Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites (71 page)

His social activity embraced only meals with the Hardins and the taking of treats to some of his favourite horses (which was not technically a social activity, but well-nigh as good, horses being more convivial to him than people).

His circumstances of birth were more unstable and insubstantial than even the lowest of servants at Pemberley. This is perchance why he had maintained a cynicism of human-kind that would have befitted a moneylender. It might be fancied he trusted the Hardins, howbeit that supposition had not yet been rendered under fire. Hence, there was one indisputable sentiment he harboured beyond misanthropy. And that was an unmitigated infatuation with his employer’s wife.

Beautiful, brave, and propitious, it was Mrs. Darcy alone who was his preserver in the wake of the fire and robbery. (He ranked Mrs. Darcy even higher than Mrs. Hardin, who cooked for him.) When Mr. Hardin bid him ride atop the coach when that good lady went upon her sick visits, John was desperately pleased with himself. The insecurity of a childhood transgressed by bastardy, uncertainty, and the loss of his mother, not to speak of the abuse of poverty in general, had not particularly inflated
his ego. Riding upon the waggon, escorting Mrs. Darcy and Miss Darcy, did not unnecessarily inflate his ego then, but plumped it enough to call it middling.

The footmen came and went with food and blankets, eventually waiting at the coach. Indeed, it was he alone who stayed in the house of illness the entire time with the Darcy ladies. That understanding of the zenith of pride was cast out and a new criteria instated when Mrs. Darcy suggested he might have made a good doctor. That elevated her to his notion of sainthood.

Therefore, it could be understood how, compared to the sanctification to which John Christie held Mrs. Darcy, the girls about Pemberley fared somewhat poorly. Suspicious as he was of others, his own character was quite without guile. Thus, he did not realise his deification of Mrs. Darcy was used as a pretext to excuse himself from the troubling undertaking of conversing with those of the opposite sex. Moreover, he certainly did not understand, however virtuous his feelings toward Mrs. Darcy were, they tread treacherous waters. For in the grander realm of his mind’s circumstance, he believed her husband to be his father.

John was bright, even astute, but, true, he was utterly unsophisticated in matters of the heart. When Miss Darcy began to teach him to read, he should have ducked his head and reinstated his hermeticism. He did not. She was pretty and kind, and the supposition that, was Mr. Darcy his father, she was his relation as well was shoved to the farthest reaches of his mind. It stayed right there until the day Mr. Darcy spoke so uncharitably to them both.

Because Georgiana was to return to London upon the heels of that encounter, John did not have to agonise over whether to weather Mr. Darcy’s disdain, or to tell Miss Darcy he no longer had any interest in letters.

Nevertheless, he did go to Edward Hardin forthwith, begging off riding upon the waggon altogether. Mr. Hardin neither encouraged him to stay nor questioned him why he no longer chose to go. Wordlessly, he took another boy on in his place. One might suggest it, but John believed he never once felt a twinge of regret. The burden of her husband’s disapproval had usurped the pride and, ultimately, the pleasure of being in Mrs. Darcy’s company. That, above all things wrested from him in his ignominious existence, was unpardonable.

Hence, that summer’s solstice saw the primers Georgiana had given him shoved beneath the batting of his bed. Moreover, John retreated with renewed determination into his protective shell of silence. However diligently he guarded it, his little fortress of taciturnity was betimes transgressed. For those who were of more congenial nature than he, his quiet invited discourse. Which presented him a conundrum. Idle conversation always included a little idle prattle. Usually these tidbits were quite innocuous. But he was most adamant in his dislike of gossip. Was this because his mother was once the brunt of a great deal of it, perchance? It was undeniable that he had suffered keenly upon the altar of human foibles, hence they were no particular amusement to him.

Yet even John found it a little diverting that Mrs. Hardin would carry on a conversation with him without him once having to look up, much less respond. These little discourses were mostly about the village and country doings, in which he held little
interest. One day, however, one particular piece of information caught his attention and had it not come from Mrs. Hardin, he would not have looked up from his soup to listen even then.

