A seasoned governess, as a woman well resigned to spinsterhood, knows better than to indulge in fantasies that would inspire the sort of giddiness felt by a starry-eyed damsel awaiting a call from her smitten suitor. And yet the butler made to Miss Baxter that crass accusation as she, with the pre-requested map case in hand, stood to answer the ring of her bell in rare haste and high spirits.
"I've not a notion of what you mean, Mr. Bridges," she said with a self-conscious correcting of her countenance, and then exited the servants' quarters without bothering to hear all of his assertion that the remark was meant in jest. To avoid further scrutiny, she concealed her inner merriment beneath a veil of stoicism for most of her brisk walk to the oak parlor, particularly at the moment a scowling Dr. Fitzwilliam stormed past her on his way to the grand staircase. She wondered fleetingly why the good doctor was in high dudgeon as her jolly mood endured, eventually succeeding at overturning her frown by the time she reached the twin doors.
A few knocks later the doors skidded open, and there stood Mr. Darcy at the figure-wide gap. "Miss Baxter."
So happy she was that she hardly noticed the curt manner of his greeting. "Mr. Darcy." She bounced a curtsey. "I am instructed to—"
"I know." The master took the offered case and looked it over dubiously. "I can hardly wait to see what else is in the wind." With a quick glance behind him he shook the case lightly and whispered, "If you know already, madam, I would have you tell me at once; for I have lately come to loathe surprises more than just about anything."
"I am ignorant, sir. Apart from my role as courier, I merely found for him this case for…whatever has been placed inside." She raised a hand to her mouth to hide her smile.
Mr. Darcy gave the case another suspicious once-over before meeting her aspect with a look of incredulity. "You seem in remarkably good spirits. I could do with some happy news, should you have any to impart."
"I do, sir." replied she, eyes brightening. "His Lordship, I think, will be especially pleased."
"Go on."
"Well, sir, I had really hoped it to be a surprise, but since you have just affirmed your aversion to—"
"Go on."
The master's utter emptiness of humor began the wilting of her own to the degree of timidity. "His Lordship's wardrobe, sir," she said to the floor. "It has arrived at last. Delivered an hour ago."
"What?" replied a gruff voice from within, and in the next instant the left door was slid fully open by Thornhaugh's hand, his expression like that of a child in the presence of Father Christmas. "It is here, Baxter? The clothes, the trimmings, all of it?"
"Your handkerchiefs, too, sir," said Miss Baxter with replenished glee, "according to a highly remorseful note from the embroiderer. I took the liberty of having the packages carried up to your suite."
"Bravo, Baxter!" cried Thornhaugh with infectious exuberance. In a flash, he seized the case from Mr. Darcy's hands and hugged it to his breast. "Never mind this for now. Later, perhaps. I trust our business here is settled?"
"You call that settled, do you?"
"You ought to be thrilled as I am, Darcy, close as you are to being free of me, and I of you."
"Sir!" Miss Baxter sharply interjected. "That is no way to speak to the provider of those packages among everything else. You will apologize to Mr. Darcy at once."
Thornhaugh regarded her with astonishment and confusion. "Apologize? But…"
"At once, sir."
"But I object, Baxter, most fervently. You were not present earlier to hear your master's insult to me. In the interest of fairness, I submit that his remark was far meaner, and therefore—"
"That is not the point, sir."
"But—"
"Do you aim to win this challenge or not?" she asked, effectively silencing him. "Are you so convinced that your opponent intends to play fair?"
"I care not! I can chisel with the best of them."
"In full bloom, perhaps; but in your wilted state, sir, you stand not a chance without discipline and plenty of it, just as we've discussed. Now apologize, please sir, and then thank the master, with sincerity, for his generosity. I dare say it will improve your health; for there is no better medicine than gratitude."
Thornhaugh stared pensively, and then cracked a smile. "Well, Baxter, at this juncture there is no harm, I suppose, in giving one more treatment a go." Facing the master in his usual irreverent manner, he drawled, "In all humility, my good fellow, I sincerely—"
"Facetiously," said Mr. Darcy with dismissive wave, adding angrily, "Spare me this, I beg you. My patience for your nonsense, my good fellow, has withered to the point of—"
"Wait!"
