The Rules of Gentility Page 19

  “You can’t go to Inchcombe, Ma. It’s unhealthy and you’ll be lonely. Come to Weaselcopse with me.”

  She gives a small smile. “You know we would drive each other mad, Inigo, although it is very kind of you to offer. Besides, Terrant would never allow it.”

  “He doesn’t have to know.”

  She sighs and picks through her jewels, pulling out a brooch and handing it to me. “Take this. They’re diamonds, and you should be able to pay your debts, although I am greatly shamed that you should squander money on whores.”

  I look at the diamond brooch in my hands, the initials E and H twined together within a heart. My parents’ initials. “I can’t take this, Ma. It was a gift from Papa.”

  “Take it.” She folds my hand over it. “I’m quite sure he wouldn’t approve of what you have done—I certainly do not—but I think you have lost quite enough already.” She lowers her eyes, and adds, “I wanted to thank you for your discretion, also.”

  “My discretion?”

  “Yes. When you gave my busk to Julia’s maid and she brought it to me.”

  “Your busk?” Now I’m outraged again. To think of my mother and her lover creeping off to do—well, actually the sort of thing I’d liked to have done with Philomena, if I were honest. The sort of thing I almost did with Lady Caroline Bludge while poor Philomena was in the room. “You mean—oh, good God. I—”

  “Hold your tongue.” She gives me a cynical look. “You finance orgies in whorehouses and intend to set up house with your mistress—”

  “Former mistress, madam—”

  She snorts. “Your mistress and your bastard, and you dare preach to me? You’re almost as bad as Terrant, nay, worse, for he hardly has a brain in his head…why, Inigo, what’s the matter?”

  “Will almost died,” I gasp and take my handkerchief back. “My son, Will. He was so ill, but he got better, and Philomena was there, too…”

  “Oh, Inigo.” She puts her arms around me, something she hasn’t done in years. “Inigo, if—if I come to Weaselcopse, may I meet your son?”

  “I’d be honored.” I blow my nose, embarrassed now at my behavior, and step away from her.

  “Of course, I couldn’t possibly receive his mother.”

  “Of course not.” I try to keep a straight face. “Heaven for-fend.”

  She gives me her usual sort of look. “And the garden was a disgrace last time I visited.”

  We are back to normal, I believe, to our mutual relief. I cannot believe I have just invited this dreadful woman to share my country exile, and what is worse, to my horror she has accepted. I shall have to assign her rooms as far away from me as possible in the house, I shall have to creep out at night to plant weeds to occupy her in the daytime…

  “Inigo?”

  “Yes, madam?”

  “You weren’t listening, as usual. I asked you, what are you going to do about Philomena?”

  Chapter 24

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  When I come to my senses, I discover I was not dreaming. Before Aunt Rowbotham can whisk away the newspaper, I read a scurrilous cartoon, a rude poem, and a commentary by a lady of society on a certain vulgar display by a Miss W—C—. Worse, there is a letter from one of those Wellesleys, stating their commitment to upholding the flower of English maidenhood, full of vehement attacks upon those from Trade and those who seek to better their station by mixing with the ton.

  Small memories of the previous day leak into my mind. Oh, I have ruined myself. I shall have to be a governess in some desolate mansion that is probably haunted and has brigands lurking in the dense forests surrounding it. I shall never see Inigo again or fall in love with anyone else. I may never see my mama and papa again—I cannot forget the shocked look on their faces, and Mama’s complete and unnerving silence.

  I spend much of that day crying and feeling quite ill from the opiate I took.

  Aunt Rowbotham is herself, which is to say she forces me to give her pug Roland a bath, and then read aloud to her. The two of them snore and snort after dinner as I read from a book of improving sermons, occasionally pausing to wipe an errant tear.

  She turns away all callers that day. The front doorbell rings frequently, and I am dying of curiosity to know who has called. Late in the afternoon, aunt Rowbotham summons me into the drawing room, where, to my surprise, Aylesworth and the Mad Poet rise from the sofa and bow.

  “I don’t hold with men,” my aunt says, “but these two are harmless enough, Philomena. In fact, they hardly count. Roland, you will accompany me.”

