PRIDE AND POOP by Jane Airedale
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that an unneutered male dog in possesion of a few bowsers, must be in want of a bitch.
The male himself, upon entering a neighborhood and sniffing out rigs and ricks, fence posts and doorsteps, may be unaware of the flutterings going on inside barns, stables and kennels, all caused by his very presence. But the above truth is so well fixed in the minds of all the local canines, that in some cases, he has been marked and claimed by a bitch whose private parts he has not yet been able to view, let alone sniff.
"My dear Ben," said Mrs. Beagle to her mate of long-standing one day, "have you heard that the Duchess of Avalon is soon to pay a visit to her dear cousin, Sir Bernard Dogorrel, our guardian and protector, possibly within the next few days?"
Her mate, who was busy gnawing upon a bone, replied that he had not.
"But she is," Mrs. Beagle, whose given name was Marjorie, persisted, "and she plans to bring along her top-of-the-line; mark! I said the very top-of-the line, my dear, pack of champion beagles. Can you not guess the reason why?"
"I assume they need a good run," responded her mate, without looking up from the ham bone he was masticating. "Since they live almost at the halfway point between here and Bath, those dogs ought to be ready to drop from exhaustion by the time they arrive in our yard."
Mrs. Beagle hopped off the bench upon which she had been resting her haunches, and began to impatiently paw at bits of straw, which were strewn across the stable floor. "Don't be so tiresome, Ben," she admonished. "You know quite as well as I do that we have between us three perfectly lovely and decidedly purebred beagle bitches. Well, how could they be anything but beagles, considering that we are of that breed, but what I meant to say was..."
STORY CONTINUED UNDER COMMENTS BELOW~
posted by LuLu @ 11:37 PM
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Story continued...
"What you meant to say, my dear," Ben Beagle interrupted his mate, who had a tendency to bark up every tree in the forest if given half a chance, "What you meant to say was -- you hope three of the duchesses' male beagles will take a liking to the trio of chow-hogging adult bitches who have lived with us for far too long, and will take them (if there exists a Dog in Heaven!) off our forepaws."
Mrs. Beagle pretended to be shocked. "Why Mr. Beagle! How can you abuse your own puppies in such a way? You vex me, my dear. Indeed, you vex me. Think of my nerves, Ben, and of the bouts of separation anxiety I suffered after we found mates for all of the puppies in our first two litters, although separation was what I thought I had been longing for, for their sakes, my dear, for their sakes. And think, too, of the pain when I whelped litter number three. Consider if you will..."
Her mate hastened to interrupt her again. "I would rather think about the extra portions of meat we had in our bowls once we got rid of those infernal, yapping puppies from the first two litters, my dear."
"Oh, Ben! Please don't say such things!" she implored, scatttering the straw with such violence, that Ben Beagle at last dropped his bone and took full notice of her.
Somewhat to his surprise, he was forced to admit that after two and a half years of near constant togetherness, and despite his mate's all too frequent fits of temper and periods of nervous exhaustion, Marjorie still appealed to his beast within.
At the age of four, his mate was showing a slight paunch, and her muzzle had slightly grayed, but her tail was as high as ever when the mood suited, and her ears were as soft and velvety as they had been on the day the two were leash-locked.
"I also miss our time spent together, my little Margie," admitted Ben Beagle suggestively to his mate, who stopped pawing at straws, and realized with a shudder of delight that she would soon be going into season; she and her three daughters, all at the exact same time.
Ben wagged his tail as he realized how well matched he and his mate truly were, although much to his sorrow, he doubted if Sir Bernard would permit him to mount Marjorie again. The last whelping had cost her dearly, for she was too old for the bearing of pups, and her litters had all been close.
But Marjorie could still be a comfort, he reckoned. She really didn't eat very much, and she had yet to acquire any serious problems with flatulence. Hers was a warm and fragrant presence on cold winter nights when an extra body made a difference.
"Now, in what way can I accommodate you, Mrs. Beagle?" Ben asked his mate, wagging his tail to underscore what he meant to be a play on words.
His mate's tail twitched in return. "You must find out exactly which males are coming here with the duchess," she told him. "I know all the breeding lists by heart, my dear, and hope to be able to sort out the pups from the dogs."
"I thought this lot was the top of the line," her mate reminded her. "Do you mean they are not each and every one of them perfect specimens?"
"My dear," said Marjorie Beagle, lowering her bark, "the duchess has not always used complete discretion when breeding her packs."
She took a deep breath. "I am talking, my dear, about incest."
Her mate took a step backward. "Marjorie Beagle!" he remonstrated.
"Oh, stop it, Ben," she told him. "You know you just love it when I talk dirty to you."
Story to be continued.....
Mr. Beagle, at his wife's request, was soon sniffing about his master's boots, as well as listening in on his conversations, hoping to discover by means of a dropped word, precisely which champion male beagles would soon be accompanying the Duchess of Avalon to her cousin's handsome but modest country estate, Hound Hall.
Meanwhile, seated together beneath a tree in a nearby orchard, Miss Jane Beagle, the eldest bitch in Mr. and Mrs. Beagle's promising third litter, and Mr. Bingley, a well-formed Kerry beagle, who belonged to a local farmer, attempted to express their feelings for one another while maintaining their decorum, which meant above all, no flank-to-flank contact and (certainly!) no sniffing of the nether parts.
"My dear Miss Jane," woofed Mr. Bingley, "it has come to my attention that Sir Bernard Dogorrel will, within less than a fortnight, be entertaining certain blue-blooded stable guests of the masculine gender."
Jane felt the heat rise in her groin. Mr. Bingley had a bark that was easily as warm and soothing as a wool blanket laid upon a hearth, and even though the month was April, Jane felt herself longing to curl up beneath that blanket and give in to her most hedonistic desires. Instead she allowed the very tip of the longest hair on her forepaw to touch the side of his well-muscled back. Her head began to swim, and she hastily withdrew the paw.
"Miss Jane?" woofed Mr. Bingley questioningly, and the petite beagle shook herself out of her reverie.
"Forgive me, Mr. Bingley," she replied in a soft bark. "My thoughts were drifting like the clouds overhead, while at the same time hopping about as unguided as hares. You mentioned Sir Bernard's guests?"
"Then you know about them?" he asked, his manly chops drooping. "Champion male beagles, I'm told. Your sort of beagles, my dear -- not an Irish 'pocadan' like me."
Jane nibbled some grass in order to cover her frustration, and breathed in the delicious aromas she had come to associate with her home and its environs -- the potent scent of wet grass blended with ripening apples, of budding flowers, and of sweet rain. It never occurred to her that she might discover similar aromas in abundance throughout rural England, and, in truth, she didn't much care.
"Mama has barked of nothing else for days on end," Jane admitted, "but I have little interest in meeting those males, Mr. Bingley."
He turned his head and stared at her. "You don't? But how can that be?"
Jane found herself gazing directly into his deep brown eyes, and knew she had arrived at her Rubicon and needed to pursue her rabbit across it.
"I have already met their sisters," she told him, "and found them to be less than congenial. Believe me, Mr. Bingley, I doubt I will find their brothers to be any more my sort than they were," and she allowed her entire forepaw to come into direct contact with his own.
Around this same time and not so very far away, Miss Elizabeth Beagle, the middle pup in the litter, was walking behind the stable with her distant cousin, Mr. Collins, the local vicar's basset, who was earnestly attempting to woo her, albeit much against her will.
"Would you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, feel more attuned to accepting my proposal if I simply and succinctly stated my reasons for wishing to mate?" Mr. Collins figuratively prodded.
"No," said Elizabeth, hastening her gait in the hopes that her longer legs would outdistance her cousin's shorter ones.
But Mr. Collins was nothing if not persistent. "My reasons for wanting to mate are, first, I think it's a right thing for a vicar's dog to have a mate and puppies."
"Have you discussed this issue with the vicar?" growled Elizabeth, who was contemplating the possibility of breaking into a run.
