B006O3T9DG EBOK (47 page)

Puzzled, Sally nodded as if she understood what had irked Lady Millhouse about that.

“I have been charged with engaging in whatever tomfoolery I care to in regards to the ponies, so long as we cause no delays in securing the coal. We dare not chance any more of this silly rioting now do we?”

As Lady Millhouse spoke, Sally could not help but interrupt, asking, “Why ponies?”

“How do mean, ‘why ponies?’” Lady Millhouse asked.

Sally explained, “I mean ‘why ponies’ and why do oxen not pull these coal waggons? They’re big, strong animals. Why don’t these folks use oxen in the mines?”

Here Lord Millhouse interjected, “The mine shaft is overly narrow for oxen. Soon the mines shall be overtaken by mechanisation, but Lady Millhouse favours improving the lot of the ponies now in use.”

Bombastic she may have been, however her ladyship was not foolish. She understood that in order to save any ponies, they must begin their rescue with one mine and a single pony.

“It shall be a great relief to have all animals out of the mines. Poor, poor ponies,” Lady Millhouse said.

Sally was not especially like-minded.

“I guess them folks workin’ those mines want to keep earnin’ a wage too.”

Lord and Lady Millhouse each stood looking at Sally with an air of confused condescension.

A thought struck Lord Millhouse, “Indeed, we should not favour falling victim to a revolutionary outrage as did France,”

This was a point they all agreed upon. And
upon
that agreement, Sally at last understood what Lady Millhouse wanted of her. Sally was to be her emissary.

“A diplomat, if you will, dear girl. As has been proven here today, you can speak more plainly than can I. We must assure the workmen that we do not care to cause bother to their business. We only wish to have those ponies now kept below ground to be stabled above and allowed to graze.”

It was her plan to see to, and fund, the building of stables and obtaining ample pasture.

“To implement the plan properly, I am aware that it shall be necessary for me to purchase additional stock so they can be alternated—one day at work, the next to graze,” she explained. “It is not an ideal, but an improvement. The ponies would be engaged—and not abused to blindness—not so long as this lady has a breath left in her body!”

Practical-minded Sally saw the sense in the plan. The plight of little blind ponies labouring in the mines indeed plucked her heartstrings. However, she could not help but think of those common folk in England; they who were in want of a piece of bread and a place to sleep. When babes starved and eight-year-olds worked twelve hours a day, it was difficult for her to cough up an over-abundance of sympathy for a pack of horses.

“You know how to speak to these men far better than I,” Lady Millhouse said. “I should like you to make these arrangements....”

Sally was not so sure all would go swimmingly. Indeed, she anticipated being beaten from the mine’s premises. Hence, Sally protested.

Lady Millhouse put up her hand, “Tut, tut, my dear. You have your brother’s blood in you. He was a true cavalier. Fear not, for I shall accompany you.”

“Yes’m,” said Sally reluctantly.

That day, and the day after, did not improve Sally’s enthusiasm for the scheme. Invading another’s place and accusing them of having it all wrong might be an idea born of good intentions, but such as that was rarely rewarded. Indeed, the more she thought of it, the more she dug her heels in against it. Lady Millhouse did what she could to influence her opinion otherwise. Sally ate, even relished, all the many cakes and candies with which she was plied, but remained steadfast. In time, Sally not only refused to go, she advised Lady Millhouse not to go either. Unsurprisingly, the lady could not be swayed.

“I promised sweet Georgiana that I would see to this on her behalf,” she said with finality.

When Sally finally gave herself over to Lady Millhouse, it was with a shrug of weariness.

Lord Millhouse was a peaceable man. His part was to stay behind, happy that he sent off intercessory letters warning one and all of his wife’s approach. Lady Millhouse seemed quite pleased with her husband’s assistance. As Sally did not have the two and twenty years practise in being thwarted in attempting to dissuade Lady Millhouse from her various missions, she did not comprehend why he was so handily overruled when he insisted that they be accompanied by footmen.

Sally fully understood that her ladyship did not enjoy calm pursuits. Still, when she saw they were meant to take to the road in a two-wheeled gig, the girl was well nigh giddy with excitement. Suddenly their mission seemed less a mission than a lark. Her humour was well in place when they were set to scramble into the daring equipage.

Lady Millhouse looked to advantage when in the saddle, but she was a large-boned woman and whilst on her feet, she moved with all the subtlety of a barge. Climbing onto the gig was less a matter of being handed into the seat, but rather lifted. Sally clambered up beside her whilst Lady Millhouse took hold of the reins. With a flick of the good lady’s wrists they embarked upon their little jaunt.

Lady Millhouse drove the gig with the same eagerness she took a fence—but not with equal finesse. (As she was thickset and Sally was small, the gig began the trip disadvantaged by a droop to one side.) Lady Millhouse straightened her bonnet and, bound by a long-held affection and keen understanding of the other’s nature, the Millhouses bid each other adieu. Lord Millhouse did not abandon his farewell until the huge feather in Lady Millhouse’s headdress had disappeared over the horizon. Not unlike a hunt, her ladyship did not hesitate. Every corner was taken too wide and too fast, with young Sally clinging for dear life.

