The Rules of Gentility Page 10

  “I have not met either,” Julia says. “It is something we do not talk much about in the family. Inigo is quite open, possibly too much so, about the matter. I was afraid you would break off the engagement.”

  “Not at all.” I do store the idea in my mind as a reason I can give Julia when I end the engagement, although why I should wait a matter of weeks before deciding to do so seems absurd.

  She adds, to my discomfiture, “I am most glad of it. I think it admirable he chooses to support his child, for many gentlemen would refuse the responsibility. And, of course, his wife should feel comfortable with the arrangement.”

  Oh, I do not like this at all. I might lose Julia as my friend, and it is she who took pity on me at boarding-school and more recently has guided me through the maze of my entrée into society. I feel I betray her.

  We clatter through the streets and into the Park, where the most fashionable of all—and I am now one of them—parade in open carriages or on horseback. Mr. Linsley turns to smile at me, and I smile back.

  One of the advantages of being on horseback is that we can weave in and out of the carriages, or break away to canter beside the road. I see several people I recognize, including one of the gentlemen who looked into my bosom last night, and he has the impertinence to raise his hat to me. Shocking! We have not even been introduced.

  “Miss Wellesley-Clegg, would you care to ride with me?” Mr. Linsley reins in his mare and gestures to me.

  “Please do,” Julia says. “Blaze needs the exercise. Do not worry about people talking. You should take every opportunity to snatch these moments alone with Inigo.”

  “Be careful, Inigo,” Terrant calls to his brother, and then to me, says, “He is rather a reckless rider, Miss Philomena, even in Hyde Park. Do not follow him unless you wish.”

  “Do not concern yourself, sir,” I say, only too aware that beneath me Blaze seems to be coiling himself into a tight spring, and snorts and sidles. He plunges forward after Mr. Linsley’s mare and I make a quick grab at the pommel to right myself.

  Ahead of us is a wide expanse of parkland, grass dotted with widely-spaced trees. A few other riders canter sedately there.

  Blaze shakes his head and gives a loud snort.

  “Steady, boy,” I say, in a not particularly confident voice.

  Ahead of me, Mr. Linsley urges his mare forward, and Blaze gives another unsettling lunge into a full gallop.

  I rein him in. Oh heavens, we seem to be heading straight for a large tree. I duck to avoid its branches, then pull on the reins to turn the horse and assume some sort of control.

  I have often wondered how it feels to fly, and for a very brief moment experience that exhilaration I have hitherto enjoyed only in dreams. The world blurs into a kaleidoscope of blue sky, green trees and grass, whirls, thumps the air from my lungs, and settles on Inigo’s face.

  I feel most peculiar—my head hurts and people’s voices echo and bang inside my skull. And I am lying—no, I am reclining against something warm and strong and in my ear is a rhythmic thump. A heartbeat.

  Inigo. Inigo’s heart. Right next to me, against my cheek, and I don’t want to move, even if I thought I could.

  But what on earth has happened?

  Julia leans over me. Tears run down her face. “Philomena, dearest, speak to us.”

  The arms around me clutch me tighter. “Philomena, for God’s sake, tell me you are not hurt!”

  I move my head to look into Inigo’s face and what I see surprises me. He looks grim, older; and above all, he looks frightened.

  “What’s the matter?” So I still can speak, and now I remember flying off the horse—I hope my skirts stayed down—but if they did not, it is too late to worry about such a thing, and besides, I am too tired. “What are you doing, Inigo?”

  “Holding you, my love. Are you hurt?”

  “No. No, I don’t think so. Bumped my head…” I move my arms and legs in a cautious sort of way. Yes, everything seems to be working, but I’m not inclined to move. My body is heavy and strange although my aching head seems to float.

  “Brandy for the lady, sir.” Someone thrusts a flask at us.

  Inigo raises me slightly and the brandy stings my mouth and all the way down into my belly.

  I consider the brandy, my floating head, and the oddness of my surroundings that, other than the strong warmth of Inigo, seem to move and shift in odd ways.

  “Inigo?”

  “Yes, my love?”