"Well, no," he admitted, panting with mild exertion as he attempted to keep up with Elizabeth, "but just last Sunday, after the vicar gave that thundering sermon about the wages of sin and poaching, I heard him say to his sister, she that is the widow of the hosier, Mr. Knots -- he said, 'Caroline, I think that lazy hound of mine could do with a mate.' Well, she responded with a mild jest, for she is the kindest and sweetest of women -- 'I think that hound could do with a swift kick,' she says. 'You are the one needs a mate, Andrew. You've reached the age of thirty-eight, and people are starting to talk.'"
Miss Elizabeth felt the need to interrupt him. "Mr. Collins, before you bark on and give me heaven only knows how many reasons for why you wish to take a mate, please accept my gratitude for your generous offer, and understand that it is impossible for me to do otherwise than decline it."
Mr. Collins wagged his tail. "I am well aware," he responded, "of how typical it is of well-bred young bitches to decline a first proposal out of modesty, which barks well for you, Miss Elizabeth. I, in fact, consider you a virtual paragon of your sex. Further, I am not the least discouraged by your prompt refusal, and retain every hope of eventually leading you to the breeding pen."
Before Elizabeth, who was better known as Lizzie, could open her mouth to snarl, her younger sister, Lydia, came racing out of the woods, singing merrily. Hot on her tail was Loutie, the gamekeeper's large dog, a robust hound of mixed parentage.
"My frying bacon!" cried a thoroughly scandalized Mr. Collins. "What a, uhm, substantial and pretty davenport your sister possesses."
Lizzie voiced her perplexity. "Mr. Collins, I'm afraid I do not take your meaning."
"He refers to my derriere, you silly goose," barked Lydia, as she went prancing past, closely followed by Loutie, whose gait was remarkably stiff legged for one so young.
"Dear, dear, dear," growled Mrs. Marjorie Beagle a few moments later, as she watched from the stable door while her gallingly
unsocial daughter, Lizzie, chased that nice basset, Mr. Collins, down the lane and across the fields.
She sighed and shook her head. "Lizzie will never catch a mate if she continues to behave in such a manner."
Mrs. Squiggle, the pig, glanced up from her slops. "Oh, I shouldn't say so. Looks like she's gainin' on 'im, Missus Dog."
Mrs. Beagle raised a forepaw to her stopple and wailed a loud, pathetic yelp.
Story to be continued....
Although Mrs. Beagle promptly took to her blanket over what she perceived to be a painful lack of decorum on the part of her least dear pup, in truth she need not have been concerned. While Elizabeth was a lively bitch with a certain playfulness to her disposition, she was also the end result of years of lucky breeding, excellent training, and unlike her careless younger sister, whose reputation she often found herself defending, Lizzie was not a canine whose nose was ever likely to wander far from the trail.
She had chased the luckless Mr. Collins for a mere fifteen minutes before realizing that she was, in all likelihood, not only making a fool of herself, but worse, was presenting to anyone witnessing the scene a wholly distorted picture of the true nature of their relationship.
As Mr. Collins, with his tail between his legs, continued full tilt for the sanctuary of the vicarage, Lizzie abruptly turned tail, padded into a small glen, and paused to refresh herself at a tricking stream which meandered through the rocks therein.
"Why, Eliza, what a fortuitous meeting!" declared a bark she easily recognized. Lizzie ceased her lapping, wagged her tail, and crossed the stream to join her friend, Charlotte, a tiny corgi belonging to the appallingly nouveau-riche Lucas family, who lived close by in the made-over ruin of a once foreboding medieval castle known as Pembroke Manor.
"My dear, whatever can you be doing out here in the fields all alone without the support of a pack?" Charlotte inquired, her bark sounding jolly, but concern, if not actual censure, evident in her sparkling dark eyes.
Lizzie sank down next to her on the grass. "I was chasing Mr. Collins," she confessed, her expression filled with good humor while her tail continued its rapid wag, for although Charlotte was almost a year her senior, the two had long shared the closest of friendships and truly, in their own words, "squatted 'neath the same bush."
The corgi nipped at Lizzie playfully. "You silly thing! I'm serious! You are some distance from your stable yard, Eliza. Why, you have come so far as to pad onto Lucas property."
"Well then, I must sneak back home very carefully indeed," she observed with gentle mockery, knowing full well the opprobrium attached by Sir Bernard to anything having to do with the newly rich Lucas family, descended as they were from generations of socially unacceptable tradesmen(There were rumors that the recently dubbed "Sir William" even had a coal scuttle on his escutcheon!)
"Tarry a while, at least," pleaded Charlotte. "It's been days since we last encountered one another, and I value your friendship above that of any other canine; why, I might go so far as to say, beyond that of any other mammal."
"And have you need of it presently?" asked Lizzie, immediately solicitous.
The little corgi heaved a sigh. "Would I be out here, hiding in the woods, were I comfortably at ease in my mind and spirit?" she asked dolefully, and proceeded to unburden herself.
"Eliza, Lady Lucas is bored with life in the country. She wants to cease rusticating and move permanently to London, where she will be able to pursue a hedonistic life style shed of her uxorious husband, and I must either go with her, and spend the rest of my days watching Groton the footman dance about her boudoir, balancing a tray..." she glanced over at her cherished friend, and hesitated. Elizabeth was bright and understanding -- but she was a long, long way from jaded.
"Well," she concluded, leaving out the juicy parts, "it's either go to London with her, or stay here and be ignored by Sir William and the pretty spaniel bitches who follow him everywhere and sleep in his bed at night. My mind is in a turmoil, Eliza, and perhaps most unsettling of all -- if I do choose to go to London, I will in all likelihood lose my close and deeply valued friendship with you."
"Never!" declared Lizzie, nuzzling her friend with her long and shapely snout "We are as one, you and I!"
Charlotte nuzzled her back. "But what am I to do, dearest Eliza? Lady Lucas has made up her mind, and we will both be off to London by the early days of May, or else I remain here -- a castoff and a pariah."
"I will think of something, Charlotte, I promise," vowed Lizzie earnestly. "You know what I'm like when I truly set my mind to something. I weigh all of the consequences, leaving not one stone unturned; I make mental lists, and finally, once I have exhausted all possibilities by thinking and rethinking a problem through, only then do I attempt to reach a valid conclusion."
Charlotte merely smiled. She did know -- exactly -- what her friend was like when confronted with a dilemma, but then, every rose had a thorn, and not all dead rabbits tasted alike.
She wiggled her large ears as a thought struck her. "Were you really chasing the vicar's basset across the fields, Eliza?"
"I fear so," Lizzie confided, beginning to pant with a certain glee, as she readied herself to share a good story with her friend.
Charlotte barked a brief, questioning laugh. "Whatever possessed you to do so?"
"Well, I was not chasing him for sport -- and I certainly was not chasing him for any 'playful' reasons," she explained, smacking her tail against the grass for emphasis. "It is true that he proposed mating to me..." And she hesitated, wishing to determine Charlotte's reaction. When none was forthcoming, she continued.
"...he proposed mating to me and I firmly rejected him, but in the next bark, he insulted my sister, Lydia, and I immediately lost my temper, as well as my generally reliable common sense, and went after him. I hounded him all the way from the stable yard!"
She looked at her friend, a laugh in her bark and a smile on her lips, and saw to her surprise that there was no corresponding humor in Charlotte's own expression. "Mr. Collins is seriously looking to take a mate, then?"
"Why, yes, I suppose so," Lizzie replied. "Oh! but, Charlotte -- can you imagine the two of us? His pomposity against my merriment? His plodding opposed to my swiftness? His..."
"I get it, I get it," Charlotte interrupted her. "You and Mr. Collins are an unlikely pair."
Abruptly she rose to her paws. "Now, Eliza, I must get back to Pembroke Manor before I'm missed by her ladyship."
Before turning away, she gave her friend a brief lick across the snout. "Get home safely, my dear," she barked, and departed without looking back.
