Miss Baxter considered herself a woman of principle, and as such was disinclined to address him as 'Lord'; for a man with no station was also unworthy of ceremony. She could easily address him with the respect to which any man who had performed a righteous deed was entitled (that being his retrieval of Mr. Wickham), but could not see her way to a formal acknowledgement of his affiliation with an elite class possessing the sort of privilege, education, fortune, and connections denied to most commoners. 'Sir' suited him well enough, and until the master or mistress ordered otherwise would she continue addressing him thus.

A few days into her occupation Miss Baxter still knew very little of him, and was volunteered no more intelligence than that which had been intimated, leaving her with no choice but to form her own conclusions in the short time spent in his company, and now feeling more confident in her understanding of what brought this Thornhaugh to his wretched state. His was a story she had heard all her life, one of depraved self-interest within the coveted ranks of nobility. It seemed insupportable, that a man could squander these God-given advantages, dishonor himself and his lineage for purely selfish pursuits; worst of all, that he could show so little remorse in the aftermath of his inevitable spiral into illness, destitution and disgrace.

His character was a recipe containing a good dash of allure to offset the heaping cup of inborn arrogance, thus exposing him as the sort of gentleman her father, in his long and profitable career, had been obliged to defend while concurrently denouncing the amorality and corruption his profession upheld. 'Twas a rarity for a woman of her meager station to view this archetypal example up close, to converse with him as one at liberty to engage on a level near equal to his own, and with no threat to her situation for the odd impertinence which kept his ruder remarks in proper check. It was with great thanks to her highly sympathetic employers, that she could interact with such freedom.

She believed that virtually everything in life was meant to be observed, studied, and then used to educate future pupils, especially those with a proclivity for mischief and vice. By virtue of her experience with this Lord of Dissipation, children of similar pedigree and privilege would be duly warned of the dangers of the deadly sins which could send them, too, down a devastating path, should they fall out of line with their teachings.

But compassion, too, was a virtue, and in truth Miss Baxter, as a Christian woman, did pity the poor man serving the ultimate penance for his foolish choices in life. It was a sad outcome indeed, that his final months were to be spent not among loved ones, but rather as a burden to an excessively generous couple who clearly regarded him with as much distrust as concern. Even the one connection actively sought out, that being Lord Russell, was apparently unwilling to receive him, favoring written correspondence to any other. A lamentably low outcome for a man born so high.

The wretch, concentred all in self…shall go down to the vile dust from whence he sprung…

"Unwept, unhonored, and unsung," Miss Baxter quoted from her favorite Scott poem upon making her delivery to Thornhaugh's quarters. On her way to report back to Dr. Fitzwilliam she would again encounter his patient, their very recent exchange evidently forgotten as he gruffly bade use of her shoulder after having just taken the last of many stairs to the third floor.

She allowed, in a politer manner than himself, use of her as a crutch to accompany his cane, his brow dampened from the effort expended in making the climb which seemed awfully detrimental to any one's health already in decline. They made the slow walk towards his room, wordless but for her statement that she had seen to the refilling of his water pitcher. Suddenly, there was a pause in his steps as he began to lurch and heave, hand spread over mouth to prevent the coughs from escaping, presumably for lack of something to cough into. Quickly she offered him her handkerchief, which he accepted with a brief inspection of its frilly embroidery before pressing the cloth firmly against his mouth, near doubling over as he bore a series of shuddering coughs, flushed red and temple vein throbbing by the end. He took another few moments to catch his breath, and as he did so she watched his face contort into a deep scowl, anger and scorn read on every feature. He then stuffed the scarlet-stained fabric into his pocket, not that she wished for it back, and from thence was resumed their slow and steady pace up the hall. Upon entrance he made an instant beeline for the table on which his delivery sat; the medicine parcel shoved aside to get at the package from Summerhill.

"Wait here, Baxter," he ordered while tearing into the brown wrapping. "I may have another thankless chore for you."

"Yes, sir," she said evenly, having already learned to ignore the discourtesy ostensibly favored over any effort to make peace with his family, God, and eternity.

The wrap was tossed away carelessly, thus revealing an entwined stack of letters, the one loose note at the top promptly unfolded, read, and then crushed into a tight ball, a low growl emanating from deep within his ravaged lungs.

"Compose a response," he said, "from Lord Thornhaugh to Lord Russell, care of Summerhill, Pemberley. Quote: 'I reject your terms.' Unquote. To be delivered straight away. Understand?"

