as their own?"

It was a bigger rally than they had ever been witness to, not in size but in intensity. The speaker, whom they could not identify but had a sophisticated London accent, was leading the people down a logical road of thought. "He's using very leading questions," Charles said. "They're only going to answer 'yes' until he wants them to answer 'no' because it leads to the next question." He turned to his younger sister – younger by six and twenty minutes – and said, "Logic. I take it in school. He can present them with any body of argument and if he presents it correctly according to a logical progression, he can convince them of anything. It was how the French Revolution turned into a mob."

"That and the mass discontent of the peasant class," Georgiana said. "It's wrapping up. Let's be off."

But they were not off soon enough. They had barely gotten back onto the streets proper when a man emerged, and doffed his hat to Charles. "Enjoyed the speech, sir?"

"...It was engaging," he stammered, and bowed. "Charles Bingley."

"Michael Hatcher. I suppose you've heard of me."

"I have not, Mr. Hatcher."

"Really? I'm surprised."

A voice from behind them made Hatcher look over his shoulder. "You hold your fame in high esteem for someone with dangerous notions, Mr. Hatcher." To their surprise, it was George. He bowed. "Mr. Hatcher."

"We've not been introduced," Hatcher said, now as off-guard as Charles had been. Georgie nudged her brother, but he ignored her.

"George Wickham," George said, offering his hand. Hatcher had no choice but to shake it. George was still fairly well-dressed, but not as much as the Bingleys, and he walked differently. He was older than Charles by three years, and more confident. "I have heard of you, Mr. Hatcher."

"And you would call my simple notions about the rights of a man to be Radical?"

"Thomas Spence cannot be equated with Thomas Paine. Unfortunately for you, the former's works were outlawed, though to your credit, you did deviate from them somewhat. Mr. Spence believed that land should be communal and controlled by the parish and leadership decided by vote, while you seemed to imply that these people would own their own land."

"Then I guess I am hardly a Spencean," Hatcher said with a nervous smile.

"Good for you, then," George said, and bowed. "If you would excuse me, I have some errands to attend to."

"Of course, Mr. Wickham." Hatcher did not show the Bingley trio his expression as he stalked off.

"George!" Georgiana said, beating the others to it. "Where were you?"

"I'd just come along to look for you when I heard about the rally. I just arrived and since you weren't with Geoffrey, I assumed you must be shopping for his birthday present. As for the rally, I was in the building. Lambton is not as familiar with me." George Wickham, being the son of his father, did not spend much time in Lambton, and those who would recognize him by familiar looks were ladies, not present in the tavern. "Come. Let's be done with whatever you have left."

They headed back to the shop. Georgiana punched her brother lightly on the side, but hard enough for him to feel it as they walked. "Why wouldn't you introduce me?"

"Why would I? He was clearly dangerous. I didn't want you talking with him."

"You don't get to make that decision."

"As your guardian, he does," George said, and endured his own punch from Georgie. Fortunately, he knew it was coming. "What I said still holds."

"Who was Thomas Paine?" Eliza said. As she was not out, she would not have been introduced under any circumstances to a random man.

"Author of the Rights of Man," George said. "Very different from Thomas Spence. He immigrated to America before the revolution."

By the time they returned to the shop, the work was done and the ring was carefully wrapped and placed in a box before their eyes. It would be a gift from all of them, minus George.

"I got him a book," he said.

"Of course you did," Georgie said. "What makes you think he wants a book?"

"I didn't say what kind of book," he answered. Apparently the months under the care of the Maddoxes had been kind to him, as what there was of his calm balance was restored.

The girls went into the carriage first, of course. Charles grabbed George before they climbed in. "I've never seen you like that."

"Like what?"

"I don't know. Assertive."

"Do you have any idea how much danger you were in?" George said very seriously. "I'm the oldest, so I'm the protector. Don't come to town without an escort from now on."

Charles chewed on this notion all the way back to Kirkland.


