A | B | 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 | 5 | 6 | 7 | 8 | 9 | 10 | 11 | 12 | 13 | 14A | 14B | 15 | 16 | 17 | 18 | 19 | 20 | 21 | 22 | 23 | 24 | 25 | 26 | 27 | 28 | 29 | 30A | 30B | 31 | 32
PART II
MAY, 1780
RATHBONE HOUSE
LONDON, ENGLAND
CELIA ALLOWED GEORGE to awaken her after noon and give her a small saucer of hot chocolate and one slice of dry toast.
“That’s all she’ll allow, Cap’n,” George whispered. “A footman is stationed at the larder and the housekeeper informed me I was not allowed to fetch you food. No one accused me of stealing for you, but the cook noticed.”
“I hate her,” Celia grumbled.
She allowed George to dress her in yet another atrocious gown while she informed Mary of Rafael’s news. “I hate Bancroft,” Celia grumbled.
She allowed George to guide her to the dining table for nuncheon. I hate this, Celia thought.
She allowed herself to be fed exactly one bowl of beef broth, a small cucumber sandwich, and a biscuit. Also dry. I hate her.
Even after her large meal last night, Celia was ravenous, and this was all she was allowed. What she would not give for a roast capon or two.
Or three.
“Celia,” her aunt said as she swept into the dining room. “Where is your mother?”
As usual, she schooled her features to betray nothing but vague interest. “She is coming, Aunt.”
“Good. We have a dilemma or two.”
“Here I am, Harrie. Good afternoon, Celia.”
“Good afternoon, Mother.” Celia looked up to see her mother progress slowly through the door toward the table. With the help of a footman, she was soon seated beside Celia and patting her hand, even as another footman served her a plate piled high with delicious items. Celia looked longingly at it, not bothering to hide that, as it was normal for The Simpleton to want more food.
“You look fetching today, my love,” Mary said, her voice trembling a bit.
“You as well, Mother.”
“I quite agree,” Aunt Harriet said tightly in the manner of someone who is not paying attention.
But in fact, they were both hideous: Between Mary’s illness and Celia’s madness, neither of them were in the least presentable. Celia may not have inherited a jot of Mary’s beauty nor a tittle of her skill with money, but her acting ability was all her mother’s doing.
“Where is his lordship?” Mary murmured.
“At the Admiralty, reporting to Hylton and getting word on when he can expect another command.”
Celia took a careful glance at her aunt. Something in her voice made Celia want to ask whether she preferred Rathbone to stay or go.
“And that,” she said, murdering a piece of toast with her butter knife while she spoke, “is what I need to discuss with you, Marianne.”
“What has happened?”
“Several things. Firstly, the court has granted Hylton custody of Celia.” Mary pulled in a breath and Celia whimpered as if they did not already know. Aunt Harriet slid her a side glance. “I am so sorry, Celia. I know you cannot want this.”
“No, Aunt.”
“On what grounds?”
“That you are … infirm … and that, in the face of Hylton’s paternity, I have no right to provide for her care once you—ah … ”
“I apprehend,” Mary said tremulously, then dabbed at her eye with a kerchief.
Harriet cleared her throat. “Secondly, he has settled a dowry upon Celia for her to wed straightaway. He is practically taking applications.”
“That makes no sense, Harrie,” Mary murmured. “Who would wed her and why would any court in the land allow such a contract to stand?”
“The contract is not between Celia and the gentleman. ’Tis between Hylton and the gentleman. He can do with her as he sees fit, and apparently, he sees fit to marry her off. Since she was not born mad and her parents are of sound mind, she is not undesirable for the purposes of bearing an heir. However,” she went on, now set upon murdering another piece of toast, “my solicitors appealed the decision straightaway, so until that is heard, Celia will not be required to move house nor will there be any contracts signed.”