"Yes, sir," answered she. "Shall I pour you a glass—"

Her question was cut short by his sudden and violent thrusting of the small table upon which the items were set, sending everything to the floor with a loud crash. Not another word was uttered as he then stormed from the immaculate sitting room into the adjacent bedchamber, slamming the door behind him.

Miss Baxter gave her nerves time to calm before tending to the mess, imagining that these "terms" must have been unwelcome indeed to induce an explosion of temper so fierce. She righted the table, and then knelt to collect the fallen clutter, her eye naturally catching sight of the scrunched paper for which it would seem was of no further use, meant for the fire if anything.

It was with impossibly enticing curiosity, that Miss Baxter then took up and smoothed out the note, likely to have felt a good deal of guilt later on for her actions that followed, had the four ominous words contained therein not sent her heart to fluttering wildly again.

"Do not kill him.

"John"

So brief yet so convoluted, leaving much to the imagination as Miss Baxter mulled over this hotly rejected plea devoid of context, not that there could possibly be an agreeable interpretation of so ghastly a notion. Could there?

Her throat went dry and hands trembled as she stared at the paper, her mind searching for any excuse to discard and forget what she had just read.

The endeavor was fruitless; for there could be no sense made of it, no hope of setting her mind at ease with so little to work with. And who is him? thought she. Might the Darcys know? Could they really be housing a prospective murderer?

She remembered the master's instruction—Should you find his behavior particularly troubling, you must report it immediately—and decided to take the note into possession. In haste she finished her cleanup and left the room, all but certain as to her next course, and praying for God's protection.


The sun was shining and air crisper by the afternoon, one that Thornhaugh seemed eager to conquer after a cup of the doctor's herbal tea and a good, long nap. He would join up with the Darcys and their brood of four refreshed, in fact near to bursting with vigor as he mounted his chosen steed named Cronus, a most impressive model of a bay coat and black mane. Darcy, meanwhile, opted for Perseus out of Thornhaugh's vexing charge of neglect, while the rest took up their usual mounts, each of which procured for and conditioned to their respective riders with the utmost care.

With everyone fitted and prepared, Darcy announced the itinerary for their excursion, the scenic route mapped out in his head to the last landmark sure to enchant the most skeptical tourist; for the grounds of Woburn (said to be splendid) simply must compare to Pemberley! and Thornhaugh—were he truly honest—would then be forced to concede its magnificence, and then acknowledge the significance of an estate as a point of pride to one's legacy, which then would lead to a move towards repentance and redemption as he came to this realization of a life wasted, with Heaven to be his ultimate reward. It was an outcome worth hoping for if not depending on; but no sooner had they taken the front park, than Darcy was met with Thornhaugh's challenge made in a voice loud enough for all to hear:

"I propose we start things off with a bit of fun, Mr. Darcy, by requesting that my horse be ridden against yours."

Darcy was at first baffled before comprehension dawned and annoyance grew. "Don't be stupid," he muttered.

The marquess then slowed the whole party to a standstill. "If I am not to be allowed on his back, then perchance you would grant me the great privilege of demonstrating what he was bred for. That is, if you think you can master him at his fastest gait."

Proclaimed Ben, proudly, "Papa can master any horse at any gait, even Perseus. We have seen it ourselves."

"I believe you, Master Ben," replied Thornhaugh, "but Mr. Darcy contends my skills are inferior, which I cannot abide."

"I never said that. And if you are seriously suggesting we race, I most respectfully decline."

"A race!" shouted Janie, clapping her hands together. "How exciting!"

Thornhaugh then said to Ben, quite purposefully, "I can outpace any man, your father included," which angered the boy enough to beg heartily that his Lordship be proven wrong.

Darcy was far better composed in his reply. "He is goading you, Son. It is what he does best, and why he is best ignored."

"A short race, mind you," Thornhaugh pressed, "for my strength is hardly what it used to be."

"And therefore best conserved," Darcy reasoned firmly, his wife adding with a softer inflection:

"Even a short race is hardly worth the potential detriment to your health, Lord Thornhaugh, as Dr. Fitzwilliam would surely agree."

"I respectfully disagree with the good doctor, Mrs. Darcy, and ask that you hear out the details of my challenge, which entails a mere sprint back up the park, from this starting point" (his finger was used to illustrate) "to the great house, the finish line crossed at the statue of Venus, a course which measures about one furlong, roughly." On Darcy's questioning look he added, "My balcony provides a perfect view for the calculation to which I think you can agree, unless you have a more precise understanding, say, in the form of a draft or…"

"A furlong is a fair approximation, were I tempted to placate you."