Mrs. Hardin had made it a personal objective to find him company of the feminine persuasion (as she thought him a rather late-blooming twenty-year-old) and never ceased putting forth first one hearty girl, then another. But this day, as she went about her work chatting both case and canard, she grumbled more than usual.

For it seemed the girl she had set her eye most doggedly upon for him had fallen into disrepute.

“Whot’s there t’say when a gerl from a good family falls for the wiles of a man just because he’s rich,” she groused.

John stopped eating, his spoon suspended midway to his mouth.

“That man’s not going to see t’her,” she fussed on. “The best she ken hope is if he gits’r with child he’ll marry her off to some lad for a quid and he’ll treat’r like the doxy she is!”

Abruptly, Mrs. Hardin ceased her diatribe, the collop beneath her chin still quivering with indignation. She looked at John and saw she had his full audience for the first time in her recollection. Not one to waste anything, especially the peerless occasion of having John Christie’s ear, she offered him some motherly advice.

“Don’t ye go havin’ no time for no gerls that’ll waste theyselves ’pon a few trinkets from a rich man, John.”

He shook his head he would not. Satisfied, she had turned back to her work when she heard something unlikely. John asked her a question.

“Who is ’e?”

She looked at John, dumbfounded. John took it that she did not understand his question, not that she was dumbfounded he had asked one.

He repeated, “Who’s the rich man?”

Recovering from her astonishment, she grumbled to herself again, and thereupon said, “Who’d yer think? There’s not that many rich men about here. It sure ain’t no squire.”

(She did not actually know who the rich man was, but having the floor, she did not want to relinquish it for want of information.)

John only knew one rich man about and that one sat in a very big house a near cry from the small one where he sat partaking of his meal. Before he could digest that particular, he heard Edward Hardin’s urgent call. Giving his usual mumbled thanks to Mrs. Hardin, he ran out the door.

His instruction was implicit. Make haste to fetch Colonel Fitzwilliam’s horse. That gentleman had appeared unexpectedly; Scimitar was not yet saddled. The horse’s imminent departure was a mild disappointment to John. The humble equine fancier deemed him a handsome one indeed. Mr. Darcy’s horse was probably finer, but Scimitar had more…John thought about it and searched for the word…spirit. Yes, he had more spirit, which was truly an indefinable point in a horse. Either they had it or they did not. John thought Scimitar had more of that indefinable something than any he had seen. Smooth of gait and fine of spirit. What more could you ask of a horse than that it be honest?

Working with meticulous dexterity, he bridled and saddled Scimitar. Hastily, he grabbed the reins and slung back the gate to lead him out. Too hastily.

Unpropitious fate allowed the gate to hit the post and bounce against it just as he attempted to take Scimitar through.

That set the stage for a horrifying occurrence.

The gate sprang betwixt him and Scimitar, exciting the horse to bolt. One flaying hoof glanced off the gate and wedged betwixt two boards. Spooked beyond all reclamation, the near two hundred stone of horse reared and thrashed at the gate in a frenzy to free himself. All this clattering fury of a nightmare unfolded as if in slow motion before John’s disbelieving eyes.

Momentarily, he stood in petrified terror, a cold sickness in his stomach. He had no doubt he was about to witness that fine horse shatter a leg. Some deep will wrested him from his shock, and he leapt about frantically trying to catch a handhold upon the bridle. That, however, only made the horse flail more. The more the horse thrashed, the more desperately John endeavoured to catch him. They were locked into an ever-escalating trial of panic.

Even amidst such bedlam, John heard a calm voice behind him.

“There, Scimitar, there.”

Rather than run to the fracas, Colonel Fitzwilliam strode up with little more effort than a saunter. One observing him might have believed the man not rushed at all. So quietly did he approach, John did not realise he was there until Fitzwilliam firmly grasped his arm, thus thwarting his fruitless quest for Scimitar’s bridle.

