The Rules of Gentility Read online

  I shake my head, no.

  Hen leans toward me. “They say it’s her virtue gone. All I can say is, miss, you were lucky he arrived when he did, with the captain talking to the master in his study.”

  She’s right. It could have been blood on the floor, not broken eggs. “Why are you being so unpleasant, Hen?”

  “I like Mr. Linsley,” she says. The impertinence, as if my choice of suitors were of any concern to her. “And for all the captain’s a military hero, there’s something I don’t trust about him, and I’ve said as much to your mama, and your papa, too. Old Hen looks out for you, miss, and don’t you forget it.”

  “Pray clean the floor,” I say in as dignified a tone as possible, and attempt to sweep from the room—almost impossible, as my egg-soaked stockings squish in my shoes. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the hall mirror, and I look shockingly bad—my face is all red, and my hair is in complete disorder.

  Oh horrors, the doorknob to Papa’s study turns. They will be out in a moment, and I am not fit to be seen. I have no choice but to dive into the water-closet where Inigo first proposed to me and hold my breath for a number of reasons.

  “Good God, Hen, what’s this?” I hear Papa say. “And where’s Miss Philly?”

  “In the water closet, sir.” Oh, I could kill her. I truly could. To admit that in front of the gentleman to whom I am now engaged!

  “She had an accident with some eggs.” Oh, that sounds even worse. I am mortified.

  “So I see. Come, Blackwater, we’ll go to the morning room instead. You’ll get to meet my two youngest girls. I regret you can’t yet meet my son Robert—he’s busy looking after things for us at home…”

  Papa’s voice dies away as he leads my dearest Horatio away, and when all is quiet I tiptoe out of the water-closet, squelch upstairs, wash my feet, and change my gown. I splash cold water on my face and tie my hair back with a ribbon. I leave the gown and ruined slippers and stockings in a heap on the floor for Hen to sort out. I need to look innocent and untouched, as though I have not just kissed someone while engaged—or almost engaged—to another. As though doubts do not rage in my mind.

  Oh, nonsense. I shall be Mrs. Horatio Blackwater. I shall live happily ever after. I do wonder where we shall live, but doubtless Horatio will find us a charming country place, not too far from Mama and Papa. Or we shall live in style in London and attend all the most fashionable soirees, although quite honestly why one should wish to do so, having obtained a husband, is a mystery. I should much prefer staying at home with my dear husband, although I am not sure quite what we’d talk about. But of course, we’d read poetry aloud to each other by a cosy fireside. I shall embroider something exquisite. A baby’s cap, for instance.

  Oh, it will be delightful.

  Absolutely delightful.

  I am the happiest of women.

  Devoid of egg, I go downstairs, endeavoring to put a girlish spring into my step. The footman in the hall, carrying a bucket and mop, asks me if I am feeling all right, for my gait seems unsteady.

  “Oh, I am quite well, Simon. I am engaged now.”

  “Why, congratulations, miss. Mr. Linsley was most generous to us concerning the matter of the blue paint.”

  “Not to Mr. Linsley!” I hiss like an enraged serpent.

  “Beg your pardon, miss. It’s the captain, then, is it?”

  “Yes.”

  He gives me a dour nod. “Much happiness, miss.”

  I shall really have to talk to Papa about the servants’ impertinence. First Hen, and now Simon. It is too bad.

  Everyone—Mama, Papa, my sisters, and Horatio—look up when I enter the morning room. Papa and Horatio, of course, stand, and Papa comes over to me and kisses me. “Is everything all right, lass?” he murmurs under the flow of Mama’s chatter.

  “Why, yes, Papa.” I hope my carefree laugh doesn’t sound as much of a wild cackle as it does to my ears.

  “Any doubts, Philly, and you don’t have to have him. You know that.”

  “No, Papa.” For a moment I wish I could pour my heart out to him, if I could even put into words the emotions I feel at the moment.

  “Why now Philly oh doesn’t she look well my dearest Horatio I believe I may safely call you that now oh it is so delightful come my dears you must help me with something upstairs Lydia pray bring my sewing box…” She bears my sisters away in a tide of chatter.