Miss Baxter saw an instant change in Thornhaugh's expression as he then cried, "Another chance, please," firmly and from the heart, giving the master pause. In preparation, his Lordship inhaled and exhaled a rattling lungful and hugged the case even tighter against him, his other hand wrapped over the top of his cane in a white-knuckled grip; and with a glimpse at her for encouragement, he began strong. "Mr. Darcy, I beg you forgive my discourtesy just now, and I…I am…"
As the master's hard look held firm, a deep shade of embarrassment overspread Thornhaugh's features and stole his words. His eyes fell, as if a spot on the rug had suddenly captured his interest, inducing her to intervene, softly:
"Chin up, sir. You know as well as anyone the importance of looking a man square in the eye. Go on then; you are doing well."
These words, however, had no apparent effect as a fumbled second attempt followed. "Oh, bugger this!" Thornhaugh huffed after the third. "Darcy, your authority trumps hers; am I excused?"
Miss Baxter expressed her sadness at his giving up while the master appeared wholly unsurprised. "You had better hope Sir Frederick has not the imagination to go all in on the very same dare," said he. "Yes, be gone, I pray you. See to your presents. Have your fun."
As it was a rather long walk to the staircase, Miss Baxter then offered to fetch the "chariot" for his Lordship, which he happily declined. "My vigor is well restored!" he cheered, "and speaking of gratitude, I would be most thankful for a large supper tray, Mr. Darcy. Good afternoon!" And with a twirl of his cane, he went away at a pace and in a manner close to that of a man in the pink of condition.
"Miss Baxter," said the master once he was out of sight, "A word, please. Walk with me."
By so severe a tone and expression, she half anticipated a firm reproach for her handling of her charge just now. But was she not given leave to perform as she saw fit, with little to no regard for his noble rank? "Sir, I…"
"I wish to express my own gratitude, Miss Baxter," said he, "for your enduring dedication to this demanding appointment."
Her reply was one of undisguised relief. "You are…not displeased with me then, sir?"
"Quite the contrary. It is clear you take this work seriously, no matter how little he takes life in general, and no matter how unfitting the occupation should be perceived by a governess."
"I have grown used to the exceptionality of my current situation, sir, as unfitting as it is perceived by some."
They traded glances, and then Mr. Darcy said, "Perceptions, whether fairly or unjustly formed, are most often out of our realm of control. But I assure you, madam, that any disparagement or harassment towards you shall not be tolerated, should you wish to lodge a complaint."
"I have no such wish, sir. What little I hear, I am perfectly able to ignore. I am secure enough in my principles and performance to well bear the occupational annoyance of household prattle."
With a pointed look at her, the master replied, "Sounds like you have been taught a few lessons, too."
She blushed slightly. "I am not averse to the exchanging of wisdom, sir, though I am also careful to take a certain someone's with a pinch of salt."
"That is wise, madam, as was Mrs. Darcy's action to arm you with the knowledge most pertinent to your task of governing him." When her response was a look of surprise, he added, "There are no secrets between my wife and I, only the occasional delay of communication, usually over an action taken by one that is almost certain to unsettle the other…" he grumbled under his breath, "such as a damned foolish trek through secret corridors to an occupied guestroom for a wee morning chat."
"Sir?"
"Never mind." He paused in grave reflection, saying almost to himself, "It is easier to grip a shadow than to balance an all-consuming love with its object's independence of mind."
She hardly knew what to say to this, and therefore uttered simply, "I…would not know, sir."
He smiled slightly. "No, I suppose not. In this you are fortunate, Miss Baxter. But let us speak more of your charge."
"Yes, sir."
"Please believe that I would have provided you with plenty of context, had not the missus beat me to it. I would leave no one in the dark with him."
"Of course I believe you, sir. I did mean what I said about having plenty of trust and faith in you both. That feeling is not faded in the slightest. As to him, I do try to stay firm as I would with any other pupil, though it is not always—"
"Do you forget yourself at odd moments?" he asked suddenly. She flushed with panic, but the master went on in a voice that conveyed a deep understanding. "I never demanded nor expected you to be immune to his charm. It is nigh impossible."
She shook her head, almost too mortified to speak. "Sir, I would never…he has never…"
"Your particular strength, both of sense and character, is why you were assigned. But with respect to that fact, miss, it is also an absolute certainty, that were he not so frail, were he not rapping on death's door, he would have you around his finger. I shall say it once more, for your own protection: Do not, for even a second, lower your guard."
"I shan't, sir," she whispered.
The master then bade her, with much compassion, to be at ease. "Your situation is secure, and there will be no interrogation. Whatever secrets you hold, keep them. Whatever loyalty you have for him, do not betray it; for I suspect his delusion of improved health is owed in part to a feeling of supremacy over you. This challenge with our neighbor stands to heighten that delusion, and consequently prolong his life in theory…his theory. If he wins."
