The Rules of Gentility Read online

  And she’s alive. Thank God. I shall definitely go to church more often.

  I lunge for the sweetmeats. I cannot, after all, lunge for her. “I haven’t had breakfast,” I explain.

  “Oh, very well.”

  “I didn’t mean to frighten you,” I say through a mouthful of Turkish delight. “I’m sorry. How do you feel today?”

  “I’m much better,” she says in a small voice. “Mama thought I should stay in bed.”

  “What are you reading?”

  “Nothing.”

  She grabs the book before I can reach it. It is what Julia always does when I catch her reading something frivolous, so I think it best not to pursue the question.

  She looks at the drawing again, frowns, and bellows in a voice I did not know she possessed, “Lydia!”

  We hear someone come up the stairs, and a twin pokes her head around the door.

  “Send your sister!” Philomena roars.

  The girl disappears, and shortly after, the other, I presume, for Philomena does not send her away, enters the room.

  “You are to apologize immediately to Mr. Linsley, Lydia.”

  Lydia gazes at her feet. “I am sorry, Mr. Linsley.”

  “There is no harm done, Miss Lydia.”

  “Fortunately not.” Philomena rips the drawing into pieces. “What if you had showed that to our aunt Rowbotham? It could well have killed her, you silly, foolish girl. Now go away. And, no, you may not have a sweetmeat.”

  Lydia curtsies and leaves the room. When I turn back to Philomena, she has taken advantage of the second or so I took to open the door for her sister to swathe herself in a large shawl.

  “I am not used to gentlemen invading my bedchamber.”

  “I should hope not.” We stare at each other. It is damnably awkward.

  “You were right,” she says after a while. “I ache all over. I have some horrible bruises.”

  “Arnica helps.”

  “Yes. I am sorry about your boot. Is it ruined?”

  “It looks rather unusual. Maybe I could get someone to puke over the other one so they match again.”

  Our uninspired conversation is interrupted by the entry of Hen, two footmen, the maid, and the twins, carrying vases and bowls full of primroses. They place them around the room, careful not to notice my presence, for of course a virtuous young lady could not possibly receive a gentleman, even one to whom she is betrothed, in her bedchamber.

  “I’ll send up some tea, miss,” Hen says. “And Mr. and Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg will be back from church soon.” This is said with a warning glance in my direction.

  Church? Oh, good God, it is Sunday, and I have broken a vow already, although I suppose I could go to Evensong. It certainly explains why there were so few street vendors around.

  Hen leaves the room, singing. I catch a few words, something about sinners, eternal fire, and salvation, and wonder whether it is a discreet warning to me.

  “The flowers are lovely.”

  Philomena looks transformed. She holds a bowl of them on her lap, and her smile almost makes my knees buckle again.

  “Good. I’m afraid I dropped them downstairs when I thought…they remind me of you. Little and sweet and delicate…” I sound like a fool.

  “They remind me of home.”

  “Me too.”

  “I’ve never been given flowers before, and there are so many of them.”

  Almost every horizontal surface of the room, mantelpiece, dressing-table, and table, are covered with primroses. Their scent fills the air, wild and sweet.

  Like her.

  She slithers off the bed and walks over to me. “Thank you, Inigo.”

  And then she kisses me.

  Chapter 13

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  I cannot believe how brazen I have become.

  I had wondered about kissing, how you got your faces in the right place and do not merely bump noses. Inigo seems quite good at it, but I believe he has had some practice.

  So I put my lips against his, my head tilted a little to one side—I have put some thought into this. I have put a lot of thought into it, I am afraid to say. I have told myself I should learn to kiss a man in case my future husband requires it of me, but the sad fact is that I want to kiss Inigo, not some faceless stranger.

  He tenses for just a moment and makes no move to draw closer to me—I am not pressed lewdly against him although I think I should like to be. So only our mouths touch, and my hands rest on his shoulder. It is quite friendly and gentle, as our lips move, slowly nibbling and pressing.

  His hands move to cup my face, and now I am pressed against him, and it is wicked. I might as well be unclothed.

  So I am a wanton. I slide my tongue against his lips and he hesitates and parts his lips. I am kissing him, there is no doubt about it, I lead and he follows.

  “I think we’d best stop this,” he says and lets me go.

  He walks away from me and stares out of the window, his back to me, and I can see something is wrong.

  Oh, I am such a fool.

  “It’s not your fault,” he says, as though he knows how confused and embarrassed I now am.

  I wrap myself in the shawl and sit on the edge of the bed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Philomena, it’s…” He’s talking with his back to me, which is rather rude, and his voice is tight. “You don’t know very much about men.”

  “Of course I don’t! I was rather hoping you might teach me.”

  “Nothing would give me greater pleasure, but you know I can’t. Your husband will expect you to learn from him. I’m only human, my love. I’m alone in a bedchamber with you, you’re barely clothed, and…Well, you remember how it was when Blaze took it into his mind to gallop?”

  “Oh, indeed yes.”

  “It’s like that for a man, Philomena.”

  “Is this something to do with Needs?”