  Papa shakes Horatio’s hand and leaves.

  For the first time we are alone in a room together.

  He raises my hand to his lips and kisses it, while gazing at me with his dark, dark eyes—like bottomless pools of water, and his eyelashes like overhanging ferns, although of course not green.

  “Did Papa ask you about subsidence?”

  “Subsidence, my darling?” His voice is rich and warm like chocolate.

  “Yes. It’s one of his main interests, because of the mine. And the house. You know our house is falling down because of it.” I gulp in some air.

  “You are altogether charming, Philly.”

  “Don’t call me Philly!” I snatch my hand back. How dare he!

  “I beg your pardon. I thought since your family address you so, it was your preference.”

  “No. I hate it.” And what right does he have to think he can address me by my Christian name? Or that loathed shortened version of it?

  He takes my hand again. “I should like to claim a kiss, now we are betrothed.”

  Oh. I knew this would happen. A kiss. And of course it will be wonderful.

  He winds one arm around my waist so I am pressed against a quantity of gold frogging and lowers his mouth to mine. Of course he is so much taller that he has to hunch over a little, even though I stand on tiptoes, and I feel we must look foolish together.

  He has something on his hair, or his skin, maybe, that smells odd. His mouth is cool and encloses mine completely so I fear for a moment I shall not be able to breathe. And then something thick and wet pushes inside my mouth, and it feels like an invasion, not an act of tenderness.

  I pull away and I am afraid my face reveals my repulsion.

  He laughs. “Your maidenly modesty becomes you, my dear Philomena.” He leans to whisper in my ear, “I admit I am impatient to taste your charms. What say you to a special licence?”

  Impatient to taste your charms? It reminds me of Mrs. Bright commanding Kate to raise her skirts. “You must talk to Papa.”

  “Of course.” He places one hand on my bodice. I wish I could say the hand was on my shoulder, but it is not my shoulder at all, somewhat further down, and certainly a place no gentleman would place his hand (although one has and I am guiltily aware of that fact. But he is no gentleman and I will not think of him).

  Oh lord, Blackwater is as bad as Elverton and his cow. No, he is worse. He squeezes.

  I give a small stifled squeak of alarm and feel most foolish. “I think Mama may need my help,” I blurt out, and bolt from the room.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  Stairs. A lot of them. Some marble, cool against my face when I found myself lying on them. Cards, too, sliding from my hands as though bewitched, the idiot grins of the kings and queens and jacks mocking me. And claret, dear God, rivers and rivers of claret, and I the conduit through which it has passed.

  Church bells clang nearby, or inside my head, I can’t tell, and I don’t want to know.

  I am ill. Deathly ill.

  I can still breathe, which I do with some misgiving. Eyes closed, I take stock of my surroundings. All limbs appear to be present although I am completely unclothed. The sheets are warm and soft and smell better than I. I move my hands around. I am alone.

  Good. One embarrassment spared.

  But where am I?

  I can hear the sounds of traffic, street cries, and those damnable bells, faintly muffled. Closer still, is the sound of a baby’s babble, and a woman’s voice. Ever conscious of my roiling insides, I smell coffee nearby.

  I open my eyes. Shards
of light pierce my skull and I close them again. I try again, and find myself gazing at a canopy, stuff of dark blue with a shiny stripe in the same color. I remember when she chose that for our bed. The bed from Mr. Totterton’s shop. This bed.

  Dear God.

  I close my eyes and release a heartfelt groan.

  The door opens and closes, and I hear her footsteps, light and quick on the wooden floor.

  “So you’re awake.” Her voice is impatient, a busy woman who has things to do and not much time to deal with the drunken wretch in her bed.

  I make a sound. Once I had the power of speech, but apparently now it is lost to me.

  “Fanny,” I manage to say.

  “Here, take this. Open your eyes, Inigo.”

  “Dadadadada,” says my son.

