Nine
Finley. Why was it always Finley?
The only scuffle Corbin had had at Eton had been with Finley. Stanley, Corbin’s younger brother, now a captain with the Thirteenth Light Dragoons, had been in his first year at school and was suffering through a severe bout of homesickness. Finley and a few other boys several years older than Corbin had found Stanley’s dejection quite humorous and had joined forces to make him as miserable as possible.
In the end, Corbin probably wouldn’t have been sent down over the fight that had ensued if he hadn’t dropped four of them, including Finley, who’d come out of the ordeal with a bloodied but not-quite-broken nose. Corbin had made a mess of the entire group of bullies, a use of force the headmaster had deemed “a bit excessive.”
Corbin had expected a severe dressing down from Father. “You must have been severely provoked,” Father had said as they’d walked along the River Trent during Corbin’s fortnight of banishment at home. “What did they do?”
“They hurt Stanley.”
“Stanley needs to learn to fight his own battles,” Father said.
Corbin clamped down his disappointment and nodded.
“So give him a few pointers when you get back, will you?”
Corbin looked up at Father then and saw him grinning. He smiled back.
“Dropped four of them, did you?” Father nodded his head in a way that spoke of pride.
“It felt good,” Corbin answered.
Father laughed out loud and ruffled his hair. They spent the next half hour talking over the skirmish. Father offered some advice and taught Corbin a few of the finer points of pugilism. It was one of Corbin’s fondest memories. Father lived only another four years.
Finley kept his distance from Corbin for some time after their skirmish, though he taunted him ceaselessly. Anytime Corbin found himself in an embarrassing situation, Finley seemed to be there.
Philip and Layton, the two oldest Jonquils, and Crispin Handle, who’d been like another Jonquil from the time he and Philip had met at Eton, had realized Finley’s personal vendetta against Corbin, and a year almost to the day after that bloody fistfight, they’d somehow managed to remove every pair of trousers and underclothes from Finley’s room. Seeing George Finley roaring mad, his chicken-thin legs exposed beneath his barely long-enough shirt, had been one of the finer moments of Corbin’s educational experience.
From that point on, Finley and the Jonquils, including Crispin, had been rivals.
Now Finley was after Clara. If the scene Corbin had stumbled on at Ivy Cottage the evening before was any indication, Finley was making far more progress than he was.
My dear. He’d called her my dear. And she hadn’t corrected him.
Clara couldn’t possibly know what Finley was truly like. Her late husband—if Edmund’s account was accurate, and Corbin felt certain it was—had been boorish and unkind and, though Edmund hadn’t said as much, Corbin suspected the man had been abusive as well, with his words and his hands.
Finley would be no better. He was arrogant to the point of being dangerous. So sure was he that he deserved to be given anything he demanded that he lashed out when denied. Women were his targets more often than not. Perhaps because they were inherently more vulnerable. The law, society, the indifference of far too many men, all conspired to leave too many women unprotected and undervalued.
Corbin didn’t know what to do. Even if Clara had no interest in him , she deserved far better than Finley.
“Vis’tors.” Jim interrupted Corbin’s thoughts.
Corbin looked up. Two coaches sat under the portico. He’d been expecting Crispin and Catherine and recognized the Cavratt crest emblazoned on the side of one of the coaches. The other coach was one of the unmarked carriages from the Lampton stables—Corbin had spent so much time in those stables he recognized each of the equipages on sight.
Had Mater come as well? If she had, Charlie,
Finley. Why was it always Finley?
The only scuffle Corbin had had at Eton had been with Finley. Stanley, Corbin’s younger brother, now a captain with the Thirteenth Light Dragoons, had been in his first year at school and was suffering through a severe bout of homesickness. Finley and a few other boys several years older than Corbin had found Stanley’s dejection quite humorous and had joined forces to make him as miserable as possible.
In the end, Corbin probably wouldn’t have been sent down over the fight that had ensued if he hadn’t dropped four of them, including Finley, who’d come out of the ordeal with a bloodied but not-quite-broken nose. Corbin had made a mess of the entire group of bullies, a use of force the headmaster had deemed “a bit excessive.”
Corbin had expected a severe dressing down from Father. “You must have been severely provoked,” Father had said as they’d walked along the River Trent during Corbin’s fortnight of banishment at home. “What did they do?”
“They hurt Stanley.”
“Stanley needs to learn to fight his own battles,” Father said.
Corbin clamped down his disappointment and nodded.
“So give him a few pointers when you get back, will you?”
Corbin looked up at Father then and saw him grinning. He smiled back.
“Dropped four of them, did you?” Father nodded his head in a way that spoke of pride.
“It felt good,” Corbin answered.
Father laughed out loud and ruffled his hair. They spent the next half hour talking over the skirmish. Father offered some advice and taught Corbin a few of the finer points of pugilism. It was one of Corbin’s fondest memories. Father lived only another four years.
Finley kept his distance from Corbin for some time after their skirmish, though he taunted him ceaselessly. Anytime Corbin found himself in an embarrassing situation, Finley seemed to be there.
Philip and Layton, the two oldest Jonquils, and Crispin Handle, who’d been like another Jonquil from the time he and Philip had met at Eton, had realized Finley’s personal vendetta against Corbin, and a year almost to the day after that bloody fistfight, they’d somehow managed to remove every pair of trousers and underclothes from Finley’s room. Seeing George Finley roaring mad, his chicken-thin legs exposed beneath his barely long-enough shirt, had been one of the finer moments of Corbin’s educational experience.
From that point on, Finley and the Jonquils, including Crispin, had been rivals.
Now Finley was after Clara. If the scene Corbin had stumbled on at Ivy Cottage the evening before was any indication, Finley was making far more progress than he was.
My dear. He’d called her my dear. And she hadn’t corrected him.
Clara couldn’t possibly know what Finley was truly like. Her late husband—if Edmund’s account was accurate, and Corbin felt certain it was—had been boorish and unkind and, though Edmund hadn’t said as much, Corbin suspected the man had been abusive as well, with his words and his hands.
Finley would be no better. He was arrogant to the point of being dangerous. So sure was he that he deserved to be given anything he demanded that he lashed out when denied. Women were his targets more often than not. Perhaps because they were inherently more vulnerable. The law, society, the indifference of far too many men, all conspired to leave too many women unprotected and undervalued.
Corbin didn’t know what to do. Even if Clara had no interest in him , she deserved far better than Finley.
“Vis’tors.” Jim interrupted Corbin’s thoughts.
Corbin looked up. Two coaches sat under the portico. He’d been expecting Crispin and Catherine and recognized the Cavratt crest emblazoned on the side of one of the coaches. The other coach was one of the unmarked carriages from the Lampton stables—Corbin had spent so much time in those stables he recognized each of the equipages on sight.
Had Mater come as well? If she had, Charlie,
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