Celia’s mother breathed a sigh of some relief, but Harriet snapped her knife in the air and said, “Do not send gratitude up to heaven just yet. My husband,” she snarled, “has been apprised of the situation and has cut my funds so that I cannot pay my solicitors. Not only that, but he is enraged with me for denying a man his daughter who has been missing for so long. He will not hear of Hylton’s disregard all these years. He is entirely unreasonable on the subject.”
Celia should have realized Rathbone would cut off his wife’s access to those funds, but how could Celia pay for the solicitors herself without exposing her charade? She began to sway in her seat and chant, “Nonny Nonny Nonny Nonny Nonny—”
“What is she doing?” the marchioness snapped.
“The anger in the room is distressing her, Harrie,” Mary said calmly, petting the back of Celia’s fist clenched around her spoon while she continued to chant softly. “I suspect Nonny was someone who might have cared for her during her captivity, but who but God can know? Yes, Celia, dear, I will take you to see Nonny later today.”
Her ladyship took a deep breath and murmured, “I apologize, Celia.”
Celia stopped chanting and gulped conspicuously. “Thank you, Aunt,” she whispered.
“I can’t imagine there is anyone interested in Celia’s hand,” Mary said calmly.
“Au contraire. There are dozens, but—and I will give Hylton his due—he has cast off all but one as fortune-hunting blackguards, Dr. Covarrubias, but I have heard whispers he hopes to persuade Lord Tavendish to the match.”
Silence but for the murder of a third piece of toast and Aunt Harriet’s angry mutterings while doing it. Celia exchanged a cautious glance with her mother. Lord Tavendish was married with three grown sons. ’Twas Tavendish’s second son to whom George had been sold.
“Lord Tavendish … ?” Mary said with something that seemed to be great care.
“Mmmm, yes,” Harriet said and stared at her sister from under her brows, to which Mary nodded once abruptly.
That was interesting.
But off Harriet went, into a more detailed account of Croftwood’s tale: Machinations. Assassinations. Machinations. High treason. Machinations. Politics. Machinations.
What shocked Celia was the marchioness’s description of “that butcher” Lord Kitteridge, a bitter and hate-filled description that bespoke a personal offense. Celia wondered what, to what extent, and to whom, but she dare not ask.
But on and on and on Harriet raged, with no further useful information forthcoming.
“Lord Tavendish, though—” Mary asked, interrupting her sister. “I had heard he has three grown sons, so he must be ancient. What does he want with a bride?”
“If you had let me finish, Marianne,” Harriet said pointedly, “I would have reached the point of the story where the thirteenth earl and his heir died in a coaching accident on the road from London to Northumberland. The countess’s back was broken and she lost the use of her legs, poor dear. Elliott Raxham, the second son, is the new Earl Tavendish.”
That was a shocking twist.
God help a house with a prison-mad earl at the head of it.
No wonder he had had to scrape the dregs of Colonial loyalist burghers to find a fiancée in the first blush of her childbearing years, only to have her stolen from him, which meant he was reduced to entertaining the possibility of wedding a simpleton.
Lud, had any one man ever had a worse run of luck?
Her aunt continued: “Since I have no more say in the matter,” she muttered, directing her anger to the already dead food upon her plate, “I can only pray Tavendish will be desp—will agree. Lord Covarrubias is far too extraordinary to be—”
—wasted on an imbecile.
The marchioness attempted to look at Celia, but could not quite meet her eyes. Then again, she never could. “I know you have developed a tendre for the count, Celia, but in Tavendish you may find a kindred spirit.”
Wed mad to mad.
Neither of them born that way, thus their offspring would not carry such a taint.
She took a deep breath. “In any case, I have approached our next problem.”
“When it rains, it pours,” Mary intoned.
“Indeed. The earl—this one, Elliott—” Every time Celia heard the man’s Christian name, she liked it more. “—did have a betrothal contract in place, but I have received word that the girl’s parents lied about her age. So Tavendish was already without a bride without his knowledge, but to add insult, on their voyage, that girl was also taken by pirates.”
Oh, if it weren’t so dire, Celia would have shattered with laughter. It was a comedy of errors and she was at the center of it.