"He…he does look to have improved, sir, for whatever reason. And I am happy to report that he has not lately suffered any violent fits of temper."
The master laughed bitterly. "How I wish I could report the same; but, alas! he flew into a rage not a minute before you were summoned, and then just as quickly became placid. We both saw him try at remorse, fail at humility, and now he is joyful as the birds. It is a nerve-wracking behavior, these lightning-quick flashes from this emotion to that, from calm to calamity. Such creatures confound me to no end. Why cannot their impulses be contained?"
Miss Baxter had wondered the same thing ever since his fearsome reaction to Lord Russell's note. Having reached her own conclusion, she quoted: "'We are as clouds that veil the midnight moon. How restlessly they speed, and gleam, and quiver.' His Lordship is among the restless souls, I think."
The master nodded in accord. "Despite his limited capabilities in terms of conduct, at least you have more of his attention than probably anyone of his acquaintance, past or present. He arrived here with no good opinion of governesses and admitted to having chased away several in his youth. To what do you attribute your special way with him, may I ask?"
"No unique ability, sir. Merely personal experience."
The master smiled at this. "With rogue nobles?"
"With children, sir. We had a good share of urchin boys at the charity school, a few of whom were cursed with an especially high degree of intelligence."
"Cursed?"
"As we saw it, sir; for those children were by far the unruliest. But they were also impoverished, hungry, desolate, without family to look after them, none to visit with them or waiting at home for them. Hence, it took merely the threat of no supper, the seizing of a beloved toy, or a barring from the schoolyard to keep them in line. I now look back with shame on that form of discipline, which, of a truth, yielded the hollowest success in the imagined improvement of behaviors that remained unexplored, and therefore uncured. I see now that it was never wickedness or spite that compelled those boys, Mr. Darcy. It was loneliness, the sort that comes not from sitting alone or even being alone, but from feeling unloved. I see now that a sickness of the heart is impartial to circumstances. A child who is rich may feel poor. Though well fed, he may feel hunger. Though of a large family, he may feel orphaned. Though well provided for, he may feel uncared for." She glanced at him, and then said hesitantly, "May I ask a question of you, Mr. Darcy? about his Lordship?"
"You may ask, ma'am," he said after some thought. "And should I choose not to answer, you will not be faulted for impertinence. How does that sound?"
"Very good, sir. The remark he claimed you made earlier…"
"Earlier?"
"Yes, sir. That which he asserted was 'far meaner' than what I bade him apologize for? Pray what was it you said?"
"Ah, well, let me think. We were quarreling, so nothing new there. He was being his usual vulgar self with talk of biting his tongue and bleeding out, and then I said to him…" The master paused abruptly and at length, his face going paler by the second until he cried, "Good God, what a fool I am! I…I am too ashamed to confess it, Miss Baxter, but it was a hateful thing I said, more cutting than anything he—or perhaps anyone—has ever said to me." He veered toward a nearby window and peered out. "I was incensed, and it just…came out. I did not mean it."
She gently returned, "But it would appear, sir, that he feels you did," and followed this with a paraphrasing of the master's own words, that Thornhaugh was more akin to a child than any adult. And then there was silence as she shared Mr. Darcy's view out the window, and out the corner of her eye watched him swallow as if something wretched were caught in his throat. He then said:
"If only it were the first time I made such a blunder, which back then was countered with the mockery it deserved. But…"
"Not in this case, sir?"
"No." He left the window and strode on, waiting for her to catch up before he went on to say, "There was no ridicule on his end, no laughter or even anger. That came later. He did not so much as flinch at what I said, and so I did not consider, for even an instant…"
She quoted Shelley's line, "'One wandering thought pollutes the day,'" which the master acknowledged before returning with: "His is a polluted soul, Miss Baxter, not merely a restless one. He pretends to be touched by nothing, but in fact absorbs everything, like a sopping wet sponge, heavy with foul, fetid water, that is never wrung out."
"You said his anger came later, sir?"
"Yes."
"Over an unrelated matter, perchance?"
"Yes! And with disastrous consequence. Dr. Fitzwilliam is now resolved to leave us for the much preferred (and more gracious) company of his family. He is collecting his things now, and will be off to Hope Valley within the hour. Lucky him."