  “Well, yes. If I were a horse at this moment I would want to gallop off and fling myself over hedges, until…Good God, Philomena, surely you see what I mean.”

  “I think so.” I feel that way a little myself. “Blaze reminded me of you. He was so very muscular and unpredictable.”

  “I really don’t think we should be alone together.” His head is bowed. He picks at a flake of loose paint on the windowsill with his thumbnail.

  “You’re probably right.”

  “My love, the offer stands to end this farce. Anytime you wish.”

  He has called me his love, and I know it is from kindness, and because he does care for me in his way. I saw that when he thought I was dead, both times. He would have mourned me, I am sure, and maybe kept my memory in a corner of his heart. But I do not think it would have been much more, or for very long.

  “Philomena, don’t cry.” He sits beside me and hands over his handkerchief.

  “If—if I break the engagement Julia will hate me. My family will be so disappointed. If I tell them I have deceived them, it will be even worse.”

  “Blame it on me,” he says.

  “I can’t do that!”

  “You may as well. My family will do so, however it ends.”

  “How else could it end?” I ask, but Inigo springs to his feet and steps away as we hear someone coming up the stairs.

  It is Hen, with tea, but only for me. It is as though Inigo is invisible.

  “You need to rest, miss. You look all shaken up again.” She bundles me back into bed and straightens out the sheets as though erasing the traces of a wild romp.

  “I hope you feel better soon, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  How I wish he could kiss my hand, but Hen is planted in the way.

  “Good-bye. Thank you for the flowers.”

  He bows, and I am glad Hen does not say a word.

  I plan to be asleep when Mama and Papa return. What is the harm of one more small deception?

  Chapter 14

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  The next day I am
recovered enough to pay afternoon calls, and naturally we visit the Terrants so Mama and the Dowager Countess can gossip. Julia, it appears, is resting, but will be downstairs shortly, so I find myself talking to Admiral Sev, a most pleasant gentleman.

  He looks across the room at the Dowager Countess and shakes his head, smiling. “Aye, a fine figure of a woman, is she not? And it’s good to see her laugh.” He glances at the portrait on the wall. “Still d—d handsome, beg your pardon, Miss Philomena—she was considered a great beauty in her prime. I’d like to have had her likeness as a figurehead for a ship.”

  I imagine the Dowager Countess, eyes wide above the foam, frightening off the French, and agree she would be most effective.

  “I wonder,” he continues, “strictly between you and me, Miss Philomena, why she hasn’t married again. Do you think—”

  “Sev!” The Dowager Countess summons him and he leaps to his feet. “I have need of your nimble fingers.”

  “She likes me to sort out her embroidery silks,” he explains. “I have some dexterity from tying knots all these years.” He bows and ambles across the room to her side, where he busies himself with a mess of colored silks. It is a most peaceful and happy scene, the Dowager Countess smiling upon him occasionally, while she and Mama cackle and gossip.

  I should like to talk to Julia about Sev and the Dowager Countess, but every time I try to raise the subject, she changes it, and Mr. Linsley seems quite oblivious of what is under his nose. As for Terrant, I think he would not be well pleased that a mere second cousin, and a commoner, courts their mama.

  The door opens, but it is only Julia, who smiles at me—in truth, I was quite unaware of how excited I must look to see the door open, and I feel foolish.

  “It is so charming to see my best friend and my favorite brother-in-law so deeply in love,” she comments. “I have lectured Inigo most severely on allowing you to ride Blaze, and he is quite contrite. But tell me, Philomena, will you announce the engagement at your ball? It is not fair to keep every eligible bachelor on tenterhooks indefinitely.”

  I am excessively relieved that the door opens at that moment to admit Miss Celia Blundell, who eyes the cakes and biscuits greedily.

  I ask Celia and Julia if she knows of anyone who has a maid looking for a new position. I have come to the conclusion that Hen, as much as I shall miss her, is right—it is too much work for her, and she will not want to leave Mama.

  Julia says not. She seems distracted. Then she bursts out, “Ladies, I know this is not a committee meeting, but I am most concerned about our Association. All we do is talk and talk, our benefit concert by dear Amelia has raised barely enough money to print a pamphlet as we planned, and how we are ever going to afford anything else seems impossible. I am quite in despair.”

  Julia looks so unhappy, I cast about for something to cheer her up.

  A scent of horse, and dare I say it, a familiar male smell becomes evident.

  I will not look round. I know he is somewhere behind me.

  I hear the creak of leather, and a rustle of fabric, and know that Inigo stands beside my chair. His arm reaches out for the dwindling supply of refreshments, and somehow, as he does so, his other hand tickles my neck.

  “Good afternoon, ladies.”

  “What do you want, Inigo?” Julia sounds very cross. This is so unlike her, for she is naturally of a sunny disposition, that I am quite concerned.

  “I believe I have the answer to your dilemma.”

  Miss Blundell mumbles something around a mouthful, and Julia snorts.

  “Seriously, ladies, here’s the catch. Your Association has not yet proved its worth. It exists in name only. You need rescue only one fallen woman and show that she can become a useful member of society, and your case will be made. Donations will flood in, and the Strand will be transformed.”