“Their child taken?” Mary asked wonderingly. “How absolutely horrible. No mother should have to bear such a thing.”
Aunt Harriet put her hand to her breast and blinked rapidly. “We both know about that, do we not?” she croaked.
“I cannot imagine what such brigands will do with her.”
She took a deep breath. “Yes, well, as to that, ’twould indeed be hard to imagine because she was taken by the American woman, one of their privateers, the one who blew up Rathbone’s ship.” Her nostrils flared. “If that woman were here right now, I would demand to know why she did not make sure he went down with that bloody boat—and then I would slap her for her negligence.”
Celia coughed.
“It is to be hoped,” she went on, “that a ship captained by a woman would not be as tragic a place for a girl as one full of men. But who’s to say.”
“That is a problem,” Mary said thinly.
Both Celia and her mother jumped when the marchioness brought her fist down on the table and roared, “No! That is not the problem!”
It did occur to Celia that if, perhaps, she exposed her deception to her aunt, it would benefit all three of them and George. Her aunt seemed predisposed to sympathy for Celia’s predicament, and if she were in truth, she would be a powerful ally. She was about to pursue that thought when Aunt Harriet revealed what the problem actually was:
“The parents who fostered that fraudulent document and signed away their girl only to lose her in transit to that woman—the one who did not have the foresight to make sure my husband was dead—have been offered hospitality here. Thanks to Rathbone. He wants them here so he can find out more about that woman who was not considerate enough to make me a widow. I know not how long he intends to keep them or how he plans to dispose of them once they are of no more use to him.”
“Oh, no,” Celia whispered.
“Indeed,” Aunt Harriet agreed and then bent to her plate of food, which was now thoroughly mashed together in an unrecognizable mess. “The Mockslings will be staying with us for the foreseeable future. Tavendish, God bless him, wants nothing to do with them. It appears that Rathbone has some notion they will be welcome in Society and that I will be sponsoring them—ha!”
None of them spoke while Harriet and Mary finished their nuncheon. Celia had finished her measly portion long ago, but now she was a bit nauseated. She was still hungry, but feared that anything she put down her gullet would come right back up again.
She needed a bottle of that fine rum from Sint Eustatius’s master distiller.
Nay, two.
“Which brings me to the last problem.”
Celia, already on tenterhooks, barely bit back a moan.
“Celia. It is true the courts have ordered you not be removed from this house to Hylton’s for the nonce; however, he has requested and been granted permission for you to attend him next week at his home. Alone.”
Her hand curled around her knife and clenched.
Bancroft had unwittingly strapped her to her own mast and she had unwittingly given him the perfect length of rope with which to do it.
Hang Washington’s orders. Hang her letter of marque. Hang the Americans’ bid for independence.
Nathan Bancroft was a dead man.
If you don’t want to wait 2 years to get to the end, you can buy it here.
Pirates!
Brilliant and delightful!
🥰
So it isn’t quite clear – has Celia put Elliot to Tavendish? Without a fainting spell or outburst?
No, she hasn’t met Elliott Raxham/Earl Tavendish yet.
She knows the story about Elliott Raxham’s trial and cashiering, she knows Elliott Raxham is the second son and that’s whom Georgina was to marry, and she now knows that Elliott Raxham is the new earl and he’s turned Georgina’s parents out onto the Rathbones’ doorstep, but right now, he’s just a name, someone who has an unfortunate history.
OK, I was thinking she had his given name, but yes, her references are all to Judas. That’s even more delightful.
And in the reverse, Elliot has put forth his interest in Celia, not realizing she is Fury?
Elliott hasn’t met Celia, either. He doesn’t know she exists until Bancroft/Hylton discusses marrying her to Elliott, and they haven’t met up (again) yet. Bancroft is Elliott’s mentor and trainer, so they have a long history.
Long-time cow-worker gave (?) his two weeks today. Someone had the temerity to ask boss if it was “voluntary”. Boss gave an evasive answer but when the same company let me go in 2018 it was immediate effect so WTF do I know.