Odd, thought Lizzie, as Charlotte's sturdy rump disappeared over a hillock. Her friend had to be vastly disturbed in mind and spirit in order to be unable to appreciate one of her humorous stories, chocked full of clever wit and hot gossip as they always were.
"I must ponder this matter well and carefully," she told herself --but then a large hare darted directly across her path, and she could think of nothing but hounding him.
The sound of her loud, clear bay could be heard halfway to Hound Hall. It certainly was heard by two besotted beagles lying side by side in a nearby orchard, for they rose to their paws instantly, briefly nuzzled one another with great affection, and then, with obvious reluctance, went their separate ways.
Story to be continued...
Sir Bernard Dogorrel, a man of early middle years, was seated at his desk, making quick work of a decanter of port, when he too heard Lizzie's clear alto bay. He glanced up to see both hare and beagle charge across a field directly below his window, and rose unsteadily to his feet, although he was not at all sure why.
"Whatever can that blasted hound be doing out there by herself?" he wondered aloud, and thus somewhat unsettled the faithful Mr. Beagle, who had been lying at those unsteady feet, contemplatively chewing on a piece of bacon -- which he had managed to unearth from the warp and woof of a priceless, but very dirty, Turkey rug.
Mr. Beagle recognized his daughter's singular bay and grumbled in his jowls. Lizzie was generally the sensible one in the family, or so he had long assumed. He had seen her go off toward the stable yard with that importunate puffer, the vicar's basset, earlier on, when it had been obvious from the faint glimmer in Mr. Collins' eye and the cocky tilt of his badly hung ears, that lust had finally managed to stir even his lethargic blood.
While hoping to at last be rid of the three bitches from his and Marjorie's third litter, Mr. Beagle was also of the opinion that his favorite daughter could easily do better than the overweened Mr. Collins; further he was loath to welcome the boastful but essentially lazy basset into the family, for he had no illusions as to where the young couple would most likely spend the majority of their time, and he had, in fact, already caught Mr. Collins casting proprietary glances at one or two of his best-loved old bones.
It was Mr. Beagle's treasured hope that Lizzie had turned a firm paws down on whatever proposal Mr. Collins had set before her, but whether she had or had not -- what on earth was the bitch thinking, running amok through the fields?
Mr. Beagle heard the click of a latch, followed by the sound of light footsteps. He also smelled the faint aroma of lilac perfume, and crept out from under his master's desk to greet his friend, Lady Britney, the reluctant mistress of Hound Hall.
This gentle creature, now in her late twenties, was the granddaughter of a duke and the daughter of an earl. She was petite and slender, and gave the impression of being frail, due in part to her sallow skin, and wispy blond hair that framed her oval face like a halo. She kept mostly to her own chambers, attended only by her maid, a buxom country wench named Sally, who also accompanied her on those rare occasions when she felt well enough to venture forth on some mission of mercy or a social call.
"I am going out, Bernard," she said in a soft, well-modulated voice, and bent to stroke Mr. Beagle's ears.
Her husband, who held her in low regard, did little more than twiddle his plump fingers in a dismissive gesture. "I suppose Sally is going with you?"
She cast a weary glance his way. "Yes," she replied flatly, "she is."
Sir Bernard picked at his ear with a grubby forefinger, then blew his bulbous red nose on a serviette. "Handsome girl, your Sally," he observed. "A pity she can't get out more." And having spoken his piece, he went back to his decanter of port.
Mr. Beagle followed Lady Britney out into the hallway, where she nodded to Sally and made a few simple gestures with her middle fingers. Sally gasped and threw her apron over her head, barely managing to stifle a wild bray of a laugh. Moments later the two women left the house arm in arm. Mr. Beagle, meanwhile, padded directly to the stable yard, where he found his mate and Lizzie snarling at one another, both obviously at the end of their tethers.
"Sir!" barked Mrs. Beagle. "Have you any idea, any idea at all, what
this headstrong and foolish pup has done now? Well, tell me, sir? Have you?"
Mr. Beagle allowed himself to regard both females with a decidedly jaundiced eye. "I know," he said, cutting a angry glance in Lizzie's direction, "that our daughter has been making a biscuit of herself, running impetuously across the fields, by herself, I might add, while baying at the top of her lungs."
"I saw a hare," Lizzie explained. "A large hare."
"And did you catch it?" asked her father, who could be very understanding when he chose to be.
"No," replied his daughter, letting her ears droop.
"Sir Bernard himself remarked upon the incident, Lizzie," Mr. Beagle chided her, at which point Mrs. Beagle decided to howl to the rafters.
"Sir Bernard! Oh, the Great Dog Star! Oh, we are lost! First Lizzie refuses to mate with Mr. Collins, and next she disturbs Sir Bernard at his figurings and calculations."
"Welllll," her mate backpawed, thinking of the half-empty decanter of port, and of all the dunning notices scattered across his master's desk. ("What sort of gentleman pays his bills, eh, Beagle?" Sir Bernard occasionally asked him. "Why, who are these cheeseparing merchants to be demanding money from ME?")
From what Mr. Beagle could tell, Sir Bernard neither figured nor calculated, but instead spent most of his time drinking and hunting, and chasing the servant girls. As least, thought Mr. Beagle, the man was kind to his horses and dogs -- usually.
"Mr. Beagle," his mate was saying, "Mr. Beagle, you have to tell Lizzie that she must mate with Mr. Collins. She absolutely must, or I will never see her again."
Mr. Beagle felt the need for a well-gnawed bone, followed by several hours of restful indulgence, better known as a good nap. Instead, he tacitly summoned Lizzie to his side. "My pup," he said, "an unhappy alternative is now before you. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother barks that she will not see you if you refuse to mate with Mr. Collins -- and I will not see you if you do."
"'Ere it comes," remarked Mrs. Squiggle, the pig, to Wickham, the tabby cat, who regarded the old sow with as much disdain as he could muster, which was considerable, although his efforts resulted in little gratification, for Mrs. Squiggle was impervious to insults.
And there it came -- the tear in the tether. When Lydia darted past, followed by a randy clumber spaniel, the beagles found themselves in the midst of a contentious, backbiting, and most unseemly familial dispute.
Late that same night, while lying in the straw next to her sisters, Lizzie began to wonder what good fortune the future could possibly hold for her. She had lost her hare that afternoon, and the loss now seemed for her heavy with portent. Granted, she had been spared a dreadful mismatch with Mr. Collins, but what if she never found a mate who was to her liking? Her mother had insinuated as much in the heat of battle, and, while denying it at the time, Lizzie feared Mrs. Beagle might be right.
She looked down at Jane, who was twitching nervously in her sleep. Lizzie could not imagine why, for her sister's dreams surely were as unsullied as the fresh rain pattering on the roof. She then sent an appraising glance in Lydia's direction. Her sister was sprawled in the straw, snoring contentedly. She had teeth marks on both ears and mud between her paws. Her reputation was such that it was highly possible no decent dog would ever consider mating with her. Lydia, as their father had pointed out, was a veritable canine catastrophe. Yet she slept soundly and peacefully, and astonished her sister by doing so.
How dreadful for her parents, thought Lizzie, to have two unmated daughters on their paws! Jane she discounted, for Jane, as everyone knew, was lovely and adorable, a friendly pup who would most certainly mate with a champion. But while Lydia possessed no virtue, what real virtues, Lizzie wondered, did she possess?
Lizzie thought hard, and slowly the faint spark of an idea began to take hold in her brain. Why couldn't she simply move to London with Charlotte? She sincerely doubted that Lady Lucas would care, and she and her best friend could continue their amiable relationship while living in comfort, if not in genuine luxury.
Because of the intense animosity between Sir Bernard and Sir William, Lizzie realized she might have to run away from home, but she doubted she would be very much missed by anyone, so what would it matter?
She stretched out on the straw and closed her eyes, content in the knowledge that she had conceived a brilliant plan. She imagine Charlotte would be overjoyed and compliment her on her cleverness, and so she fell asleep, dreaming of the great city of London and life there as she hoped it would be.