Despite his gregarious nature, Geoffrey Darcy wanted to keep his birthday to family and friends, and since he spent little time in London, his friends were largely his family. He had never spent a Season in Town, being an Eton boy, and he did not want to contemplate marriage at eight and ten. Though the tenants and servants of the grand estate of Pemberley loved a free meal as much as anyone, the celebrations were not open to the public.

While not every Bennet sister came, the Bertrands made three out of five (Lydia was invited but apparently did not wish to venture to Pemberley again) and the Maddox clan came as well, being closer to Derbyshire than the Townsends and the Bradleys. There was a relaxed supper and many toasts, though few of his rights and privileges had changed upon his birthday. They had already happened; he was a man able to sign legal documents, be a member of clubs, play the field as an eligible bachelor, gamble, drink, and consort with prostitutes – the fact that he did none of those things was of little consequence. In fact, the most significant milestone was not to be his birthday but his University entrance in the fall, and that was the real celebration. There he would learn some classics, make all the notable friends he would need for social success in life, perhaps have a bit of fun (or more than a bit), and then graduate to a life of bachelorhood and possibly matrimony before his father died and he inherited the estate. Such was the future for him and he knew what was expected of him, and he had never failed to rise to the occasion before, so they gladly toasted to the Darcy heir.

But the day did not begin with celebrations. It began much earlier, in the morning before the guests rose, in one of the back rooms of Pemberley.

Geoffrey Darcy relished many things about fencing, but the occasional spar with his father was not one of them. Not that there was anything particularly unpleasant about the behavior of either person, but he found it positively confounding to face someone who fought on their left side. His only experiences, in his sheltered existence at Pemberley, were with his coach, and with the only other cousin who practiced the sport, Frederick Maddox, and both fought properly, with the right hand. But his father was left handed, or had been since an accident long ago that he hardly remembered, because his right hand was lame, though he could use it, just not to do anything precise. And fencing was indeed very precise.

Though he was in his late forties, Master Darcy of Pemberley had not fully abandoned his favorite sport, even at an age when it was quite appropriate to do so. Occasionally he lacked in stamina, but when the match came down to wits, he was a master. And he made it abundantly clear that if his son was to bother at all with a foil, he should be, as well. He was remarkably patient, even with his son's occasional fit of frustration, or the time when Geoffrey actually tossed his faceguard across the room with such ferocity that it put a dent in the stone wall. The anger was not at his father, of course. It was that damned tricky left-handed foil! But his father only shook his head and said, "You will get it. Though I would prefer if your youthful exuberance did not destroy all of Pemberley."

"Then you should never let me spar Frederick again."

Darcy merely raised an eyebrow, his way of demanding a thorough explanation.

"It wasn't my fault."

"Or you would not have admitted to it. Does this have anything to do with the pillar I needed to replace?"

His parents were astoundingly, frustratingly clever. "Perhaps."

"And the fact that he pushed you into it?"

"You – you knew?"

"Of course," his father said, allowing the servant to take his foil and armor away. "There is very little in Pemberley that happens without my knowledge."

"But – you didn't say anything?"

"You did admit to me that a pillar had been destroyed and did not supply specifics. If I wanted them from you, I would have asked."

Geoffrey sat down beside his father on the bench, trying to puzzle out exactly what his father was expecting from him. There was clearly something there, but he could not get at it. His father always wanted him to think things through, even when his mind was in a daze from the rush of combat, and he wanted nothing more than to dunk his head in cold water and rest for a while. Perhaps he was mistaken and nothing else was required – but it was better to be safe. "So – are you asking now?"

"As I have said, I already know the specifics. But, while we are on the topic, I would like to hear your commentary. I think it would be interesting."

Interesting. It was probably not that. His father was probably expecting to glean something from the reply. He knew that much. "I don't have much to say about it. Fred shoved me into the pillar and since it was wood and half-eaten by termites on the inside, it broke."

"And nothing about that strikes you as odd?"

"Well - ," Yes! Now he had it. "It is not gentlemanly behavior to engage in physical combat in a duel of swords."