  “I don’t think the brandy was a very good idea.” Inside me things are roiling in an unpleasant way and rather too slowly I realize what is happening. If I felt less strange and slow of wit I should be able to warn Inigo that I am about to vomit, which I do, and rather copiously, over my habit—only it is not mine, I borrowed it from Julia, and now it is ruined—and all over one of Inigo’s beautifully polished boots.

  Oh, this is dreadful. I squeeze my eyes tightly shut. I could not help it, but how shall I ever face him again?

  “Philomena!” His voice is shocked. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m so sorry—”

  Why should he be sorry? I threw up on him, after all.

  “Out of the way, Inigo.” Julia, her voice calm and kind, puts her arms around me and Inigo moves away from me. “Oh, Philomena, dearest, don’t cry. It’s not your fault.”

  When I consider it safe, I open my eyes. Julia hands me a handkerchief and we both try to smile at each other.

  She leans forward. “I vomited all over Terrant once.”

  Well, that is a relief.

  “In bed.”

  Oh, how dreadful.

  “On our wedding night.”

  I am horrified.

  “I think I ate too much at the wedding breakfast. He was very kind about it, although the Dowager Countess has never forgiven me for the damage to the bedcurtains—they were quite ruined. Terrant’s great-great-great-grandmother embroidered them during the Spanish Armada, or while waiting to be beheaded, or some such.”

  As she speaks, she mops me up with our combined petticoats. It is not a very good job, but the best we can do. I am feeling a little better and the strange, echoing world recedes a little.

  A footman, who looks somewhat familiar, pushes his way through the crowd. He bows to Lord Terrant, who stands to one side with Inigo. “My lord, Lady Rowbotham is here with her barouche, and will be pleased to take Miss Wellesley-Clegg home.”

  My aunt Rowbotham, peculiarly attired and dusted lightly with snuff, approaches. She glares at Terrant and shoves her pug Roland into his arms. Then she turns to Inigo. “Murderer!”

  “Madam, I—”

  “I always said you’d come to no good, Linsley.” She bends, with a strange creaking sound—it must be her stays. “Philomena, my dear, let me take you from this wicked man and his horrible horse.”

  “It wasn’t the horse’s fault, Aunt. Or Mr. Linsley’s.”

  My aunt makes a rude, snorting sound. “I daresay he’s only after your money. I’ll take you home, my dear, and you need never see this villain again. Let me help you to my barouche.”

  In Terrant’s arms the pug pants evilly, and leers at us with bulging black eyes.

  Inigo pushes forward and to my surprise—and I must confess, to my delight—scoops me into his arms. I am afraid I must stink quite horribly and I am damp and rumpled, but I am very pleased to be there. And, of course, it gives me an excuse to put my arm around his neck. I am tremendously grateful that Julia gave me a violet pastille and I do not have to twist my head aside to avoid breathing horribly upon him.

  He no longer looks frightened. Instead, he looks angry. His blue eyes blaze. “You silly little ninny, why didn’t you say you couldn’t ride? What do you think—”

  I struggle to release myself from his arms. “I can ride, and don’t call me names! I am not a ninny. You call me names far too often. It is most ungentlemanly.”

  He growls, “I thought you were dead. You almost killed me, you frightened me so badly! I think we sho
uld call off this absurd engagement immediately—”

  “I beg your pardon, sir.” It is difficult to brace oneself indignantly when the gentleman in question is holding you tightly against his chest and only your feet can express indignation with violent kicks. “It is the lady’s prerogative to decide when the engagement ends.”

  Terrant steps forward. “Stubble it, Ratsarse.”

  I giggle. “What did you call him?”

  Terrant smiles while Inigo scowls most horribly at him. “I called him Ratsarse, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. It’s what we called him at school.”

  “Ratsarse!” How delightful!

  Inigo mutters into my ear, “If you ever call me that, I swear I will spread a rumor at White’s that you have spent all your capital on bonnets, swear abominably—”

  “How very ungentlemanly of you!”

  “And then,” he hoists me closer against his chest and his breath tickles the top of my head—Julia follows behind with my hat—“no gentleman will ever marry you…Philly.”