Not far away, in a shed behind the local vicarage, a tiny corgi crept forth and shook herself off. While finally realizing exactly what it meant to lie back and think of England, she had also managed to neatly solve a genuinely perplexing problem.
Our story will be continued next week.....
Early the next morning, well before the break of day, Lizzie was out of the straw and padding her way across the stable yard, her keen nose sniffing at the fragrant dew-damp air with deep appreciation and sharp anticipation.
"Lizzie?"
The little beagle spun about. In the semi-darkness she was barely able to make out her elder sister's slender form.
"Why, Jane, what are you doing up at this hour?"
"I have to relieve myself," said her sister. "As for you, my guess is that you are off to Pembroke Manor to see Charlotte."
Lizzie startled. "Have you turned gypsy fortuneteller, Jane?"
Her sister wagged her tail. "Oh, no, but I do keep my eyes open, my ears perked, and my nose to the ground. I know there are problems within the Lucas marriage, and I have heard that Lady Lucas wants to leave Sir William and go off to London. If her demands are met, I imagine Charlotte will go with her, and I know full well how much you would then miss your dearest friend."
Lizzie stared at her. "Jane, you amaze me." And such was her disconcertion that she hastily changed the subject. "I was worried about you last night, my dear. You seemed restless."
A long and pregnant pause ensued before Jane said, "How very odd. I can't imagine why."
Neither, obviously, could Lizzie, but she had other hares to catch. "My dear, I must be off. You will, I hope, not mention this conversation to either my father or my mother? If I run very fast, I will likely be back in time for the pack outing later this morning."
"I promise to say nothing, Lizzie." her sister vowed with a bark, and watched as Lizzie immediately was off. Jane hesitated for a moment before crossing the yard and slipping down into the woods. A soft bark answered her own, and she, like her sister, disappeared into the predawn mist.
Being a young and healthy beagle, Lizzie truly loved to run, and as her paws flew over the sweet, damp field grass, she realized, with something very like regret, how much she would miss romps like this one once she had moved to far off London with Charlotte.
But what choice did she have? She would not be mated against her will, and she could not face the possibility of remaining in the stable with her parents -- and turning into a snappish old bitch who received the smallest portion of food and the most gnawed upon bones. Surely the grand Lucas House in London was surrounded by an equally grand Lucas Park? Granted, she would no longer be able to enjoy the sweet tang of country air, but she would share a comfortable life with the most amiable friend in the world. Could any bitch possibly ask for more? Indeed, concluded Lizzie, she could not.
So eager was Lizzie to reveal her plan to her friend, that she found herself running ever faster, and keeping up such a pace, she arrived in the large stable yard at Pembroke Manor panting and out of breath.
To her surprise she heard someone else panting -- then heard a rich contralto voice say: "Why, Groton, isn't that one of the little beagles from the Hall?"
And Lizzie realized she was in the presence of Lady Lucas, whose Christian name was Angelina -- a handsome woman in the full summer of her years, and an exceedingly hot summer it was.
Standing next to the lady was an immaculately groomed and remarkably well-formed young man in footman's livery.
"Hello, sweetheart," he said to Lizzie, while at the same time removing his hands from the soft folds of Lady Lucas' rather gaudy gown. He bent down and lifted the unresisting beagle into his arms, while his mistress stood by gnawing on her fichu, her bodice straining like the lead greyhound heading for the last lap in a heated dog race.
"No doubt she's come to visit Charlotte," commented Lady Lucas in that wickedly voluptuous voice of hers. "Where is Charlotte, I wonder?"
"Come to think of it, luv," said Groton, "I haven't seen her all morning," and he began to tickle Lizzie's stomach -- something no one at the Hall ever did, and Lizzie found herself enjoying the sensation.
At that very moment a small and exhausted-looking corgi made her way into the stable yard. She froze in horror when she saw her friend.
"Eliza!" she barked. "Whatever are you doing here?"
Lizzie caught a furtive movement close by Charlotte's flank, and blinked in astonishment as a dog she recognized as Mr. Collins made a dash for the cover of a Hawthorn bush.
"Tell me my eyes deceive me!" Lizzie yelped in sudden fury, and kicked hard against the kindly footman's arm, until he set her on the ground.
"Charlotte!" she howled. "How could you?"
"Eliza," Charlotte barked back, "let us go into the stable and discuss this matter sensibly, like two pure-bred bitches instead of like a pair of common street curs."
"Yes, yes, you two girls run along," Mr. Collins was quick to agree. "Perhaps I will take this opportunity to introduce myself to Lady Lucas."
Once they were inside the stable, Charlotte wasted no time on niceties. She turned to Lizzie and said: "I see what you are feeling; you must be very much amazed, since only yesterday Mr. Collins asked to mate with you, but when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will realize the sense of what I have done and will wish me happy."
Since Lizzie was unable to do much more than stare mutely at her friend, Charlotte plunged ahead. "I am well aware that Mr. Collins is neither sensible nor even particularly agreeable. His society is irksome, and I think no better of him than I do of any other male dog, which, in truth, isn't very much. But yesterday I concluded that I had to have a mate in order to be spared disaster -- and Mr. Collins was available."
When Lizzie continued to be (most uncharacteristically!) silent, Charlotte was quick to add -- "After all, girl, you did turn him down."
"Groton, what are those dogs barking about in the stable?" Lizzie heard Lady Lucas demand, and shortly thereafter her form filled the doorway, and she wagged a finger at Charlotte.
"You bad girl," she said. "I'm well aware of what you've been up to with that preposterous hound outside, and you ought to be ashamed of yourself. Well, you're not going to London with me -- you can stay here and let that silly-arsed vicar take care of you and the pups."
"You are being awfully hard on her," said Groton, who casually picked up Lizzie and once again began to stroke her.
"Find me a cat, my little nibble of chutney," said the lady, tweaking the devastatingly handsome footman on the cheek.
And as her world crashed around her, at least Lizzie got a good tummy tickle -- which wasn't the worst thing that could happen to a dejected bitch during the Regency period.
Story to be continued...
It was a dejected and confused Lizzie who made her way back across the fields. Instead of jumping over stiles and springing over puddles, content in the knowledge that she and Charlotte had comfortably settled their future plans, she padded slowly, her ears drooping, her spirits low.
"Whip up those ponies, Horrocks!" Lizzie heard a woman shout, and she peeped through an entanglement of high reeds which bordered a marshy area just in time to see the Dogorrel brougham roll past, before coming to a sudden and unexpected stop along the narrow roadway. The horses, Larry and Steve, had their ears laid back and were stamping their hooves fitfully.
"I beg pardon, ma'am," said Horrocks the coachman, "but I'm t'afraid we're mired. I will have to get down and push, madam."
To Lizzie's surprise, Lady Britney hopped out of the vehicle, her bonnet discarded, her shoulders bare, her delicate lips turned up in what could only be described as a mischievous smile. "Pembroke Manor isn't far," she said. "On such a delightful day as this, we might as well walk."
Her ladyship was promptly joined by Sally, her maid, who vociferated at great length about how she would ruin her new shoes in all the wet muck; Lady Britney heard her out but remained obdurate.
"Sally, I will buy you another pair," she promised. "Now think, you silly goose! Would you rather ruin your slippers or wait one moment more than you must to see the fine turn of Groton's calves?"
Horrocks (who was old enough to be the father of both clucking chicks) loudly cleared his throat, and Sally, blushing slightly, replied, "I suppose you are right, ma'am. Groton 'as raised a set 'o fine little animals there, and I do so desperately want to pet them." Having thus said her piece, she haughtily lifted her chin -- and as an afterthought, straightened her back and thrust out her bosom, at the outraged coachman.
Her mistress laughed delightedly and clapped her dainty hands. "Come and fetch us later, Horrocks," she said, without bothering to look his way, and she set off down the road, hiking her skirts and whistling as she went.
"Lady B. ought ter 'av a footman of 'er own to accompany 'er," Horrocks grumbled to Sally. "As for you, yer a bad 'un who'll come to a sorry end, my girl."
