An old stager - a knowing, experienced type

- The 1811 Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue, by Francis Grose

 

Ten years later …

Baby Alice giggled appreciatively as her mother cooed at her before handing her over to Lady Margaret.

“Another beauty you’ve produced, Keziah, dear,” the dowager said with a misty-eyed look. “She has your eyes.”

Ash watched with a sense of deep satisfaction as Keziah gave his grandmother a contented nod. The two of them had experienced a number of ups and downs over the years, only to be expected with two such strong-minded females in the house, but an entente had been reached. This had happened within months of their first child, his heir, George, being born. His grandmother had been rash enough to try and interfere in the manner of the young marquis’ upbringing. The scene that had ensued was etched on his mind as his wife turned into a lioness of quite terrifying proportions.

The dowager had backed down, and stayed down.

Respect for her new daughter-in-law had grown, slowly but surely, into a rather surprising friendship. It wasn’t always peaceful, but it was just as it should be in Ash’s view.

Staring at this bucolic scene with an expression of mild disgust, six-year-old Maggie stared at her elderly namesake with wide green eyes, a riot of dark curly hair, and an innocent look in her eyes that belied a fierce and single-minded nature. Ash grinned, despite wondering what devilry the girl would cause him in years to come. He could not decide if his wife or his grandmother were most to blame for her fearless nature, but either way, it mattered little; she would lead him, and any fellow brave enough to try and court her one day, a merry dance indeed.

Apparently deciding she’d had enough of the nursery, Maggie ran away in disgust, out of the doors and into the garden.

Alice was their fourth child, and, if Keziah had any say in the matter, their last. Alice had three older siblings. George, the eldest and heir to the dukedom, was nine. Florence, a dark-haired, sweet-natured girl who had turned eight the day before, was the most like Ash in looks and temperament, and, of course, there was Maggie.

Ash watched, smiling as he watched his wife reach for another piece of fruit cake and then proceed to remove all the cherries. She was less slender than when they first met, and he remembered her skinny figure with a burst of anger that never seemed to leave him as he remembered her life before their paths had crossed. Now, though, her curves were soft and inviting, making him wonder if she couldn’t be persuaded to a fifth child after all. He grinned, realising, as he did at regular intervals, that he was a lucky dog. If anything, she had grown ever more beautiful, and she well knew he worshipped her. That was alright, though, as it appeared he was as beloved as he’d ever been, which was just as extraordinary now as it was the first time she’d confessed it.

“Oh, Ash, do stop mooning over your wife,” his grandmother scolded, her green eyes just as sharp as ever. “Go and find out what that devil Maggie is up to. You know she hates the major’s son. If she’s gone off to torment him, you’ll be sorry.”

Ash caught the amused expression Keziah sent him and winked, both parents accepting the truth of her words without protest. Nodding his acceptance of his grandmother’s will, he turned and headed into the gardens.

Summer at Chartley was the best time of the year, he decided, looking over the magnificent views and gardens with pride. It was a wonderful place for the children, too, who were never short of adventures. This was not always a good thing, however, as the appearance of the children’s harassed-looking nanny illustrated. She was quite obviously searching for her charges.

“Lost something?” Ash enquired with a cheerful smile. The woman blushed a little but nodded. “Never mind, we’ll soon hunt them down. You go that way, I’ll check the orchard.”

They hurried off in different directions, and Ash had not gone far when a wail of distress reached his ears. Stopping beside the gate to the orchard and still out of sight, he viewed the scene before him with no surprise whatsoever.

Maggie was standing, hands on hips, glaring down at the major’s son, Henry, who was lying in the dirt with his nose was bleeding profusely.

“You take that back,” she shouted, utterly furious as the boy scowled back at her, blood dripping over his hand in a steady stream.

“Shan’t!” he retorted, though his voice was a little distorted. “Everybody knows soldiers are heroes, your father, ain’t one. He’s never been to war!”

“Father is too a hero,” Maggie threw back at him, stamping her foot in a rage. “He saved my mother from a monster, you go and ask her, she’ll tell you.”

“There’s no such things as monsters,” Henry scoffed, soaking up the blood with his shirt sleeve.

“Yes, there is,” came a quiet voice from behind them as his son, George, stepped into view. “People can be monsters, you see, they don’t have to live under your bed, you know.” He reached down and helped the boy to his feet, offering him his hanky. “You’d best go and find nanny, get that cleaned up before your mother sees,” he advised.

The boy grimaced and ran off, leaving Maggie still fuming.

“I hate him,” Maggie fumed to her big brother. “He’s such an idiot.”

“Yes,” George agreed, his tone mild. “He is rather, but you really ought not hit him, you know.”

“I know,” Maggie said with a sigh, kicking her toe in the dirt and looking dejected. “Mother will be cross when she finds out, and Henry is bound to blab, he’s such a cry baby.”

“Best tell father first,” George advised.

“Oh yes,” Maggie said, cheering up at her older and wiser brother’s words. “He won’t let mother be cross with me.”

George chuckled and shook his head, offering his hand to his little sister.

“He is a hero, isn’t he, George?” she demanded, staring up at him with anxiety. “I think he is,” she added with a fierce expression.

“Of course he is, silly, Mother wouldn’t tell you a fib, would she? You don’t have to be a soldier to face danger or to be brave, you know.”

“I know that,” Maggie retorted, looking indignant as she trailed after her brother. “It’s stupid Henry who doesn’t.”

“Father told me something once.” George paused, looking rather serious. “He said that you should always try to avoid a fight if you are able, to use your wits instead of your fists, but that sometimes … sometimes you must stand up for what you believe, no matter how frightened you are, no matter what.”

“Is that what you do, George?” Maggie asked with a curious expression.

“That’s what I shall always try to do. It’s what father would do, so I know it’s the right thing.”

Maggie gave him a grave nod of agreement at this, and George smiled at her.

“Come along, Mags, let’s go and find him before Henry blabs.”

Ash watched with a lump in his throat as his children began to walk away, back to the house. He smiled, blinking as his vision had suddenly become a little blurry. All of those years he’d wished he could really be the kind of hero Keziah had truly deserved and never believed her assurances that he had, but maybe she’d been right after all.

He had been her hero, all along.

 

The End