  “You are a beast. I am not sorry I was sick over you.”

  Inigo adds in a casual manner that does not fool me for an instant, “And, by the way, my brother is called Pudgebum, and he would take it as a mark of extreme affability if you use that name to him.”

  “I think that is a dreadful lie. I am sure he would hate it. Anyone would.”

  He deposits me in my aunt’s barouche and I rest my head against the leather squabs and close my eyes, afflicted with sudden weariness. “Will you…will you ride home with me?”

  “Of course.” He clears his throat. “Forgive me. I did not realize Blaze would be too much for you. I should have chosen you a more docile mount.”

  Well, it is time for me to confess. “You are right in thinking I do not ride, or barely. I ride a very sweet horse. She is called Strawberry and is twenty-three years old.”

  “Sweetheart…”

  He has called me sweetheart? How charming—I believe he did so earlier when my head was quite addled—it would be even more charming if he meant it, or at least meant it half an hour hence. He sits next to me and wraps something warm and woollen around me. From the strong odor of pug, I deduce the shawl belongs to Roland.

  ”Promise me you will rest when you are at home.” He tucks me in so I am cocooned like a silkworm, but I rather enjoy his attention. “I am afraid you will be rather bruised and stiff for a few days, after such a fall.”

  The barouche rocks and sways and more dog odor wafts our way. My aunt and Roland have arrived, both of them looking at Inigo with distaste, although I believe that is the pug’s normal expression. I open my eyes so I may thank my aunt for her kindness.

  “Pray do not take any notice of him, Philomena, whatever nonsense he may be telling you. Linsley, I see no reason for you to hold my niece’s hand.”

  Why so he is, and neither of us is wearing gloves. I wish I felt better and could appreciate better his warm, firm hand wrapped around mine.

  Inigo does not move. “I’m taking her pulse.”

  In answer to this bare-faced bit of insolence, Lady Rowbotham ignores us both for the rest of the journey.

  Chapter 12

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  Poor Inigo.

  I have been sick on his boots, he has been insulted by his brother and my aunt Rowbotham, and now there is Mama.

  “Oh Philly my dear my poor darling oh how could he do this to you why that habit will be ruined and his boots too but it serves him right sir you have acted monstrously towards my dear girl and I shall never forgive you never oh this engagement should never have taken place and I shall not blame her if she breaks it off in fact I think she should Hen where have you been all this while we must send for the physician and put poor Philly to bed Mr. Linsley if my poor girl does not last the night it shall weigh forever upon your conscience if indeed you even have one you wicked wicked man oh I cannot bear to think of my poor child married to such a one as you and she looks so pale oh Philly…” and so on, until Hen sits her down and makes her drink a glass of wine.

  Inigo does not reply.

  “I will not break off the engagement, Mama.” I gather the damp and smelly skirts of the habit to go upstairs. “Hen, I wish to take a bath. Good-bye, Inigo.”

  “Philomena…” He takes my hand and kisses it. He looks quite wretched, and although I should like to reassure him, I am too tired and unwell to do more than squeeze his fingers in farewell before taking refuge in my room.

  For the first time in my life I ask Mama to leave me alone, with Hen to look after me.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  I never thought I should agree with anything Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg says—for one thing, there is so much she says it is difficult to separate the wheat from the chaff. Imagine enough chaff to fill the dome of St. Paul’s, for instance, and you have some idea of the dear lady’s volubility. However, in this case she is right. I almost killed her darling, and this engagement was definitely a bad idea, although for different reasons than the ones she gave.

  I may be able to replace a broken statue, but I cannot replace a broken child—something I am keenly aware of since Will came into the world. Shall I feel the same way, convinced my child is a fragile creature still, two decades in the future?

  I skulk around the house for the rest of the day, aware my brother thinks me a fool—well, after my outburst I think I am a fool, too. Julia is quite kind to me, but then she usually is. Mama seems of a mind with Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg, and that damned Admiral visits us yet once again.

  I do what any gentleman would do under the circumstances: get most horribly drunk. I really cannot remember much more of the evening.