Miss Baxter reflected on their passing each other just minutes before, the doctor's strange look of utter fury burned in her memory. "I am so sorry to hear that, sir." She then looked to find such torture in the master's generally inscrutable face that she was quick to subjoin, "Oh, sir! Surely you do not blame yourself! I never meant to suggest—"
"Indeed not, madam," he soberly replied. "We are both to blame for running him off, both guilty of sapping the doctor's valuable time and energy despite his unvarying notice of the inevitable, that there is really no hope for recovery, that this patient will…" There was a frog in his throat, which he cleared before declaring, "He will die shortly, given all the treatment there is to be administered. But he cannot die here, Miss Baxter. I cannot allow it."
"Yes, sir," she whispered, looking away.
"Are those tears, madam? You need not hide them. I understand completely."
She dug into her skirt pocket for a handkerchief. "It is unprofessional, sir. Forgive me."
"Were I offended, Miss Baxter, I just might." His little jest made her smile, which he caught with delight as seen in his sparkling brown eyes for just an instant. And then he asked, "Do you think you can manage him for just a little while longer? If you cannot—"
"I can, sir."
The master thanked her and then said, after an audible, shuddering sigh, "It is settled then. He will depart from here not a day after this evening with Sir Frederick comes to pass, whether he has a million breaths remaining or a hundred."
"All alone, sir?"
"Alone, madam, which is as much his choice as it is mine."
Miss Baxter, now wholly unconcerned with emitting an odor of insolence, made a sound of disapproval that the master at once questioned, to which she replied, "Was it his own decision or yours, sir, that all of his meals be taken in his room, and that he be barred from social intercourse, and from hearing the children play?"
The master regarded her with a heavy brow. "Would you have me exclude Sir Frederick's wife instead, miss?"
Realization was slow in coming, but eventually she shook her head in answer to the question. "I understand, sir. But…"
"But what, madam? These consequences are owed not to my wishes but his defects. Were he not such a bloody rascal—"
"Sir, I pray you find even the smallest way to ease his passing. He takes such delight in your family's company, especially the children's, and they him. It seems ages since they played for him. Was he not moved? Was he not—"
"And did he not go and ruin it with that blasted story?"
"No more stories. No more cruelty. His Rascalship is an original, which leaves much room for creativity when sorting him out. But he must have society, sir, and music, 'to soothe a savage breast, to soften rocks…'"
"'Or bend a knotted oak,'" the master finished and then looked at her, his features a blend of sadness and interest. "Have you any ideas, madam?"
"You know him best, sir. Might you think of one?"
Ten minutes later a plan was in motion, and Miss Baxter was admitted entrance into the sitting room of Thornhaugh's suite. She stood watching him eagerly unwrap a crisp white bundle of new handkerchiefs, each initialed with an ornamental T at one corner. "Look," he said, displaying them with pride. "Is that not lovely?" He rubbed his thumb gingerly over the embroidered letter.
"Lovely, sir," she concurred with genuine happiness in seeing his own. "I have the invoice here. The master bade me to assure that every article was accounted for."
"Later, later." He set aside the cloths and then reached for another package to untie. "Linen!" he cried upon sight of three neatly folded cravats. "Not cotton! Look, Baxter!" He was beaming.
"Very nice, sir." Making use of a nearby writing desk, she dipped a pen and made a mark on the order. "And the footwear?"
"A pair of boots, shoes, and slippers matching this banyan in the Indian style! Look! Pure silk!"
"I'm looking, sir," she laughed. "And the shoes have silver buckles, yes?"
"Yes, yes! And just look at these coats, Baxter!" He held up one of dark red with tails, then another of blue. "The wine-colored is my favorite. I shall wear it for Sir Frederick, with this waistcoat, and that shirt…and these boots. I just may ride on that day. Who knows? And this neckcloth!"
"Very good, sir," she said, making a count of other items in the delivery before transferring them to the wardrobe in the adjoining bedroom. "Will you be needing the service of Mr. Fleming, sir?"
"Hang valets, I can manage," he muttered as he made to slip on the red coat over his borrowed shirt and plain brown waistcoat. "A perfect fit!" he cried in triumph, taking himself to the looking glass. "Thorny, you dashing bugger! Looking far better than any fair-haired, beefy, blue-eyed prat." He thrust a finger at his reflection. "Blackwell is nothing to you. Nothing!"
"I take it you are pleased?" said the master as he entered through the open door of the sitting room.
