Chapter 1 The Miracles of Marriage

Since the murder of George Wickham hit The Times in August 1812, the street outside Darcy House in London buzzed for weeks with abnormal activity. Without the family in residence, the front path before the door contained a motley mix of men from sailors to coppersmiths, alternating in yells and jeers for most of the day. They stayed on the street side of the iron gate, blocking the walk and oftentimes congesting traffic.

Inside, Mr. Darcy’s staff kept life running, as usual, utilizing the back doors that led them down alleys to the far side of the block behind the carriage house. The mob had not braved the catacombs of Mayfair to Berkely and Piccadilly and its rivers of slop running between the city homes of great men.

“Why have they nowhere to go? Where’s the Watchman?” the young footman, Jack asked as he peeked out the front window. Arrested with fascination, the growing unrest stirred in him an equal part of admiration and disgust. He couldn’t fault the men wanting their due, but he found the display unsettling and against the rule of law.

Jack’s own situation was just as precarious. He was grateful the master’s sister had been taken to Kent as she had insisted he perform as her lover. While he missed the release of passion, he did not miss the discord. Mrs. Wickham’s moods were very unpredictable, and the position it had put him in with the rest of the staff and Mrs. Potter had left him without allies. Unsure if he would even have a job when the master returned, Jack sloughed off more than he worked, a policy that wouldn’t help his case if it was put before Mr. Darcy.

“They’re angry. They’ve lost their money, spent where they shouldn’t, and believe Mr. Darcy shall fix it,” Mrs. Potter retorted as she also stole a wary glance at the escalating situation.

She agreed with Jack about the Watchman. Usually, the crowd would be dispersed every hour, but she had not seen such an effort since the previous day. The faces changed out in the masses as Catherine Potter warily observed most days from a window on the third floor when she was checking the maids’ work. But today felt different, there was a charge in the air, and even she felt uneasy. As she joined Jack to look over his shoulder, her intuition proved correct.

A chunk of rotting cabbage sailed over the iron fence and landed near the front steps. The mob cheered and soon a second handful of rotting vegetation followed, followed by more.  Scowling, the housekeeper turned away and applied the same logic to the footman.

“The question is also why do you have nowhere to work? Is the silver finished? Have the stores been dusted?”

“That’s for the maids!” Jack scoffed, as Mrs. Potter gave him a glare of stark dismay.

“The maids? Is it?” She grabbed Jack by the crook of his arm as the stockier and more senior footman, Stephen, appeared. “Perhaps you’d prefer to find work elsewhere entirely!”

“There you be! I wondered where you slagged off to!” The older footman tossed a polishing rag at Jack as Mrs. Potter released him, causing Jack to stumble a few steps towards the dining room.

“The family is not even here. Who will know if we take a day off?” Jack asked, shaking the dirty rag he had involuntarily caught to prevent the filth from hitting his face.

“Who will know? I will know! And the master will know. We tolerated long enough the tough spot Mrs. Wickham placed you in, but she’s gone and you either need to fall back in line or leave without a reference since you deserve none.” Mrs. Potter advanced on Jack’s position as Stephen stood next to her to close ranks. “Do not allow a brief liaison with a lonely woman puff up your ego. I hear the factories are hiring on the Southside,” Mrs. Potter smiled as Jack sauntered off back to work and didn’t listen to more of the lecture. She had planned on talking about grueling factory work would be compared to the minor task of polishing silver.

A louder chanting began to echo from outside, and Stephen took sentry at the window to spy the growing tensions. The crowd started yelling in unison, “Open the gate!”

“There’s more than yesterday,” he commented.

Mrs. Potter frowned and sighed. For a spell, the two more senior staff members listened to the yelling. The unison would fall apart for a cacophony cry for justice, then swell again.

“They cry for justice,” senior footman remarked as a sharp burst of sound hit the door, startling them both. Then another report rang out, then three in a synchronized volley.

“Are they throwing—”

“Get away from the window!” Mrs. Potter yelled as Stephen just missed a heavy stone crashing through the glass. The four-inch half of brick landed with the shards on the pristine marble floor of the entryway. As they both ran, more rocks assaulted the door and front windows.

“Will the gate hold?” he asked.

“Who knows! You and the other footmen barricade the door. Use all of the ground floor furniture that you can,” Mrs. Potter yelled as she continued into the dining room.

