Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (21 page)

So it was that the passing bell still reverberated in John’s ears as he walked along the road leaving Kympton. Already his mother’s face had begun to fade for him. He suffered to reclaim it, for he truly did not want his only recollection of her to be that one bunioned toe.

He had set out expeditiously in spite of the lip-serviced condolences. Mrs. Turnpenny had let out their room, announcing a realignment of help. Truly, he did not fault the Turnpennys. They were a bit miserly with the broad-beans, but they had turned a blind eye to his sharing lodgings with his mother when rent paid was for but one. Although he had done what he could to earn his keep in the Turnpenny barn, he knew business at the inn was selling ale, not putting up orphans. He had not expected otherwise. He had learned the true definition of sympathy in the mean streets of London. The kindest gift his mother gave him was to teach him to see to himself.

She had once said, “Son, I can’t watch out for yer, yer’ve got to make yer own way. Nobody looks out for nobody else in this world.”

Undeniably.

Hence, self-reliance, not mother love, was her legacy. That is why he did not cry and that is why he would not allow himself to grieve. Moreover, convinced as he was of his own pragmatic nature, he did not allow himself the indulgence of thinking of his now motherless sisters in London. For a young man of such sense and practicality should have no affection for babies. Yet, he could in no way account for why he, a practising cynic, had carried Sally Frances about when she was far too big to be riding upon his hip. Or, why he had hummed to Baby Sue and hid them both whilst their mother plied her trade with sweaty men atop the creaking bed.

Or, why he missed their sweet faces even then. London was a fair distance. The thought that he might never see them again nagged at the pit of his stomach.

The economy of his situation had no room for such maudlin ruminations; hence, he shook it from his mind in order to ponder specifics. Where was he to go? At least his mother’s poor sense of timing had improved enough to have her die in the country instead of town. He knew he would be but a half-day from the workhouse in London. An orphan he was, but certainly too big a bundle for a foundling home.

John had been born in London, somewhere betwixt Whitechapel and Wapping. He did not know the street or the house. His mother did not tarry long anywhere, usually taking leave one step ahead of the collector. Initially, she was a barmaid. Quite quickly, that career evolved into another. London taverns had back rooms. There, with a little initiative, a fresh-faced lass could earn a half-crown a night. Regrettably, the office of doxy had several disadvantages, the foremost of which was that one did not stay fresh-faced for long. Fees dwindled with the exact rapidity of one’s looks.

Abigail was no exception. Eventually, she walked the streets.

John spent his days with his own manner of scavenging. In the mean rookeries of London, scavenging, more often than not, overlapped into outright thievery. John held no pride in his cunning, nor was he ashamed. The only shame he felt was that he was reduced to thieving to eat. (Caught red-handed with a couple of rabbit skins, he was sent to the House of Correction for a fortnight. It was cruel place, but he was fed twice a day, that more often than he got upon his own.) His secondary employment was actually an extension of his first. For when his mother managed to snare a man to join her in illicit commerce, John was instructed to await. At the height of carnality he was to surreptitiously investigate the visitor’s divested purse and gaskins for any farthings left unspent upon beer or her. As the nicety of disrobing was not often observed and his mother was just as often as cupshotten as her intended paramour, it was a true find when money turned up.

This was not a happy existence. However, not having known a better one, John thought not meanly of it. As to why his mother decided to make a home for that bandy-legged seaman was a compleat mystery to him. When John bewailed the more caitiff strains of that man’s nature (brutal, demented, and flatulent), Abigail had laughed that strange little mirthless laugh she had and embarked upon one of her lessons in survival.

She told her son he lacked objectivity (“Yer blind, boy!”). For the very reason she stayed with Archie was precisely because of his profession. The man provided a roof over their heads (even if it did shelter beatings, which were fierce and prolific). Gone so long at sea simply meant less time she would have to spend with him.

Though of no true religious faith, every time the man sailed, John still managed to compose a little prayer to recite, the gist of which was that Archie’s ninety-gun dreadnought be blown clean out of the water. However, at least so far as Seaman Arbuthnot was concerned, the British navy was omnipotent. Archie always came back, regular as rain. Moreover, upon his return, he would find a cudgel or draw off that strop of a belt and commence a bastinado. John was agile and thus adept at eluding the clumsy Archie (for spirits stole his sea legs). Others in the household, however, were not as swift, and this led to an appalling conundrum for young John Christie.

John could forgive his mother for many things. For prostituting herself, for finding comfort in gin, even for neglecting his sisters. However, the single thing for which he could not find forgiveness was that of which she had the least charge. She continued to beget children of Archibald Arbuthnot. Those children demanded John weather demons that no child should have to endure. He had to decide which of his loved ones’ heads he would try to protect from Archie’s blows. If he tried to shield them all, no one would escape punishment.