“Be still,” he cautioned. “Be still.”

The voice was one that made John do just that. Save for the trembling that afflicted every muscle in his body, he stood perfectly still. Fitzwilliam commenced to talk in a soothing tone to the horse whose thrashing had de-escalated but not yet abated. Gradually the horse stopped lurching and heaving about. Fitzwilliam picked up the reins and made a gentle clicking noise with his tongue. The horse stepped forward on three feet and stood with great patience whilst the colonel managed to extricate his hoof from the gate.

Drained, John sank with a dull thud to the ground in relief. Forthwith, he leapt up, ready for his well-deserved dressing down. Any rant or criticism he would accept without complaint. For if the horse was unhurt, it was not because of—but in spite of—his own ministrations.

Nonetheless, Fitzwilliam did not look at the mortified groom, intent as he was upon examining the horse for injuries. Gently, he traced his hand down Scimitar’s hock. No blood was evident. Scimitar stood fully upon all four feet, not favouring the recently imprisoned hoof. The horse was evidently uninjured.

Standing tall and straight during this inspection, John waited with forbearance for its completion to receive his due. The only fervent hope he held (and it was niggardly indeed) was that as the horse was ultimately unhurt, the colonel would only keel-haul him, not have him turned out. But when Fitzwilliam finally turned to him, he did not speak in reproach.

“I see your instinct is in defence of the horse. When I was your age, I am certain I should not have jeopardised myself in such a manner. I thank you.”

He thanked him? He had almost caused mortal injury to the man’s horse and he thanked him? John could say nothing; he just stood there, stupefied.

Clearly aware of the groom’s surprise, Fitzwilliam adopted a scholarly tone, “Whatever you do when a horse is trapped, show no alarm. Move with care, speak quietly. If the horse is to be extricated, that will be the only way to prevent injury. To either of you.”

With the last remark, he turned to John and smiled. John nodded his head eagerly. Then he watched raptly as Fitzwilliam walked Scimitar about. Slowly, he led the horse in a wide circle, allowing him to calm. Once satisfied of that, he bid John to unsaddle him.

“I shall let him settle a half-hour before I take him out.”

Instructions compleated, John climbed atop the fence as Fitzwilliam personally loosed him in a paddock. Odd to be sitting there whilst the gentleman saw to the horse. Had John’s notion of absoluteness not been so roundly shaken, it was additionally abused when the good colonel climbed upon the fence and sat next to him.

With the merest flick of his hands, the colonel tossed the tails of his jacket from beneath him as he perched upon the top rail. John admired that flick. He thought he might like to have a jacket with brass buttons, epaulets, and tails to flick aside when he sat.

They sat there a few moments in silence. John cut his eyes over to Fitzwilliam several times then to his excellent steed.

Of Scimitar, he asked, “’e’s a charger, ain’t ’e?”

Fitzwilliam nodded. John knew quite well who the colonel was, for he came to Pemberley often. He was a cavalry officer. Scimitar was the horse he rode upon those courageous cavalry charges. Until then, John had never had opportunity to scrutinise him, only his horse. But he had always been impressed with his caped uniform and choice of mounts. Sitting as near as he did, John could see an impressive scar upon the colonel’s cheek. It was deep. Curling his lip slightly at the sight, he wondered if a sabre had rendered that scar and if it did, in what battle. He was eyeing it so closely, he did not realise Fitzwilliam was watching himself be inspected.

“Are you appalled by my scar?”

Startled, John looked to the ground and said, “No, sire.”

In a voice he reserved for the greenest of trooper, Fitzwilliam demanded that he speak up, “What?”

John said louder, “No, sire.” Thereupon he impetuously added, “It is an admirable scar.”

Fitzwilliam smiled, “Admirable, is it?”

The bonhomous company of a man of such substantial rank rendered him profoundly spellbound, else John might have never blurted out, “Yes. Aye have never seen a scar so fine. Was it from battle?”