"Correct. But it is also not gentlemanly behavior to pass judgment on another fighter. But I will take into account that until I pressed you, you clearly did not, except for your original comment, which was another response to mine."

"But he's a cousin."

"So are you making a judgment on him or his fighting style? Because they are the same."

Geoffrey looked at him quizzically.

"A man reveals almost everything when he fights. Very few are capable of subterfuge in the heat of battle. On the most basic level, if he constantly attacks, then he wishes to either scare you or defeat you quickly. This you know."

"Right. And if he parries constantly, he is waiting for an opening."

"Yes. But it goes beyond that. If you know the fighter, character can be taken into account. If you don't know the fighter, you can learn a lot about him from fighting him. It requires astute observation, but it is often the key to winning a match. For example," his father said, "you are very young – "

"I'm not a child!"

" – in comparison to me, are at an age when you have a certain ferocity that is fueled by the particular position of being six and ten. And also, when your face is particularly flushed, you are too aggressive for your own good, and will fail to block. In fact, I have just told you the great secret to how I beat you, because I assure you, it is not by stamina, or skill, as my left side was, originally, my weaker side, and not the one I trained with." He gestured and the servant brought them water. "I win not because you lack any particular skill for your age, or do not have the coordination. I win because I have spent many years learning to read my opponent."

Geoffrey nodded and swallowed that particular information with his refreshment. His father seemed tired, and needed a breather anyway, even from talking. He could remember a time when his father did not have so much grey around his ears. After some silence he asked, "Did grandfather fence?"

"As a boy, I believe so. He had long given it up when I was of age."

"Then who was your partner? Uncle Bingley?"

"No, I had not met him, and he has never once fenced. I spent a great deal of my years before Cambridge sparring with your Uncle Wickham."

"I never met him, but I remember his funeral."

"No, I vaguely recall that Bingley hosted him at Kirkland while you were there. But you were very young and therefore simply may not remember it. It was not a remarkable visit or they would have informed me so."

"What was he like?"

His father hesitated for some reason before answering. "As a fighter, very aggressive. But then again, so was I. I would say, we were equal until the day I first beat him, and then he threw down his sword and would not fence me again. Or did not, for some time."

"So, like Fred."

"I would hardly put them in the same category," his father said. "This is not to make an assessment of Frederick. You should be very careful when making assessments of people, son. It can be misconstrued as gossip."

Geoffrey knew his father held gossip in very low esteem, even though everyone seemed to do it, all the time. It seemed to be the entire purpose of any social gathering, as far as he could tell.

"On the other hand," his father continued, "if you felt that your cousin was engaging in behavior that was unsafe, you should bring it to my attention, as I am responsible for you safety – and his, while he is under my roof."

"But you said already you will learn it anyway."

"Slowly and through many mediators. Entirely different than if you say it yourself. And it is partially your own responsibility to bring it forward."

"I'm confused," Geoffrey said. "Am I supposed to say it or not?"

"Well, since we've gotten this far, I suppose you should."

He swallowed and decided that he would. "I don't think Fred is very ... gentlemanly ... when he fights."

"How so? Besides shoving you into a pillar hard enough to break it."

"He is – ferocious."

"Both a danger and a weakness. It is important to look out for one and take proper advantage of the other – in a duel that is."

"He's so – I don't know. Different. Like, say, from his father."

His father said nothing.

Geoffrey took this as an urge to continue. "Does Uncle Maddox know how to fence?"

"He does not."

"Because – I can't imagine Uncle Maddox fighting anyone. He's so proper and – not to say this isn't proper – pacifist. Fred is so different from him."

Darcy did not respond directly. After a few moments of sitting, when his breath was truly and finally caught, he slapped his son on the shoulder. "We're all different, son. The changes just happen more gradually than we perceive them to. We celebrate a year's growth, all in one day." He added, "On the other hand, the day you beat me, that will be very dramatic. And traumatic, for me."

His son smiled as he smiled, and Darcy thought inside, But I'm looking forward to it.

Next Chapter - A Gentleman of Eight and Ten