Through the mirror his Lordship acknowledged him. "Exceedingly," he said with the broadest smile. He brushed a hand over one finely threaded sleeve. "Its quality takes me back to my fattest days in London. Stories are flooding my head, Darcy! I remember sitting down to cards with a man named Underwood, Silas Underwood, who was known as 'Silence' for how little he spoke at the tables, a massive fellow with hollow, black, dead eyes, a man even I never dared to cross; for the reports of how he dealt with tricksters were legendary. I know firsthand their accuracy. There was this one stupid git who walked into our game with ten fingers, and then stumbled from the hell with one less thumb—"
"A thrilling story, I am sure," said the master patiently, "best saved for another time. Right now, let us discuss your payment."
Thornhaugh was silent for some moments as he continued admiring his new coat in the mirror. "Certainly. Name your price, add ten percent interest for the trouble, and it shall be deducted from Thursday's winnings."
"I shall name the price now: a challenge between you and I, to take place at this very moment, in this very room."
His Lordship turned from the mirror to face the master. Eyeing him dubiously, Thornhaugh glanced at Miss Baxter, who was feigning a deep occupation with the packages. "Baxter?"
"Yes, sir," she said absently.
"What is he about?"
"Ask him yourself, sir," she answered with a shrug. "I am quite busy."
"I was just telling Miss Baxter how out of practice you are," said the master, "and she argued her belief in this memory of yours, which you have claimed to be sharp as ever."
"And so it is," said Thornhaugh. "The skills I have mastered require no repolishing."
"Oh, I have no doubt of that. What I doubt is your memory itself."
"It is hard to explain, Darcy, but you are quite wrong. Almost everything I have ever seen and experienced is vividly retained, like moving pictures in my head. Show me a unique object, for example, like a single white rose, and you can be sure that I have fifty accounts that in some way involve that flower. Boring memories, mind you, but nevertheless…"
"That does sound rather dull. Moreover, who is to say those memories are truthful?"
"Exactly. I could make up anything on the spot. And so what is the point of trying to prove something that cannot be proven?"
"But it can be proven, if you are willing to accept my particular challenge to you."
Thornhaugh lit up at the repeated suggestion. "Do you…do you mean it, Darcy? Have you really a game in mind for us? a memory game?"
"I do, indeed; and if you win, the clothes are yours free of charge. If I win, you lose them."
"Lose them? You mean…?"
The master spread his arm wide over the bountiful array of garments yet to be organized. "Every article, given away to the poor, and you will be battling Sir Frederick Blackwell in borrowed kit. That would surely diminish your confidence. I think you know me to be a rather fierce competitor in my own right, certainly where you are concerned. I rather enjoyed crushing you that fencing match."
Thornhaugh's eyes flared. "Crush!" He fired off a blasphemous curse. "You barely touched me!"
"On second thought, perhaps it is best you refuse. I would be most understanding. Should you make that choice, I will accept the following payment." The master then showed Thornhaugh the invoice. "Down to the last penny, which you have three days from now to remit, the means of doing so a problem for you to contend with, of course. Have you ever welched on a debt?"
"Never," he swore. "I have been up against the clock a few times, in fact came awful close to losing my own thumbs once or twice, in my stupider fledgling years, but…just a moment! What do you stand to lose, Darcy, but a few hundred quid? No, I need stakes, ol' man! I must insist you put up a bone with plenty of meat on it."
"I thought you would say that." The master raised his left hand to display a gleaming gold band. "A gift from my wife, presented on our tenth anniversary. One of the few pieces, along with her wedding ring, that survived the burglary. Apart from the jeweler, only she and I have ever laid eyes on the inscription. It would be yours. With everything else, of course."
"The devil you say, Darcy," whispered Thornhaugh in utter shock. "You would risk it? She might kill you."
"Possibly."
"Do not dare presume I'll give it back out of kindness; for I fully mean to take it with me when I go…into the ground, that is. And on pain of damnation, you had best leave my rotting corpse to rest in peace."
"God, you are morbid."
"Oh, that is a splendid prize, indeed. Are you really that confident?"
"I am. How keen is your memory, Thornhaugh? Truly?"
"Shall I recite the Bard? Go and get your copy of King Lear or any book of sonnets and then prepare yourself—both of you! —to be astounded."
"I have something else in mind," said the master, "but first, do you accept? Once you do, there is no turning back."
"Tell me not my own business, Darcy." Slipping a posh new glove onto his right hand, Thornhaugh stepped up to the master with arm extended. "I accept. You are a witness, Baxter."
After their firm handshake, Mr. Darcy left the room with a promise to return momentarily, leaving Miss Baxter both astonished and perplexed by her charge's excessive state of boyish delight. Endlessly he paced the room in agitated suspense, and upon the master's reentrance stopped and stared—his face white as chalk—at the violin case in his challenger's grip.