Anyway guess who gets to picks up all his work. If I didn’t happen to return from disability two months ago I wonder WTF they would do next.
Just today I was gazing in awe and jealousy at all the obvious time some other teams had to properly document their work and shit… planning the same for my team… oh wellz.
Sounds like a good time to ask for more money.
heh If only I were more ambitious. Rather than approaching the end of my career.
So much “hate”, and lawyers…sounds about right.
Oh, I throw in a lawyer joke or two.
My experience with lawyers (divorce) has been “meh”.
She (my ex) got the house and a BIG chunk of my 401K. Unrecorded in the divorce was that I put her through PsyD school. Also not recorded was that I started saving for retirement at my first job out of college. She did start not saving for retirement until 10 years after she got her PsyD. Also, unrecorded in the divorce was that she prefered the dick of another man to mine.
I never wanted to get married in the first place (watching my parent’s marriage and then watching my mother’s marriage to my step-dad), but I was afraid of losing her.
Note to all the youngins out there: Bitches ain’t worth all that.
/know your worth.
lol I don’t know how you hets do it.
The *obvious* answer is… well, obvious.
On the other hand, I am glad it’s done with.
I can plan for a future.
Damn. That got deep real fast.
I’d say I’m ‘glad’ I’ve never been married, but it’s never even come up. Both of my long-term relationships lasted four years, and I lived with ’em both (separately). We certainly had the Children Talk, but all three of us (separately) were All In on NOT having kids.
Fear of losing That Person is powerful. (‘Something’ is better than ‘nothing.’) It’s a sad gambit, comparing how the individually-smart person can so easily sink into Sunk Cost, especially with the investment ppl have put into Them+Partner relationship. Shit gets ya by the balls.
Forever true, however, Something is infinitely more than Nothing.
Hey, I resemble that remark!
/Rodney Dangerfield, I think
Someone mentioned the Obama colossus they’re still building in Chicago. It looks like something at Cape Canaveral.
I saw an artist’s rendering of what it’s supposed to look like when it is finished. My first thought is it is an American take on pharoah’s pyramid. He really wanted to build a monument to himself.
I must be doing something wrong. I tried to be a racist, divisive POS grifter but it didn’t put millions of dollars in my bank account. 🙁
You neglected to do it persistently and publicly.
David Gilmour is a better lyricist, guitarist, and vocalist than that sadsack commie doucheback Roger Waters ever was, and it’s not even close.
I didn’t realize it when Waters first walked away from the band. But over time it it became clear you are absolutely right.
*subscribes to goat scrotum’s newsletter*
lol I was never enough of a fan to have any idea what the difference is between them.
Pink Floyd is my favorite band. I think I’ve made that statement here many times.
Roger Waters has been a douche for a long time. I think I have also made that statement here many times.
Douche***BAG*** let me give him his due
I’ll admit, I can’t defend myself. WYWH, Animals: terrific, seminal albums.
But Division Bell is simply better. Upbeat, happier. It’s a superior album simply by dint of being uplifting.
And it wasn’t written by a gay race communist.
I know I have in the abstract, but I’ve never knowingly listened to Pink Floyd. I’m not sure how I feel about that.
(This is akin to me talking to folk who’ve never listened to OK Computer, my favorite album and band. Dad got something culturally right the other day, rare as that is, when he said it’s all about what you grew up with. (I’d say ’til your’e ~25.)
When the riffs, grooves and emotions create a Singularity in your mind, at that moment in that time in your life.
I was 12 when Spears came out with Hit Me Baby One More Time. Many things, unleashed. My facetious-but -mostly- true Puberty Song.
(Y’all have one of your own? Ya surely must.)
Evan was always the White
And I’m not the gray.
I’ve got a pretty good idea of what was unleashed.
Division Bell is the best PF album.
Stay tuned to when I explore the niches of Lloyd Cole and the Camera Obscura response
jk I have nothing to say. Listen to them both.