  “That’s all very well, Inigo, but we cannot go searching out a fallen woman and have nothing for her to do.”

  “Miss Wellesley-Clegg.” He winks at me. “You have a need for a maid, I believe.”

  “Well, yes, but I…” Now he is in my view I become the hopeless dithering creature I usually am around him. He has been riding—hence the scent of horse—and wears buff buckskins, very tight, but I look only once and glance away, then back to make sure I did see what I thought, and, oh…it is hopeless.

  “Many lightskirts—or so I believe—enter the profession after they lost jobs in service, or as seamstresses,” Inigo says. He sounds quite knowledgeable.

  “Why, that gives me an idea,” Julia says. “Philomena, if we find one, Hen could train her, and then she could be your maid when you are married.”

  “How do you know so much about fallen women, Mr. Linsley?”

  He stares at me and drops his whip.

  I shall not watch him bend to pick it up.

  Only a little.

  Oh.

  “Philomena!”

  “Yes, Julia?”

  “Will you second the motion?”

  “Oh, yes. Certainly. Should I write it down?” What motion?

  Miss Blundell makes a mumbling sound with her mouth full.

  “Thank you. The motion was seconded by Miss Celia Blundell.”

  “Good.”

  Inigo sits in a chair opposite me and I look away. I really must not stare at him. Celia Blundell is the biggest gossip I know, other than myself, Julia, and my sister.

  “Exactly how do you mean to go about this, Julia, my dear?” Inigo asks.

  “Why, you shall escort us to a house of ill fame and select a woman for us to interview,” Julia replies.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  I don’t like this at all.

  Now Philomena believes I am a great whoremonger, in addition to my other faults.

  “I didn’t second the motion,” Miss Blundell says. “I asked what we should wear.”

  “Oh, of course.”

  The three of them enter into an animated conversation on the sartorial aspects of such an expedition.

  My dear little Philomena has a refurbished dress and a new bonnet she very much wants to show off.

  Julia thinks they should dress plainly, like nuns or Quakers.

  Miss Blundell says something unintelligible which the other two consider and discuss with some gravity regarding new sleeves.

  I interrupt them. “Ladies, since we attend in the evening, you should dress as for the opera, with hooded cloaks, and you might also want to consider masks in case any gentlemen of your acquaintance are present.”

  “I am sure we do not know anyone who frequents such places,” Julia says with a sniff.

  I agree, hoping that old, bad habits do not send my brother seeking diversions after an arduous late session in the House, and suggest the enterprise should take place the next evening.

  Again, there is much discussion. It is a good thing women do not have the vote, for they would not be satisfied until all agree, a most dreadful form of government. Tonight, Monday, is apparently out of the question; there is some event that all three ladies are determined to attend. Tuesday, tomorrow, is debated with great gravity and little substance. Wednesday, of course, is Almack’s, and that is sacred.

  Another long, rambling conversation takes place on how we are to get there. Terrant may need his carriage, and we certainly don’t want the gossipmongers of the town talking of how it was seen outside Mrs. Bright’s establishment. The three ladies agree with me that they should meet here, and then we shall take a hackney.

  It is an exhausting process. If I did not have Philomena to watch I think I should go mad, or fall asleep.

  “Miss Wellesley-Clegg,” I say finally when they seem to be crawling to a consensus, “I found that book in which you expressed an interest.”

  “The book—oh, that book.” Bless her, she is incapable of guile.

  “Yes, indeed. That book.” We nod and smile at each other like a pair of imbeciles for a few minutes.

  “That book. To be sure.” She stan
ds, knocking the plate of cakes from the footman’s hand into Miss Blundell’s lap, and a better destination for them I couldn’t imagine.

  I draw her aside.

  “I trust you will not try to kiss me.”

  I try not to grin. She is enchanting when she puts on airs. “Only if you want me to, my dear.”

  I take a quick look around. At the far end of the drawing room, our dear mamas clasp each other’s hands, lost in their girlhood recollections. Miss Blundell is eating—what else—and Julia is purposefully looking away.

  “You are so arrogant.”

  “No, I’m not.”

  “You are.”

  “No, I—listen, you divine idiot, I wanted to tell you the deed was signed this morning, and Weaselcopse Manor is mine.”

  “Oh, Inigo.” She clasps my hands in hers. “I am so happy for you.”

  “Thank you.” I feel an odd pang. She should not be this happy about something which originally hurt her feelings. “Philomena, will you accompany me and Julia tomorrow morning to buy a new statue for your papa?”

  She beams at me. “Oh, certainly. I love to buy things.”

  “Excellent. I need to take care of that before I go down to Weaselcopse and make sure all is well there. I’ll be away for a week or so.”

  “Oh, please come back in time for my coming-out ball. It is a se’ennight Saturday.”

  “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.” Why this should make me feel so uncomfortable, I have no idea.

  “Oh, yes, I am sure I shall have an excellent choice of suitors there.” She bites her lip and looks down.

  I’d like to bite that perfect red lip, too.

  “Inigo?” Her eyes are wonderful, gray and green with a rim of gold around the center. “How I wish you would marry.”

  “Maybe I will, now I have my own house and land.”