"Oh, pooh!" the pretty maid replied, sticking out her tongue at him. "And 'oo would you 'av 'er bring? Spaven is fifty if 'e's a day, and Reddle is fat and lazy and picks at 'is nose 'airs." Sweeping past him with her own skirts upraised a good several inches, she giggled when she saw him stare with unconcealed admiration at her shapely ankles.
"Skanky old perv!" she declared, and ran off down the road, following in her ladyship's footsteps.
Lizzie crept back away from the road, crouched low, and continued her homeward progression. How strange! she mused. Lady Britney's health had long been considered unpredictable, which was the main reason, it was whispered, why she and Sir Bernard had not, after a union of ten long years, been blessed with offspring.
"They ain't been blessed," Lizzie recalled Mrs. Squiggle telling her mother, "b'cause she won't let 'im inter 'er bed. Thass'n'no more 'en a fact I 'erd from the 'ogs, Missus."
Quite naturally, Mrs. Beagle had been scandalized, and she had spent the remainder of the day explaining to her three "impressionable" daughters why vicious gossip was the real reason so many little piggys wound up as bacon.
Lizzie could not begin to imagine why the Doggorel brougham had been on its way to Pembroke Manor. As for Groton's calves, well, she thought with a little shiver of delight, the handsome footman definitely knew his way around animals. (That tummy tickle he had given her had gone a long way toward making her his devoted friend for life.)
As for Charlotte, while Lizzie had always felt that her friend's opinion of mating was not exactly like her own, she found it hard to believe that Charlotte could, with such little consideration, sacrifice every better feeling for what she was certain could be only a temporary advantage in her worldly advancement, if even so much as that. Charlotte as the mate of Mr. Collins? The very idea was all but insupportable. And Lizzie found herself wondering if she had ever, truly, known her friend at all.
Perhaps, she concluded, it was time she drew closer to her sister -- not to Lydia, certainly! But to her elder sister, the quiet and sensitive Jane, who might, she thought, prove a calming influence in the midst of chaos.
"Lizzie?"
"Jane?" Lizzie came to an immediate halt. "Why, what are you doing way out here in the fields?" she asked her sister.
"I...Well, my dear, I was searching for you, of course." And Jane nervously wagged her tail.
Immediately there was a trembling, a quake amongst the hedgerows, and all at once Mr. Bingley put his best paw forward and made himself known. Bingley was no Mr. Collins, meaning he was not a dog to run and hide. "Miss Lizzie," he acknowledged, and wagged his tail forthrightly.
Jane looked upon him fondly before turning back to her startled sister. "My dear," she said, "I have much to explain, I realize. You have found us out and I entreat you to say nothing to another barking hound, at least not until we have discussed this matter between us."
Thrown anew into a flutter of spirits, Lizzie sat down. "And I entreat you, Jane, not to say another word on the subject whatsoever."
"I will leave you now, my dear, as you have your sister to accompany you," said Mr. Bingley to Jane. "You know where to find me if anything untoward seems likely to happen."
She nodded and he was off. "I honestly did come in search of you, Lizzie," Jane repeated emphatically, although she quailed slightly when she caught the look in her sister's eyes.
"Jane," Lizzie protested, "he's not even a real beagle!"
"Lizzie," snapped her sister, "we can discuss that later! The males have arrived."
"First Charlotte's defection and now yours," Lizzie yelped. "I am ready to run off and become one of the bedlam hounds!"
"Lizzie," barked Jane, "listen to me! The males -- the Duchess of Avalon's males -- have arrived early. Very, very early, as it happens. Mr. Bingley and I heard them yapping along the roadway, and we barely made it to cover before the entire pack came dashing past us."
Lizzie's head was in a whirl, but she managed to say, "I don't understand. Why would the duchess arrive early with her hounds? This truly makes no sense."
"Perhaps she wants to match us up even before we go into season," her sister replied tartly. (It was, Lizzie considered, such a very un-Jane-like thing for her to say.)
"Well, what did this pack of beagle males look like?" Lizzie asked. "Did any of the dogs stand out?"
"Oh, yes," allowed Jane. "There was a hound named Darcy in the lead. Such a supercilious attitude I have never before encountered! But you will see for yourself soon enough. Come, now. We must make our way home before my mother howls herself hoarse."
Darcy, thought Lizzie. Oh, well, it couldn't hurt to look. Her dearest friend had just thrown her over for the vicar's lazy basset, and her elder sister was having an affair with a counterfeit beagle who belonged to a lowly farmer. No, it couldn't hurt to at least look over the Avalon hounds. In fact, it only made sense.
"Have you seen Lydia?" she asked her sister as they began to pad homeward together.
"I saw her this morning, out walking in the stable yard with Wickham the cat," Jane told her.
Suddenly the two young beagles paused. "Oh, Lizzie," said Jane. "You don't suppose...? Surely not even Lydia would be...? Oh, she couldn't!"
Seconds later, the two little hounds, running hell for leather, passed right by a certain pretty beagle, who was lying in a thicket, enjoying the attentions of a powerfully formed mastiff named Wellington, while gnawing on the fresh mutton bone he had earlier dropped at her paws.
"Aren't those your sisters, Miss Lydia?" he asked her, as he playfully tugged at one of her soft beagle ears.
"No doubt," she replied with a wide yawn which displayed all of her healthy white teeth. "Remember to leave behind a little catmint for Wickham before you leave, Wellsie. He is, after all, the mutual friend who brought the two of us together."
Story to be continued....
The "brougham" referred to in the latest installment of our story would have been an unlikely choice for Lady Britney and her maid, mainly as it wasn't around, or at least was not referred to as such, until closer to the middle of the 19th century. It's more likely that the women would have made the brief journey without a coachman in a jaunty little curricle, or in a private open carriage with a driver.
"Great hotfoot harriers, Darcy," remarked his cousin Gardiner with some exuberance, "do my eyes betray me, or are there two packless bitches charging across the fields out there and making straight for us?"
Mr. Darcy, the most prominent of the Duchess of Avalon's beagles, barely turned his head to observe the scene his relative had just pointed out to him. "Pretend not to notice them," he advised his cousin, "and perhaps they will go away."
"Oh, come now, Darcy," Gardiner coaxed. "They both appear to be quite attractive in a rather countrified sort of way."
Mr. Darcy harrumphed. "Two females who are running across the open fields without a pack to shelter them? I credited you with more discernment," he said, and walked off, tail high, to find a place to do his business.
Gardiner stayed put. He stood and wagged his tail as the two bitches he had noticed dashed into the stable yard, and was about to introduce himself when they ran past him without so much as a backward glance.
Darcy was right, it seemed. He really needed to be a bit more discerning when it came to females, alas.
"Where in the bloody hell is my cousin Bernie?" bellowed the Duchess of Avalon, as she finally deigned to descend from her well-lathered (and obviously relieved) horse. "I've just given these beagles a run they won't soon forget -- eh, doghounds, eh?" And she sat down on the ground next to her horse and embraced the score of hounds who came running up to here with tongues lolling and tails wagging. "Surely my cousin knew we were coming? May he catch the pox if he's forgotten!" All the dogs leaped and licked.
"And where is my arrogant Darcy?" she shouted, before throwing back her proud head on the massive column of a neck which supported it, and laughing when she saw him approaching, his snout pointed heavenward, his glance disdainful at best.
Several men on horseback, including her grace's master of the hounds, along with her official lover, trailed close behind; not far in their wake came a large carriage which contained her grace's personal chef, hairdresser, and French maid. A smaller carriage filled with lesser servants would soon find its way into the stable yard, and behind that another, and so on and so forth. The Duchess of Avalon did not believe in traveling light.
Meanwhile, Lizzie and Jane, desperate in their search for Mrs. Beagle, were all but trampled in the crush, and soon found themselves pressed up against the stable door and the sty belonging to Mrs. Squiggle.