Lord Millhouse saw nothing more of his wife and Miss Arbuthnot until they returned mid-afternoon.

Upon their arrival at Pennyswope’s doorstep, it was clear that something was amiss. Her ladyship’s hat was askew, Sally’s cap gone altogether. When they came to a halt, the girl leapt from the gig, which caused the springs to give her ladyship’s descent undue thrust. She landed on a footman, but another drew her to her feet.

Lord Millhouse greeted them just inside the door. Sally stopped before him, her eyes wide enough to suggest she had encountered something... untoward. His wife however did not look his way.

Rather, she dusted her hands and announced to everyone within hearing, “A new plan is now in place! To London we go!”

Chapter 63

Chastened

The Darcys’ journey, which had begun with equal parts apprehension and anticipation, ended not with a clash, but with a whimper.

As the morning dawned over Chiltern Inn, Mr. Darcy was still unaware of this.

Both he and Elizabeth lay naked as the sunlight crept up their legs, a bed-sheet their only modesty. Her hair cascaded across her cheek and he reached out with tender fingers to brush them aside lest he wake her. Nonetheless, her legs moved restlessly. He laid a sheltering arm across her shoulders and pressed against the provocative curve of her supine figure. The scent of her hair in his nostrils, his morning pride soon tautened into a priapism of admirable size.

His desire ever-thickening against her thigh, she responded. A sough escaped the back of her throat and he kissed her beneath her ear.

“Good-day, my love,” he whispered.

Abruptly, she sat upright. Just as hastily, she threw herself back on her pillow, the back of her hand across her eyes. She pointed to the drapes, hissing the plea, “The windows! My head! I cannot bear the light!”

With what could have been accused as a reluctance upon his part, he rose and thither he walked to yonder window to draw the blessed drapes. A vision of masculine beauty burdened by concupiscence was ever lost to her—as was the unhappy expression that overspread his countenance upon his return.

“Oooh,” she moaned.

He could not remain unsympathetic, despite the fact that her headache was one of self-infliction.

As he drew on his breeches and shirt, he curled his fist and hit the wall several times with the side of it, demanding, “Cold water for Mrs. Darcy.”

She half-sat, raising the palm of her hand in his direction, “Desist! I implore you,
desist
!”

As he hastily finished buttoning his breeches, an impish smile attached itself to the corner of his mouth.

He told her, “You, my dearest love, are crapulous.”

Narrowing her eyes, she peered at him cautiously, saying, “I am quite certain I am no such thing.” She insisted (as much to herself as to her husband), “I have taken sick quite coincidental to... whatever came to pass....”

He queried, “Is your tongue dry?”

“A bit,” she admitted.

He would have said more, however she had made a sudden move. Covering her mouth with one hand, she made for the large bowl sitting on the side table. She leaned over it just in time to empty what was left in her stomach.

He reminded her, “As I said, ‘crapulous.’”

Upon her second heave, he took pity and sat down next to her. Holding her hair back from her face, he kissed her on top of her head.

“My, poor Lizzy,” he cooed.

Before she could respond, another wave of nausea attacked her. Hannah rapped upon the door. Elizabeth cringed at the sound. Taking hold of his coat, he opened the door for the maid. She was carrying a pitcher of water.

“Mistress has partaken of something disagreeable,” he lied.

If Elizabeth was grateful, she did not tell him then.

In an hour, he returned to look in on her. The drapes were closed. A folded cloth lay across her eyes. Before he could close the door, she cast her compress aside and sat upright.

He believed that it was not the time to exchange observations or make amends (most particularly when the transgressions were so nebulous). His wife was of another mind. Patting the bed next to her, she bid him come. He rarely refused her, but rather than sit, he walked to the window and peered
out. A slice of sunlight pierced the room. He hastily closed the drape and stood before her. He rested his weight on one foot and folded his hands behind him. Recognising his oft-used posture of defence, she closed her eyes as if to rebuff it.

“I beg to apologise....”

“Please. It is nothing. You are unused to spirits...,” he interrupted.

She held up her hand.

“Do not,” she reproved.

His mask of reserve
slipped. He nodded his regret (for whatever injury she believed him to have committed).

She said, “It is said that ‘the wicked flee when no man pursueth’.”

He nodded again, but had no notion what she meant.

She endeavoured to explain, “I fled to the inn for there was no park.”

Upon this remark, he did not nod. Her meaning was lost to him and he awaited enlightenment.

“Had we been at Pemberley, I should have taken a lovely walk. The brisk air might have spared me the mortification of ‘crapulousness’.”

Having taken her meaning at last, he took a step towards her and rested a hand upon the bedpost. She did not notice that, for she was quite intent on what she must explain to him.

“When I spied you becalming our son’s fears, though it was not your intention to lay blame, I saw it as an accusation against me, as a mother. However, I
was
at fault. As his mother, I alone am responsible.”