"Which you are," countered Thornhaugh, "had you the heart to admit it."

Elizabeth, intuiting a more heated exchange, cut in with, "This challenge, my dear gentlemen, sounds neither safe nor sensible." Her opinion was backed fervently by the eight-year-old, who voiced his worry that both men might take a bad fall and be horribly injured.

"Your concern is noted, Mr. Malcolm," replied Thornhaugh in earnest, "but even your father would argue it is unwarranted, master horseman that he is, —that we are!" then to Darcy, "the ground is smooth and even, the grass of a perfect length and texture. Your Mr. Hodges assured me that Cronus here is your second fastest. I need to feel the wind. movement. speed. distance. Were you in my place, you would feel no differently, nor would you be denied."

Darcy sighed heavily. "I should have expected this; for you could not possibly be content with an easy, affable, tranquil excursion."

"I am always affable, but will promise to be as tranquil as you like after this one challenge. Moreover, should you best me, I am willing to bow to your superior sense henceforward. Your every word, every rule, every order shall be obeyed without argument. Not five seconds after your victory, I shall become the meekest lodger under your roof."

Darcy scoffed. "Impossible."

"Irrefutable! You've no reason to doubt me; for we have competed before, and you were victorious. We have also wagered, and you have won. Did I not pay my debt, Mr. Darcy, and promptly?"

"You did," Darcy had to concur. "But how do you not comprehend my advantage? I know my stock, sir; and even my second fastest would lose to Perseus by lengths."

"Have you tested that theory?"

"No, but—"

"Then my theory argues this featherweight, as you have termed me, should place our odds at about even."

"Hardly that."

"Prove me wrong."

"I have nothing to prove."

"And I have plenty, which improves my odds all the more." He then turned to George, "Mr. Wickham, do answer sincerely. On which of us would you lay a good wager?" A sharp glance from Darcy spurred him to add, "Not that I should ever condone it, young man."

George did not take long to answer. "You, my Lord."

"What!" cried both Darcy and Ben in harmony. Said the latter, "You cannot be serious, George."

"Now, now," said Thornhaugh, "do allow the young man to explain his answer. Why so, Mr. Wickham? Speak plainly."

George began shyly but ended boldly: "Because…well, sir, because Cronus was sired by a Derby champion. Like Perseus, he has excellent knee position, plenty of bone, and powerful hind quarters. Additionally, his strides are longer, and should therefore cover more ground. I myself have wondered how they should match up."

Thornhaugh chuckled at the surprised reactions of his company before replying, "A very thoughtful explanation, Mr. Wickham, and well-informed. What say you, Miss Janie?"

"Me, sir? Well, I've not George's knowledge of horses. I only know Perseus is very fast indeed, and Cronus of a tamer spirit."

Countered George, "That means he is better focused. And consider the riders, too. Uncle Darcy might outweigh his Lordship by a stone and a half."

She took moments to study both men before replying, "I don't find their differences all that noticeable, and think the horses most telling. Perseus has the passion to win, and so I must declare Papa the victor in the end. Sorry, my Lord."

"No apology needed, my dear lady, and I thank you for your honest assessment. Well, Master Ben, I think we know from that severe gaze your own feelings on the matter, and I understand completely. Love tends to rule over reason. And Mr. Malcolm has decreed along with the missus that it is safety that matters above all, a term I can well agree to, if I may have your trust."

This served to quiet their objections if not gain an endorsement. Meanwhile, at Darcy's continued reluctance Ben urged, "Go on, Papa. You race with Uncle Richard all the time."

"Whereas I've not raced in years," said Thornhaugh with a shrug. "Should be an easy victory."

"And a greater reward," said Elizabeth, "if you happen to claim it."

"In truth, Mrs. Darcy, I've not settled on my prize of preference, nor have I given much thought beyond a good bit of sport." He made doe eyes at Darcy. "Please, sir. Will you not indulge me this once? You've so much—your family, your health—and I've so little."

"Oh, for—" Darcy nearly cursed as he grudgingly accepted the challenge.

Five minutes later, the two men were moved into position at the agreed upon starting line, Elizabeth tasked with placing the children within optimum view of the contest while staying clear of the competitors. The three eldest observed in all enthusiasm from atop their mounts, discussing amongst themselves their favored contender, the youngest showing far less interest than patience, his boredom eased with the stroking of his pony's soft mane.

As Darcy and Thornhaugh bickered inaudibly from afar over one detail or another, Malcolm leaned towards his mother, gaining her attention with a slight tug to her skirt.