"A caution, ain't she?" asked the outspoken sow, nodding in the duchess' direction. "Looks a bit like George III wi' titties and a 'ead o' thick black 'air."
"She appears to be a formidable woman," Lizzie ventured.
"Very formidable indeed," agreed Jane, her eyes round with wonder.
Mrs. Squiggle grunted. "She's 'ad three 'usbands a'ready, an' she's not more'n thirty-five. Dropped like felled trees, they all did. Killed off the first 'un on the wedding night."
The two fair beagles pretended not to listen, but their ears were keenly perked.
"Got three sons 'oo all 'av dif'rent fathers, an' they an't by any o' the three louts she married, I can tell you that much."
"I am more than certain that you can," interrupted the icy bark of Mrs. Beagle. "Thank you for briefly chaperoning my daughters, Mrs. Squiggle, but I believe I can take it from here."
The old sow flashed an impertinent grin and went back to her slops.
"Where have you two been?" cried Mrs. Beagle, shooing Jane and Lizzie inside the stable. "Oh, my leg-o-mutton! Look at the two of you! Covered in mud! Oh, my aching head! Oh, what am I to do?"
"Is Lydia here?" Lizzie interjected, in hopes of deflecting her mother's fire. Jane sent her a look of mild reproof but wagged her tail all the same.
"She is not!" barked their distraught parent. "Where she can be, I cannot imagine, but at least the two of you have come home from running all over the countryside. Lizzie, go wash your face in the goat's bucket, and Jane -- Oh, me, oh, my! The two of you will simply have to roll in the water trough."
Story to be continued...
"Damn you all!" the two young beagles heard the duchess shouting as they made haste to follow their mother's somewhat harsh dictate. "Here! Someone give me my leg! Bloody hell! Where is Filene? I need her to strap the cursed thing on."
Lizzie and Jane glanced questioningly at one another. "She has to strap on her leg?" said Lizzie, while pawing water out of her eyes. "I don't understand."
"Oi do," snorted Mrs. Squiggle. "Years ago she fell off a 'orse an' got trampled. Leas'in that's the story they tell. Lost 'er leg, so now she wears a woodun one, like one o' them pie-rates."
"My goodness," said Jane, and she said nothing more.
The two sisters crawled out of the water trough, shook themselves off, and barked a hurried greeting at their father, who was following at Sir Bernard's heels as he came loping down the walkway, as florid as an army man's red coat.
"My dear cousin," said Sir Bernard, "what an honor and delight." And he bowed to her while her maid finished strapping on her pointed wooden leg, then neatly smoothed the hem of her gown.
"Bernie -- at last! Well, help me to rise, girl!" And she sent out a furious kick in the direction of the maid's dainty ankles.
Sir Bernard helped his cousin to her foot, while her maid hopped about on both of her own, cursing in French. The duchess ignored her, concentrating instead on her cousin, whom she smothered with kisses.
"Always 'ad a thing for 'im," went on Mrs. Squiggle, "which don't say much for 'er taste. Sir Bernard now, 'es scared to death of 'er."
Finally releasing her struggling cousin, the duchess pivoted on her false leg, and introduced John Smalls, her tall and taciturn master of the hounds, who had by then dehorsed. He bowed politely to Sir Bernard, proving that he was every inch the good servant.
As an apparent afterthought, she then presented a nervous, exsanguine creature with scrawny legs and arms like sticks. "Manfred Twittle, the poet," said the duchess, another member of my, ah, retinue."
Mr. Twittle raised his upper lip slightly over a protruding tooth, attempted a slight bow, and fainted dead away at Sir Bernard's feet.
"Oh, somebody drag him inside," commanded the duchess, nudging him none to gently with the point of her wooden leg. "Poor sot can't bear horses. They ride him instead of the reverse. Right, Smalls?"
The faithful servant clipped her a wink.
"I need a drink," said the duchess, getting a firm hold on her cousin's arm. "Afterward, I'll want to look over your bitches. I hope they're hot, Bernie. I didn't ride all the way over here to look at cold bitches! My best broody died three months ago, and considering the state of beagle breeding these days, I will admit to being desperate."
Lizzie heard her sister swallow hard. She wished she could be reassuring, but she suddenly felt overwhelmed by all of her own dashed hopes -- hopes which had depended upon her going off to London with Charlotte, her utterly faithless former friend.
Across the stable yard, Lizzie's eyes momentarily met those of a handsome male beagle, but she quickly looked away when she spied Lydia entering the yard with Wickham the cat by her side. Lydia's coat was filthy, and there was a certain unwholesome glint in her eye which bordered on the lascivious. As for Wickham the cat, he quite obviously had been at the catmint. He literally reeked of it!
She glanced back at the male beagle, but he had cut his eyes to a distant tree and was studiously ignoring her. Rude, she thought. How very rude! But after another look at Lydia, Lizzie realized that it might not be in her best interest to hold a grudge.
Story to be continued....
"Let me assure you, Mr. Darcy and Mr. Gardiner," effused Mrs. Beagle, "that my girls will be only too delighted to give up their sleeping spaces in the straw to two such distinguished gentlemen as yourselves. Too delighted, absolutely. I assure you!"
"If there are only two of them wanting places, let Jane and Lizzie give up their spots," suggested Lydia, entering the stable after a fast dunk in the water trough. "I don't mind sharing, but see no reason why I should be put out."
Mrs. Beagle woofed, choked, and finally settled for a scandalized yelp. Mr. Gardiner blinked and nervously twitched his nose. Only Darcy entirely ignored the Beagle's wayward pup.
"I assure you, ma'am," said he, politely resuming the conversation in which he had been engaged with Mrs. Beagle, "that such a sacrifice on the part of your daughters will not be necessary. Mr. Gardiner and I would no more think of discommoding your three charming daughters than we would consider rousting you and Mr. Beagle. No, no. My cousin and I often sleep outdoors..
"Darcy!" Mr. Gardiner did not look happy.
"Oh, don't even consider..." began Mrs. Beagle.
But Darcy would not be gainsaid. "We often sleep outside," he continued, "and I believe a bed of soft pine needles on the forest floor will provide as fine a spot as any for a pleasant repose. Come, Gardiner," he said, and nodded politely to Mrs. Beagle. "Ma'am."
"A bed of soft pine needles?" Gardiner shuddered as the two dogs walked away. "Darcy, are you mad? We are used to sleeping in a very comfortable, not to mention commodious, kennel."
"My dear fellow," returned Darcy, "did you by chance get a sniff or a look at that straw? Why, it hasn't been so much as turned in weeks! You may wish to wind up with fleas, cousin, but I most certainly do not."
"I wish," responded his handsome cousin, "to be close to the females. Come, Darcy, you must admit that you've rarely seen a bitch quite as lovely as Miss Jane Beagle. Why, from the flag on her tail to those dark hareem eyes, she is a veritable study in perfection."
Darcy shook his noble head. "At least two or three of your sisters are equally as lovely," he contended, "but I shall allow for your sake that Miss Beagle is quite charming."
"There is also Miss Elizabeth," Gardiner pointed out.
"Now you go to far," Darcy told him. "I know the bitch you mean, and I would suggest that she is merely tolerable, and tolerable means she is scarcely handsome enough to tempt ME."
Lizzie, seated within earshot, recoiled as though she had been bitch slapped. Really! The dog was past being rude -- he was utterly abhorrent! Lizzie fast turned her attention to two other males, who ran up to sniff her. She was likely to go into season any day now, and knew it wasn't her biting wit that kept them coming.
The story continues...
Meanwhile, Mrs. Marjorie Beagle sought out her loving mate, who had managed to sequester himself beneath a hay wagon with a favorite old bone, thus managing to evade the annoying young males who had taken over his home along with his water and food bowls.
"Oh, Mr. Beagle!" she barked. "I fear we have lost Mr. Darcy and Mr. Gardiner, his cousin. And all because of our naughty Lydia. They are the very best of the lot, Mr. Beagle. The very best! Why, Mr. Darcy's father was the brother of Mr. Gardiner's papa, and they mated with two healthy outside bitches who belonged to Viscount Bumbles. Excellent stock. Absolutely excellent! Oh, what nice puppies our Jane would have, and Lydia too, if only she could be brought to heel."