  I open my eyes. He is perched on Fanny’s hip, his little legs kicking. He reaches for me. Me, the drunken dissolute who has crawled back into his mother’s bed. Yet he loves me still.

  “Inigo!” She shoves a cup of coffee at me.

  I manage to raise myself onto one elbow and drink the coffee, very strong and sweet. There is a moment of indecision while my stomach debates whether this is the final insult, to be expelled immediately, or whether it should be accepted as a peace offering. I am happy to say it is the latter.

  “Well,” says Fanny. She sits at the end of the bed, well out of grabbing range, and frowns at me. “And can you speak?”

  I make another sound.

  She takes the cup from my limp fingers, leaves the room, and returns a few moments later with more coffee.

  “Thank you,” I manage to say this time.

  She takes the empty coffee cup, places it well out of reach, and puts Will onto the bed. Babbling, he crawls toward me, sweet-smelling and delighted to see me. At my chest, he stops to examine a feature he is familiar with, although of far more use and beauty on his mother.

  “Careful, Will,” I say as he reaches out with thumb and finger like a little crab, a look of intense concentration on his face.

  He seems impressed by my anatomy and replaces his fingers with his mouth, sucking like the devil. I give a yell of pain and he bursts into tears.

  “Oh, little lad, Papa’s sorry,” I take him in my arms, kissing his wet face. “Don’t cry, Will.”

  Fanny gives a huff of annoyance and takes him from me, rocking him against her bosom. “So you’ve come back to life. Would you like some more coffee?”

  “No, thank you. Fanny, did we…that is to say, last night, when I…” I have only the haziest recollections of the previous evening. God knows what I have done. Is a brother or sister for little Will growing inside her even now?

  Will struggles from Fanny’s arms and crawls on the bed, babbling and cooing.

  “Oh, sir.” Fanny lowers her eyelashes. “Never shall I forget last night. It was…never have I known you more potent, your ardor so unflagging, your engine of love more mighty.”

  I cover my innocent son’s ears with my hands.

  She continues, “I blush to remember the acts we performed. My screams of passion were intermixed with pleas as I begged you for more, more, and you rose to the occasion again and again—”

  “Now, Fanny—”

  “You drove me to heights of ecstasy hitherto unscaled by woman. Why, today I can scarcely walk. I am the envy of my female neighbors—”

  “Fanny, you’re funning me, I hope.”

  This is apparently the wittiest thing anyone has ever said to her. She hoots with laughter, for what I consider an inordinately long time, and Will looks at her and laughs too.

  “Inigo, you fool,” she says, “you walked in here at two in the morning, announced your heart was broken, and took off all your clothes. Then you got into bed.”

  “And that was all?”

  She snorts. “Do you think you would have been capable of anything more? My guests were somewhat astonished.”

  “Your guests?” Oh, good God. Did I strip in front of complete strangers? Or worse, people I know?

  “When I saw what you were about, I brought you in here. You looked already quite foolish enough.”

  “And then what?”

  “After a while, I came to bed, too. You hardly stirred all night. And that was all.”

  “Oh, thank God. That is to say, Fan…well, you know what I mean.”

  “It’s a good thing I do.” She allows me to kiss her hand. “And do you want to tell me about this business of your broken heart?”

  “You can probably guess the matter.”

  She nods. “I’m sorry, Inigo.”

  “It won’t affect our arrangement. The cottage is ready…”

  She silences me with a fingertip on my mouth. “Hush,” she says as tenderly as though she spoke to Will.

  “Where’s my coat?”

  “In the other room. Why, were you playing cards?”

  “I’m afraid so. I feel strong enough to view the damage.”

  She leaves me and Will while she fetches my coat, and we look through the pockets. To my astonishment, my pockets are full of notes and IOUs from others—I barely remember the card games, much less winning.

  “Fifteen hundred guineas,” Fanny says. Will crawls back to her and she kisses his head.

  “How absurd. I never win at cards.”

  “Only sober and with a whole heart you don’t.” She hesitates. “Inigo, would you like me to talk to Philomena? I liked her so much, and I thought she suited you well.”