  As soon as decently possible the next day, and as soon as I can stand without feeling I shall cast my accounts, I take a dose of willow for the headache (in a small glass of brandy to aid the efficacy), and set off for the Wellesley-Cleggs’ house. Halfway there I remember I cannot possibly arrive empty-handed, and halt the hackney to buy some flowers from a street vendor. I offer her a guinea for all the primroses she has—they grow wild everywhere at Weaselcopse at this time of year, and I like their scent and pale yellow—the color of the gown Philomena wore the day I first met her. I give the girl another five shillings for her basket, and thus laden, arrive at the house.

  There is no straw, or muffled knocker, which is a good sign, and the footman does not look unduly sad when he admits me to the house. Neither Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg, Mr. Wellesley-Clegg, nor Miss Wellesley-Clegg is available, and since I did not expect to see Philomena downstairs at that hour of day, I do not take it amiss. All is well.

  “Mr. Linsley?” The drawing-room door opens and the Weird Sisters stand there.

  “Good morning, ladies.”

  They look at each other, and then at me. One of them clutches a book, and the other a drawing tablet.

  “I have come to inquire after your sister’s health,” I say, in case they think me always encumbered by approximately twenty bunches of primroses.

  “Will you not come in, Mr. Linsley?”

  I hand my hat and gloves to the footman and enter the drawing room. I feel as though I am entering an enchanted cave, and when I leave, I will find a couple of centuries have passed and people travel by flying machines or some such.

  The two creatures stare unblinking at me. They are tall and gangly, with none of Philomena’s prettiness, but a certain foxy appeal in their narrow faces.

  I balance the basket of flowers on the sofa beside me. “I trust I find you in good health, Miss Lydia, Miss Charlotte. And which of you is which today?”

  “I am Charlotte,” says the one with a pink ribbon.

  “Is it true you have a baby, Mr. Linsley?” says Lydia, who may well be Charlotte.

  Good God. “Yes, I do.”

  “But you are not married.”

  I am not prepared to give these ethereal creatures an education of that sort. “How is your sister?”

  They glance at eac
h other with extreme gravity.

  “She is in bed upstairs.”

  The one with the drawing tablet hands a sheet of paper to me.

  She has made a fairly competent pencil sketch. It shows a woman in bed, her hair loose, eyes closed, hands crossed over her breast.

  A young and beautiful woman.

  Philomena.

  For one dreadful moment I forget how to breathe. The paper rattles in my hand.

  Philomena.

  Then I leap to my feet, knocking the flowers over, and blunder out of the room, round the corner to the staircase, bashing my knee on the plinth where the unfortunate Hebe once stood, and up the stairs.

  The first room I stumble into is deserted, save for a maid who is making the bed and looks up, her mouth opening in fear; I must indeed look like a madman. I run to the next door, push it open with such violence it bounces off the wall, and stop dead.

  Philomena, sitting up in bed, screams.

  I can hardly blame her. “I thought—I thought—” I can barely speak. I hold the paper out to her, my hand shaking like a leaf.

  She clutches a pillow to herself.

  I drop onto a corner of the bed, clasping the bedpost, my chest heaving as though I have just run a mile. It’s abominably rude, but I cannot wait for her to ask me to sit. “Your—your sister. Don’t know which one. Gave me—gave me—this. I thought—”

  Footsteps pound up the stairs. A man, the footman from downstairs, speaks. “Are you all right, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”

  “Yes, thank you, Simon.” To me she hisses, “What are you doing here?”

  My knee, which I injured on my flight upstairs, begins to throb. “I thought you were dead.”

  Very slowly, she uncurls from her pillow and reaches out to snatch the paper in her fingertips, like a stray dog accepting food. She looks at it, and then at me. “I offered to pose for Lydia.”

  “So I see.”

  Now I am sure my legs will hold me, I stand and bow. As I do so, I notice for the first time the condition of the invalid’s bedchamber. A novel, face down, lies on the bed, along with the latest copy of the Lady’s Magazine, some sort of dress-making project, and a large bowl of sweetmeats. And Philomena herself, wearing a very pretty nightrail, from what I can see of it behind the pillow, with her small, delicate feet curved on the bed. I notice what lovely toes she has.