When Abigail was with child once again, John had known without being told it was not fathered by Archie Arbuthnot. He understood that was an aggravation to the basic evil of the situation. For although Archie was a vicious cur of a man, he had one quality worthy of regard: he would away. Thomas Reed was a continual sore.

Hardly the first grass widow of a sailor, it was understood with certainty that when this particular sailor found out that he was so public a cuckold, the insult to his manhood would be consequential. The means to exact his revenge would be harsh, possibly
fatal. There was but one answer. Because the past year of growth had bestowed him six inches in height (even though but a half stone in weight), John came to believe that if he had not age upon his side, he was man enough to defend his mother’s life.

He knew that should he survive the fight to the death that he intended to engage in with Archie, the constables would be upon him in an instant. (Authorities were not much inclined to intervene in family discord unless that disharmony resulted in bodily harm to a taxpaying breadwinner.) John had been jailed once. Even if Archie’s life weathered John’s substantial rancour, two offences meant Newgate.

Hence, when Abigail abruptly decided to decamp London, she thought it was her own neck she was saving. She had no idea she was rescuing her son’s also.

The truncated Family Christie departed for Derbyshire under the cloak of night and fear of pursuit. Upon neither their journey nor their arrival did John query Abigail about her expanding waistline or her decision to take leave of London. She had not expected otherwise. It had been her tease that his most identifiable trait was his compleat want of curiosity. Although he had not corrected her misconception, he knew it was less a trait than a lesson committed to memory.

John knew how his mother got in the family way and by whom. He had learnt far more about basic urges of mankind from a cot in the corner of her room than had he sat centre seat in a professorial lecture. John never questioned why Kympton was the town they chose to light upon, for his mother’s drunken loquacity had revealed where he was sired.

The road was dusty, crust having been reclaimed from the recent rain. John decided whither he had to go. Once that was done, he made no hesitation. He had not heard his mother’s boasts in the inn the previous night. Yet she had told him the man who lay with her at Pemberley was his father. Was he of station? Was he still there? John had not a clue. But his mother had been superstitious, and in want of any other bias or religious persuasion, he trusted in it, too. Perhaps the place of his conception might somehow offer him refuge.

For even John knew it was a rich man’s world and he took the most direct route there. On he trod in the dust.

I
t was nothing more sinister than the evening chill that drove Darcy and Elizabeth from their picnic. As they placidly circled back to the house upon the path, they came upon Fitzwilliam astride a rather noble-looking bay.

When he espied them, he drew to a stop and forsook his ride short of the courtyard, thus aborting their stroll. Neither the encounter nor the sharing of their promenade was less than a delight. For, as Darcy was wont to boast, Fitzwilliam was not only an esteemed cousin, but also a chivalrous officer, courageous cavalryman, and
raconteur nonpareil
.

Elizabeth shared his opinion.

Once pleasantries were given due, Darcy and Fitzwilliam commenced a lengthy recapitulation of the weather and rural doings that had not been fully explored the evening previous. As this discourse meandered into areas arcane to her, Elizabeth walked over to admire Fitzwilliam’s horse. He was a tall, athletic animal and stood idly twiddling his ears, apparently as bored with the conversation as was she.

Commiserating their duality of neglect, Elizabeth talked soothingly to him whilst stroking his nose. He nickered when her fingers found the soft skin betwixt his nostrils. She cooed back at him. This equine affection stole her husband’s attention.

Darcy called, “When would you like to have your riding lesson, Elizabeth?”

Eager for such an adventure, she blurted out, “On a horse?”

Otherwise engrossed as she had been, one could understand the innocent lack of vigilance in her reply. Indeed, her countenance betrayed unadulterated guilelessness. Only for a moment. But when the magnitude of her
faux pas
became apparent, her face first blanched, and then turned a remarkable shade of magenta.

With careful deliberateness, he said, “Yes, Elizabeth, upon a horse. We shall come around to-morrow.”

She narrowed her eyes at him, for he had not answered her directly, delaying his reply quite mercilessly. Indeed, initially he had pursed his lips. That might have persuaded an observer that he was much off-put by the extent of his wife’s monstrous gaffe. It was evident to Elizabeth, however, that he was merely trying to keep from laughing. As unsparing as he was and so deeply did she colour, the revelation that his merriment was entirely at her expense was not lost upon her. She was not compleatly successful at concealing her displeasure.

In the midst of this little skirmish, she thought to steal a glance at Col. Fitzwilliam. He was paying a great deal of attention to the toes of his boots, possibly whistling.

With all due insouciance, Darcy offered his arm to his wife and the three took the path to the house. But they had taken no more than a few steps in that direction before Elizabeth bestowed a rather violent pinch of retribution upon her husband’s arm just above the elbow. In a show of his usual impressive self-discipline, he did not start at this infliction. He did, however, rest his free hand upon hers, for it was still poised menacingly upon his arm (perhaps this was in affection, more likely it was in defence of another assault).