“And where are you going?” Stephen roared as he ducked in reaction to the sound of another window breaking.

“To find help!” she explained over her shoulder as she yanked open the door to the kitchen below.

The two other footmen who had been dutifully polishing silver and Jack stared at Stephen with wide eyes as they could hear the glass breaking and stones starting to hit the windows behind them.

“Right, lads! Grab what you can and let’s block the door. They can throw all the rocks they want, but we’re not letting them in!”

“And why not? Why are we saving this house that’s not even ours?” Jack argued as the two other footmen had begun to help Stephen but then paused as they became unsure about what to do.

“Because it’s our necks! You think they’re coming in for a spot of tea? The Watchmen will come and clear the streets. But in the meantime, we need to barricade the door!” Stephen grunted as he picked up one of the heaviest of the dining chairs that sat at the head of the table. Another footman rushed over to help him lift it as the other grabbed the second of the double doors to push it open.

Jack grunted and blew out the candles.

“JACK!” the other footmen shouted.

“Well if you want the house to bloody catch on fire then,” Jack shrugged, and the others looked sheepish. Snuffing the candles was a good idea to prevent catastrophe if one the candelabras were knocked over.

As the group of four men began moving the contents of the dining room into the hall, they all prayed that the soldiers would arrive soon to disperse the crowd. And they blew out every candle they passed.

Mrs. Potter issued orders to the kitchen staff to help above stairs and dashed out the back delivery door. She sent a hallboy ahead of her to run to the garrison, but for Catherine Potter, she knew more help than that would be needed.

Two alleys down and a dash across Mount Street, Mrs. Potter and the maid she enlisted to go with her finally arrived at Matlock House.

“Shall we go around back?” the young maid asked, timidly. She had been in service long enough to know that the front doors were not for her kind.

“No, there is no time.” Mrs. Potter marched up to the front door and used the knocker excessively until the butler opened the door. She didn’t wait for a greeting. “Darcy House is being attacked by a mob! Windows have been broken, please, find the earl.”

After they gained entrance, both the countess and the earl were in residence, making plans for their evening out to the theatre. Mrs. Potter relayed the circumstances of the Watchmen abandoning their post, and the earl grew incensed!

“Rioting in the streets? What is Derby thinking?” Henry Fitzwilliam, the third Earl of Matlock, complained in a voice loud enough to frighten the poor maid from Darcy House.

“Dear, why do we not send our guard with these ladies and you can send a personal message the Blues. I cannot imagine the crown will want rioting so close to the palace.”

“This is Northumberland’s doing!” The Earl of Matlock accused and his wife, Margaret Fitzwilliam cautioned her husband for his bombastic ways the same way she had their entire marriage. She stepped directly into his line of sight and nodded her head with a mock whistling gesture from her lips. As she blew out her breath, her husband took in a deep breath and began to calm.

“Yes, yes, my apologies, Mrs. Potter,” the earl offered his nephews housekeeper the respect she was due to her position. “We shall send you with a guard and hopefully disperse this rabble. Has anyone been hurt?”

Mrs. Potter shook her head. “Not to my knowledge, your Lordship, but I cannot speak for circumstances now.”

The earl nodded his head and instructed his butler to also send for Dr. Matthews. “In case anyone is unwell, or merely needs draughts of courage.”

With the butler escorting Mrs. Potter and the maid out towards the back as the alarm was raised for the men in Matlock’s employ to arm themselves and head towards Mayfair.

“I should go directly to the Blues,” the earl spoke out loud, expecting his wife’s disapproval.

“Yes, take the carriage, go directly. I didn’t wish to see this show anyway.” Lady Matlock supported her husband’s plans.

“And what will you do?” he asked, as he gave the order for his carriage to still be readied for his new destination to a waiting footman.

“Someone must send word to Darcy. He left Scotland I believe and should be in Hertfordshire with that friend of his.”

The earl nodded as another footman brought him his hat and gloves.

“With any luck, he can be here on the morrow. May the good Lord see fit to spare his dwelling,” Henry Fitzwilliam said, leaving his wife with a peck on her cheek.

As Lady Matlock called her favorite footman, Seamus, to attend to her in the library as she wrote out the many letters, she also wished for him to write a letter to his brother, Declan, in Kent. Margaret Fitzwilliam did not care for the troubling signs brewing in London, and she would protect her family as much as she could manage.