  “She’s found someone else. It was her prerogative. At the time I didn’t think either of us cared. But I do.”

  “I hate to see you unhappy, Inigo. Who is he?”

  “I don’t know. She wouldn’t tell me his name after I threatened to kill him.”

  We both become aware that Will is silent, and with a baby of his age, that is never a good sign.

  Will sits with a beatific smile on his face, and shreds of paper dangling from his mouth. More fragments, damp and ruined, are clutched in his hands. He opens his mouth and releases an aristocratic and expensive smear in ink as a gray, gooey mess.

  My lovely son has just eaten my winnings.

  Chapter 19

  Madam,

  I return herein the sum of seventeen shillings and sixpence that you were obliging enough to donate to the Association for the Rescue and Succor of those in Extremis. I thank you for your term as Secretary and must inform you your services are no longer required in this or any other capacity.

  I offer my congratulations on your engagement, and remain your most faithful servant,

  Julia Linsley

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  I return to a house full of tears. Julia, it appears, has succumbed to her condition, and lies on a sofa, crying. My mother, embroidering with fury, stabbing her needle into the cloth with some violence, occupies another.

  “What did you do, Inigo?” Julia asks.

  I shrug.

  “I have lost my best friend,” she wails.

  “I too,” snarls my mother from across the room, and brandishes a large pair of scissors at me.

  I cannot bear this Greek chorus of lamenting recrimination, and leave to bump into my brother in the hall.

  “I should have known,” he says in disgust. “You’d best go to the country. I can’t have you here upsetting the women.”

  “Yes, brother. I’ll leave immediately.”

  “No. On Monday. Tonight is the Wellesley-Cleggs’ ball.”

  “We have to go to that?”

  He looks embarrassed. “Well, of course. Julia wants to give Philomena the cut direct, and she wants to see what she’s wearing. Apparently there’s some business of a new gown.”

  I just don’t understand women. “But—but she’s in there, crying like a baby.”

  “I know.” He pats my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Ratsarse.”

  His small gesture of sympathy nearly undoes me. I rush away, seeking refuge and a razor. I briefly consider cutting my throat, then decide I wi
ll not give that faithless flirt the satisfaction of seeing the extent of my broken heart.

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  Nothing is going right. Hen is being deliberately uncooperative, we have two hours until guests arrive and I am still not dressed, my hair stands out like a wild bush and I cannot find my favorite fan.

  “And the great pit of fire…” drones Hen. “You want this sewn in here, miss? You’re quite sure?”

  “Yes! That is the third time I have told you.”

  She smirks. “Sinners all we cry to thee… Well, it’s a change from usual, miss, that’s all.”

  “I’ll tell Mama how contrary you are.”

  “Aye, miss, and I’ll tell her how you told the dressmaker, when your mama wasn’t listening, to cut the bodice lower than was decent.”

  “And so now I’ve changed my mind. Mama was right. You should be pleased. Oh, give it to me. I’ll do it myself.” I grab the gown from her, prick my finger, and a large blob of blood spills on the fabric. “Now see what you’ve done. I’ve ruined it.”

  “Give it to me, miss.” She snatches it back and something rips.

  At that moment, fortunately, someone raps on my door. “Philly? Are you dressed?”

  I pull on a wrapper. “Come in, Papa.”

  He takes a look at me, red-faced and fighting tears, and holds out his arms. “Now, pet, what’s the matter? Hen, you can leave us.”

  “Oh, Papa.” I snivel wretchedly against his coat. “I think I may have made a mistake, becoming engaged to the captain.”

  “Indeed, lass. Why’s that? Something you’ve heard about him? We don’t have to announce it tonight, you know, although your mother’s set on it.”

  I try to think of a way to tell my dear papa that my mistake is in choosing a man who cannot make me feel shivery and indecent and in whose breeches I have no interest. Oh, it’s no good. I shrug instead.

  “He is a bit of a dark horse,” Papa says. “I’ve asked a few questions, you see. But if he’s the one you want…”