Her husband looked up from his bone. "LYDIA? Are your ears and tail on straight, Mrs. Beagle? Two hounds with the qualifications of royalty, and you expect one of them to offer for LYDIA?"
"I suppose you would prefer an offer for Lizzie instead, since she's long been your favorite?" said his mate, taking slight umbrage.
"Well, it makes a good deal more sense, Marjorie! I will consider it our very great and good fortune if these two paragons can be coerced to take Jane and Lizzie off our paws -- but why should any respectable dog lead Lydia to the mating pen when he can get her to roll in the straw for the asking?"
And Mrs. Beagle had no good answer.
At that very moment, tired of being sniffed and pawed at by a pack of eager beagle boys, Jane and Lizzie had allowed their disreputable sister to lead them to one of her hidey holes in the woods, where they could rest for a moment and collect their wits.
"I am so outta here!" Lydia told them. "What a silly bunch of spoiled puppies those dogs are! I think I smell Ludie out in the woods someplace -- so don't wait up."
She was off before either of her sisters could protest. In truth, both were too tired to bother.
"Dear Lizzie," said Jane, "I am afraid that I almost agree with Lydia at this point. As much as I regret the thought of hurting my parents, I cannot continue with this travesty when my affections are already placed."
Her sister wagged her tail. "Mr. Gardiner only has eyes for you, Jane."
"And he seems like a very nice dog," admitted Miss Beagle. "I met his sisters when I was but a few weeks old, and the duchess thought to adopt me."
"I am so glad she didn't," said Lizzie. "Didn't you like the Gardiner girls?"
"They were spoiled but tolerable," Jane replied, and Lizzie yiped.
"What is it?"
"There's that word again," she said.
"What word?" asked Jane.
"Tolerable. It would seem, my dear," Lizzie went on, faking a laugh, "to be Mr. Darcy's opinion of me."
"Oh, dear," said her sister. "Then let us hope you aren't pressured to mate with him!"
While Lizzie and Jane thus discussed matters of the heart, Darcy and his cousin Gardiner sniffed at pine needles, Mrs. Beagle fumed and Mr. Beagle grumbled, matters up at the hall seemed to reflect the air of general confusion and wuthering discontent.
"I agree that the eldest bitch -- the one I initially sent for -- is likely to be my new broody," declared the Duchess of Avalon, "but I need a series of strong litters, and she must be tried against her sisters. HOW much do you want for the three of them? You would skin me alive if you could, wouldn't you, Bernie? You're being dunned again, aren't you? From the looks of this place, you're all but ready for the sponging house!"
"Well, I..."
She took a sip from a goblet, then poured the contents onto the floor. "This isn't wine; it's horse piss!" she fulminated. "Smalls! Bring me something decent to drink -- something with BITE. Something RABID."
She turned back to her cousin. "For God's sake, Bernie! That whey-faced little thing you married brought enough money into the family to support a king. Don't tell me you've gone through it already?
"Well, I..."
"And speaking of Britney, where IS she? Hiding behind the wainscoting, perhaps? I've been here for hours and she's yet to show herself."
"Well, she..."
At that precise moment two women alighted from a carriage stopped at a short distance from the main estate. "Go in the back way, Horrocks," said Lady Britney, "and make as little noise as possible."
"It's 'er for sure," said Sally, nodding toward her mistress as they crept toward the hall. "I recognize the insignia on the carriages."
"No doubt she's comfortably ensconced with my tosspot of a husband, downing tumblers of gin," reckoned Lady B. "I may do the same before facing the appalling harridan. As you well know, she's a mean drunk."
"This will all be over soon, ma'am," Sally assured her, and Lydia, snoozing close by in the high grass after a satisfying encounter with Ludie, perked her ears. It was time to solidify her plans with Wickham, she decided, before rolling over in the warm, damp mud and being reclaimed by the paws of Morpheus.
Our story will continue next week...
A correction: We regret misspelling the name of Loudie, the robust hound of mixed parentage who so inspires Lydia~
Lizzie and Jane sat in the shadows outside one of the long and narrow lead glass windows which had once proclaimed the superiority of Hound Hall's architecture over that of other manor houses in the area, and watched as the distinguished humans inside ate their dinner off cracked China plates and engaged in somewhat less than brilliant conversation.
From time to time, most generally when the duchess shouted something across the table at her cousin, Jane winced and drew closer to her sister. "What a thoroughly dreadful woman," she understandably opined.
"You never met her when she commanded your presence at her, uhm, 'redoubt' then?" asked Lizzie.
"Oh, no," replied Jane. "I was placed in a pen and all the bitches came in and looked at me as though I were a freak of nature, and made comments to that effect. Then Mr. Smalls took my measurements, and the next day I was sent back home. I was not considered important enough to meet the duchess, Lizzie, and I am relieved I was not."
Both females ducked their heads from possible view when they heard that strongly dominant lady bellow forth a command for more gin. When her demand was not at once satisfied, the duchess turned a blazing eye on Lady Britney, who sat at the other end of the table from her, drumming her fingers against the dingy tablecloth, while altogether ignoring the food on her plate.
"Pray tell us if the local saddler is also your cook, my dear!" cried the duchess. "Why, this meat is more difficult to masticate than leather. Where is your butler, I should like to know, and how old are those spindle-shanked footmen who keep hovering about?"
When she received no answer, she turned a reptilian gaze on Sir Bernard, who was closer at hand than his wife, but whose eyes were as glazed as sludge. Meanwhile Spaven and Reddle, possibly the two oldest footmen in the whole of England, felt their knees knocking, their hands trembling, and an urgent unified need to visit the privy.
"You live like peasants!" went on the duchess, trying desperately to get a rise out of one of her relatives. "And, alas, no children! Who do you think is going to inherit this old pile of stones after the two of you wind up your pathetic lives? Well? Well?"
"I imagine," drawled Lady Britney, finally showing a flicker of spirit, "that one of your fine sons will inherit the 'old pile,' as you so graciously refer to it, my dear Elswytha." And she smiled a wide, pleasant smile as the duchess' already ruddy cheeks turned mauve. Her three sons, as all the world knew, were anything but "fine." Quite the contrary, they were wretched specimens, including the youngest, who was already showing signs of a weak and dissolute character although still in the nursery. The duchess herself had no reason to love any of them, save that each had inherited a comfortable fortune over which she currently held the purse strings.
Story to be continued...
Having been put in her place by her quiz of a cousin-by-marriage, Her Grace made haste to reload her guns. "Considering how poor you appear to be, I must say I am surprised to find you so well turned out, Cousin Britney," she spat. "Not that blue is your color by any stretch of the imagination, but your gown looks new, and that pin you are wearing might by itself pay off half your unfortunate husband's cartload of debts."
Lady Britney smiled again and gently fingered the pin, which was worn close to her heart. "I am not a milch cow, Elswytha," she said, sounding bored but not at all intimidated, "and this pin was recently given to me by a very dear friend."
The duchess' heavy eyebrows bolted toward her widow's peak. "Really? Well, aren't you the cunning little bitch? Did this gentleman --or this 'friend' as you call him, also pay for your gown?"
"HE did not," replied Lady B. with a mysterious smile, while her husband, who had all but emptied his cellar of port, fell face forward into the aspic jelly, badly frightening Mr. Twittle, the all-but-mute poet, who gave a nervous cry when he wound up splashed.
"How very curious," remarked Lizzie to Jane, as she rubbed her nose against the dirty glass, and watched for a moment as spiders spun their silken webs within the folds of the curtains.
"What is?" asked her sister.
"That pin Lady Britney is wearing -- I last saw it decorating Lady Lucas' own bodice this morning."
"Oh, Lizzie, you must be mistaken. You know what Sir Bernard thinks of Sir William Lucas. There cannot possibly be a friendship there."