I liked the dialogue in this. This brought a big thought: “He can do with her as he sees fit, and apparently, he sees fit to marry her off. Since she was not born mad and her parents are of sound mind, she is not undesirable for the purposes of bearing an heir.”
Past and present in our species, it’s equally unnerving how men are expendable, while women are factories.
(Which would I rather? Were I a medieval peasant, at least a chick has a purpose to their specific existence. (I’d still gamble on being a dude, but tricky.)
(Which would I rather? … I’d still gamble on being a dude, but tricky.)
The good news is that these days, you can apparently just switch back and forth at your leisure!
Fascinating
It does empirically prove that the development of smokeless powder was vital to semiautomatic mechanisms. Even the best performing design, the 1911, fouled to uselessness in about ten rounds, and all of them jammed quickly.
That skit at the beginning was awesome.
There used to be a guy who came to our gun range we called “Black Powder Man” (we had names for all of these characters) whose clothing and possessions were all of 19th century origin. He’d pop off his one round and then look at the target with a little brass telescope. I’m not even sure if he stooped to the level of paying the range fee with US currency or if he just wrote them a promissory note with a quill pen.
He was a pretty cool guy. But I was horrified one day to see him fire, then wrap his lips around the muzzle and blow in order to clear the smoke. This is apparently something rather common among black powder shooters. I’ve come across forum posts where they are arguing that this is to clear any embers out so that the powder doesn’t blow up when preparing the next shot. I guess it’s true that on a single shot firearm, you can be sure it’s empty after you just fired it, but… I still don’t think I could bring myself to do that if I ever got into black powder.
There was a black powder semi-auto, but yes, it had problems.
There seem to be quite a few fighter jets flying south in formation today, now.
We live near Miramar but I have never seen this much activity in a single day, hmm.
The black helicopters are coming for you.
Michael Malice had this “Cremieux” fellow on his latest episode. I looked up his Substack and found this very interesting:
https://www.cremieux.xyz/p/you-cant-just-control-for-things
Matching is good and all, but with other designs, it’s not usually what we mean by controlling. In those designs, researchers have to worry about controlling for too much. To see why, imagine two restaurants: any old McDonald’s and a featured Michelin 3-Star fine dining establishment. After we’ve controlled for the quality of ingredients, preparation, atmosphere, clientele, and price, the two cannot be (statistically) distinguished. So, you may conclude, they’re really not all that different. But you would conclude wrong, because you’ve controlled for too much and the comparison no longer makes sense.
I had never thought about “overcontrolling” with variables… I guess it’s another tool I need to add to my “spotting statistical bullshit and junk science” toolkit.
OK, folk. Your alarm beckons. Heed it. (Resist.)
I hope most in Noblesville are sleeping in.
@ Nick et alia:
☝️
Here’s one bitch who doesn’t want to be married. Stepfamilies and family law install cynicism.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BFkYoT5Gezo
Mornin’, GT!
Instill? ¿los dos?
I missed the ’60s-’70s rock invasion for a couple reasons.
My kids were caught up in it but now they seem to have moved on. They are country (and Western).
They’re getting old…
Good morning, TO’G, EfE, 4(20), and Sean!
Mornin’! ☕️ 🥓 🍳
Fair morn, me hearties!
🏴☠️🥧⛅️
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O8vzbezVru4
🎶🎶
STOP LOGGING ME OUT!
I know, right?
PS. Mornin’.
☕️😉
https://www.upi.com/Odd_News/2025/07/25/Guinness-World-Records-David-Rush-balloons-bodies/2941753464108/
🎈💥🏳️🌈
I filed that under “Things I don’t need to know”
Mornin, 4x! Pour vous:
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=YfDqR4fqIWE
Finally, some tunes for an older guy
Thanks, TO’G
Mornin’
I could’ve beaten Sean to the first good morning, dog woke me up for a chirping smoke alarm. Why do those never die at a convenient hour?
Doesn’t matter, I can’t hear them anyway. Someone else has to tell me and then try to find the one that’s squawking.