"Mamma," said he, "Why has Lord Thornhaugh no family?"

Elizabeth pondered the best way to answer, finally settling on, "It is complicated, dearest."

"Have they all gone to Heaven?"

"No, my dear. They are…estranged."

The boy considered this answer for some moments. "Did he do something wrong?"

Elizabeth then realized the conversation was not to be evaded, and therefore opted to assuage her youngest in the simplest manner possible. "Some temperaments do not mix well, Thornhaugh's most incompatible with that of men who share with him a common...cultivation."

"Why, Mamma?"

"I think because the marquess chose to lead a very different life than what was expected—or rather demanded of him, and the flouting of convention is rarely accepted by families of a certain…distinction. His own father was much stricter than yours, very adamant, unforgiving, and unloving, while Thornhaugh was, in turn, very obstinate. Sometimes, the more one is pushed, the harder he fights."

"You say Papa is obstinate."

"And so he is," she smiled. "As much as I, which is why we are a good match."

"Perhaps Papa and his Lordship could become friends then."

"Oh, but they are, sweetheart!" cried she, adding with a wink, "Whether they know it or not."

"I think it sad to be estranged."

"Yes, it is rather sad. But as you see, his Lordship is not bothered, and does not pity himself, which is admirable."

"Miss Baxter says a pity party has few guests, and even fewer presents."

Her grin spread wide. "I am certain his Lordship would agree, my dear."

"Off they go!" cried Janie as the race finally began, Darcy taking an early lead. "Go, Papa! Go, Perseus!"

Ben smirked at George. "There, you see. What did I tell you?"

Just a moment or two later, George pointed out that Cronus was picking up speed as he praised the marquess as an exceptional conductor, "—which can make all the difference in the world. Uncle Darcy has only to make one miscalculation, and his Lordship will pounce. Look, there he goes!"

"Go, Papa!" Ben shouted repeatedly, frantically.

Janie cheered, "They are neck and neck! Perseus is faltering!"

Asked Malcolm over the shouting and commentating, "Does he not have a wife, Mamma?"

"He was married, many years ago," answered Elizabeth. "But his wife, unfortunately of a sickly constitution, died just over a year later." She suddenly felt the need to add, "You understand these are delicate subjects, Malcolm, which you are never to raise in his Lordship's presence."

"I won't, Mamma."

The race went on, the marquess gaining the lead to Ben's extreme disappointment, while his sister began moving to George's side. "Heavens, look at him go!" cried she. "I think his Lordship might win…yes, he's won! He's won! What a race!"


After winning, the men slowed their steeds to a halt. Thornhaugh fought for air against the inflammation in his lungs. Tears sprung as the pain in his chest increased.

Darcy quickly dismounted in alarm, catching his own breath as he advanced. "Blast it! I knew this was a bloody mistake!"

His fast approach was waved off. "Stay back," Thornhaugh rasped, sliding off his saddle. He took a few steps before falling to his knees, staring at the ground as he sharply motioned for Darcy to keep his distance. After some time, when his breathing finally returned to some semblance of normalcy, the marquess looked at him and said, "Assure me you gave your best effort."

"Oh, I assure you, stupid bastard. Where the devil did you learn to ride like that?"

Thornhaugh wheezed a laugh between coughs into his handkerchief. A minute later arrived Elizabeth and the children, the elder ones looking on in distress as Malcolm dropped to the ground in a dash to Thornhaugh's aid.

"My Lord!" the boy cried out, every shouted order to stay back ignored as he knelt before him. "Do you need help? Shall I get the doctor?" Thornhaugh shook his head vigorously as Malcom persisted: "Please, it won't take long. I'm a fast runner."

"I am sure you are, but there is no need. I am better." He laughed again. "Oh, what jolly good fun that was! Did you see me? Like the wind!"

"Can you stand, my Lord?" the boy asked in all concern. "Here, take my hand, and I'll help you up."

Thornhaugh jerked away to avoid being touched. "No! Stand perfectly still. I will place my hand upon your shoulder like so…and then lift myself up. You mustn't touch me, understand? There we are. Many thanks, Mr. Malcolm. Now who has my walking stick?"

"Right here, your Lordship," said Janie, extending it out to him. The whole family congratulated his victory, George being the most exuberant, and Ben exhibiting all that good sportsmanship required.

Said Elizabeth, "I suppose we had better call everything off and get you inside."

"Whatever for?" said Thornhaugh. "I am perfectly well. No, I wish to continue. To your horses, everyone. There are only so many hours in the day. Lead on, Mr. Darcy. I am ready."