But Lizzie shook her head. "I have no idea what Lady Britney's views about Sir William might be, Jane, but I have a very strong hunch that she is quite fond of his wife, and possibly of Lady Lucas'...servants."
"Did Charlotte confide this to you?" asked her sister, but before Lizzie could reply, a nudge from two cold noses jolted the pair, who were further startled when they turned around to find Mr. Darcy and Mr. Gardiner standing directly behind them.
"Good day, ladies," said Mr. Darcy. "Spying on our humans, are you, Miss Elizabeth?"
Lizzie felt her hackles rise. "I am no more spying than you are, sir," she hotly retorted. "Hound Hall is my home, and I hope I may come and go as I choose in this place...without interference."
Darcy withdrew a step and studied her closely. "Pray forgive my impertinence," said he, "and since our company was not requested and obviously is not wanted, Mr. Gardiner and I will most happily honor your request to not be interfered with, and will leave you both in peace. Come, Gardiner, our bed of pine needles awaits."
Lizzie saw Gardiner wince.
"Mr. Darcy," said she, "I have no serious objection to Mr. Gardiner's presence, requested or otherwise. In truth, I have no objection to your own, save that you made an inappropriate and insulting comment to me which negates the probability of any real friendship between us."
"Miss Beagle," Gardiner all but yelped while leaping into the breach, "I would so very much enjoy a short turn about the stable yard with you. Your sister and my cousin will, of course, accompany us, so please make me the happiest and most grateful of dogs by giving me your assent."
Jane hesitantly wagged her tail. Gardiner was very attractive, and she sensed that he was also a nice dog with none of his cousin's arrogance, but her love belonged to another, and even a dog as appealing as Gardiner could not make her feel disaffection for the hound of her heart.
Sensing her reluctance, Gardnier stepped closer. "Miss Jane, it's only a walk around the stable yard," her promised, and wagged his tail persuasively.
And so...while the duchess shrieked for more gin, the ancient footmen dragged a mumbling-bumbling Sir Bernard off to his bedroom -- where they found his valet and the senile household butler both in their cups -- and left him there before making a dash for the privy...while Mr. Twittle had an attack of the vapors, and Lady Britney swept from the house, saddled a horse, and rode off madly in all directions -- John Smalls watched with pleasure as his two best beagle doghounds paired up with two of the pretty Dogorrel bitches.
But Mr. Bingley, who was standing in the woods, witnessing the very same scene, feared for his Jane, and knew he would have to take strong action soon, or the love of his life might be lost to him.
Story to be continued...
Correction: We regret the misspelling of the ancient and noble Dogorrel name. We have occasionally been spelling it "Doggorel" -- so please forgive the error. I mean...doggone!
Later that same evening, once Sir Bernard had allowed sleep to claim his troubled soul, Lady Britney had ridden forth in a fit of temper, and the Duchess of Avalon finally managed to drink herself under the dinner table, Her Grace's master of the hounds, John Smalls, held court in his rummy host's own library, passing 'round the best French brandy in the house, while discussing fine hounds with Spaven and Reddle, the footmen.
"I like a healthy foxhound," declared Mr. Smalls, far less taciturn than he had been upon his arrival, "and riding to the hounds is a sport fit for kings, gentlemen. To be sure -- it is. But going a-haring with a small, well-muscled beagle -- or with a merry pack of same -- Oh, that has become a much disparaged sport of late; for the ladies, it's said. But I say beagling keeps a man in touch with nature, and thus," and here he paused to pour a bit more of Sir Bernard's brandy into his tumbler, "and thus, gentlemen, I drink to that fine and noble hound -- the English beagle."
The three men raised their glasses. "To the beagle," they toasted.
"And to the duchess," added Mr. Smalls, with a wink and a chuckle, " for helping to keep the sport and the breed alive."
The footmen hesitated, but finally shrugged and guzzled their brandy with all the gusto of two farm lads in an alehouse. "When I gets a chance to drink me master's brew, wot do I care whom I raise a glass to?" asked Reddle of nobody in particular.
Spavens nodded, and stretched his lips in a gap-toothed grin. The two men eagerly aided Mr. Smalls in polishing off another bottle.
They glanced round with faint interest as the poet Manfred Twittle entered the room, closely followed by Filene, the lady's maid, who was wailing loudly in French. "Great gobs of spittle from the tongue of a distempered timber wolf, but that woman is a trial, John," said he, and when he did not at once explain which woman he meant, the sulky maid's complaints increased.
"I mean the duchess, my love," Twittle assured her meekly, then sat down, searched for a glass, and finally poured himself a tall one. "If I have to write one more ode about dogs and hunting, I think I will go mad."
"I rather liked 'To a Singing Beagle,'" Mr. Smalls confessed. "'Terrestrial celestial; minstrel of the woods.'" He smiled, showing off his strong yellow teeth. "You'll make poet laureate yet, Fred. See if you don't."
Filene rolled her large dark eyes, and removing the glass from Mr. Twittle's hand, took a healthy swallow. "The duchess, she is a peeg!" announced that most loyal of servants. "To theenk that I must wait upon 'er, I, 'oose own grandmother was 'erself a countess before zee mob murdered King Louie of France..."
Mr. Smalls interrupted her with a short bark of a laugh. "Filene, your French grandmother was nothing more than a hideous old box-opener at a theater on the Boulevards, and your mother was a ballet dancer before she ran off with an Irish soldier. As for you, my sweet, you were born in Yorkshire."
"Better a French accent than a Yorkshire one," Mr. Twittle pointed out, "but by God! what I have to put up with as the Duchess of Avalon's 'official lover' you will never know, John." He took a long swallow of brandy. "Then again, perhaps you will. You're the one the lusty gargoyle hankers after."
"Try to be brave for a brief time longer, Fred," Mr. Smalls encouraged his friend. "Her Grace's position in society is such that she can hardly claim me as her bit o' crumpet right now, although I believe she will have me for her own sooner or later. Of course I'll want it done all proper and legal like."
"Hence I must keep her dangling with my odious odes forever and a day?"
"And how long am I to put up with her abuses?" demanded Filene, emptying her glass of brandy and wiping her lips with the back of her dainty hand, just like a genuine aristocrat.
"We must entrench ourselves even more deeply into her life and her affections," Mr. Smalls told his confederates. "We have come this far. Let's not lose heart and in the process lose the hare."
Story to be continued...
Story continued...
"The footmen were telling me as how they haven't been given their wages for months, and I have been going through Sir Bernard's papers, which mostly amount to dunning notices," Mr. Smalls went on. "It didn't take him long to run through his pretty wife's ample fortune, and from what I can tell, he owes money to half the king's subjects and then some."
"What will happen to this place?" asked Mr. Twittle, glancing about the well-proportioned room with mild interest. "Will it really go to one of the duchess' unspeakable brats?"
"Perhaps not," Mr. Smalls replied, looking thoughtful. "There was a younger brother, I have learned. He has been missing for years -- possibly kidnapped by gypsies when he was a lad, or maybe he ran off to sea. The estate is entailed, which means it cannot be sold or mortgaged. If the brother could somehow be resurrected, he might stand to inherit a fine little estate here, I should guess."
When nobody said another word, Mr. Smalls found a remaining unopened bottle of fine French brandy and uncorked it. "A toast to the future?" he proposed.
With the exception of the two unconscious footmen, nobody refused.
While the servants were thus engaged in their decidedly below-the-salt frivolities, out near the edge of the woods, Mr. Gardiner rose from his highly uncomfortable bed of pine needles, stepped across his cousin's prone form, and padded through the early evening shadows to be alone with his thoughts -- which centered almost entirely upon pretty Miss Jane Beagle. She was, he concluded, everything he had long been looking for, and he hoped to ask for her paw the very next day, no matter what his cynical cousin Darcy had to say.
He heard a noise, turned about, and stared with some surprise at the somber-faced dog who stood before him. "I'm Bingley," announced the hound, "and I would have a serious woof with you."
Story to be continued...
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