  The pug waddles away behind her, tongue lolling, and leaving a strong odor of dog in his wake as they leave the room.

  “What a vile creature,” Aylesworth says, raising his handkerchief to his nose. “I mean the pug, of course. Well, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I must congratulate you on your new reputation as the Jezebel of the ton.”

  “Oh, dear. Wasn’t she the one who hammered a stake through someone’s head?”

  “Something of the sort.” He eyes me critically. “You will ruin your complexion as well as your reputation if you insist on crying all day, my dear. Carrotte, give her your handkerchief and fetch her a glass of wine. That’s better. Now, my dear Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I have a proposition for you.”

  Oh, heavens! He is about to ask me to become his mistress! I try to assume an expression of wounded virtue.

  But why has he brought the Mad Poet with him? The Mad Poet, I see, is uncharacteristically silent, and gazes at him as though I were not in the room.

  “I have a mother,” Aylesworth says.

  Well, everyone does, and I wonder why he has to point this out to me.

  “D—d dreadful woman, if you’ll pardon the expression, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. Makes Lady Rowbotham and the Dowager Countess of Terrant look like angels. She’s insistent and meddling. Tends to burst in upon a fellow’s bedchamber at the most awkward of moments.”

  I take a sip of wine and nod encouragingly, wondering why he shares his family reminiscences with me.

  The Mad Poet, I notice, lays a hand on Aylesworth’s knee, which suprises me somewhat.

  “And she harps on unconscionably about the continuation of the line, and my duty to the family. In short, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, my life would be a d—d sight more peaceful if I gave in and became leg-shackled. What do you say, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”

  “You should kneel, Aylesley,” the Mad Poet says.

  He calls him Aylesley?

  “I don’t believe so, sir. This carpet is thick with dog hair and my valet would be most disappointed. You know how unpleasant he can become about the state of my clothes.” Aylesworth pats the Mad Poet’s hand and sighs. “You are such a romantic, my dear.”

  “You mean—you mean you want to marry me?”

  Aylesworth turns his attention back to me. “Why, yes, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. It’s an excellent solution all round. I could keep you in bonnets, and I wouldn’t be ashamed to have you on my arm in public, particularly if you follow my advice at the dressmaker’s. And if there were, ah, consequences following your little adventure, my dear mama would be delighted. We’d be expected to continue the family line, but I daresay we could come to some arrangement.”

  I know I should say something to the effect that I am honored, but I am so surprised I can only stare at the pair of them, who are now staring at each other again.

  “Thank you,” I say eventually. “That’s very kind of you, Aylesworth. And Mr. Carrotte, too. But I…”

  “Oh, Lord.” Aylesworth looks at me with pity. “Please do not tell me you harbor fond feelings for your seducer. How dreadfully unfashionable. Well, my dear, you may certainly continue your liaison with my—our, that is—blessing. Is that one of your aunt’s gowns you are wearing?”

  I nod. Aylesworth gestures to me to stand and flicks away the fichu at my neckline. “Hideous,” he murmurs, and produces a small pocketknife. “This trim is a disgrace. If I may, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”


  As he removes the braid around the neckline and sleeves of the dress, I consider his offer. I should certainly be one of the best-dressed ladies in town, and would have a free rein at the dressmaker’s. And, from the sound of it, a free rein in just about any sphere I chose.

  Aylesworth, having finished removing the trim, undoes the ribbon holding my Grecian knot and fusses with my hair. “Capital hair, wouldn’t you agree, Carrotte? Almost as handsome as yours. You should cut it, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, and then I could have a matched pair.”

  I catch a glance of myself in the mirror and am most impressed by what he has done with my hair—Hen herself could not do so good a job. “Sir, I have no doubt I should be the best-dressed woman in town, but I am afraid it would not suit. Surely you can see I want more. I should not be happy, although I am most honored that you thought of me.”

  “Ah, well.” Aylesworth reties the ribbon. “A pity indeed, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, for it’s not every woman to whom I’d make an offer.”

  He bows, Carrotte bows, and I curtsey. We are tremendously polite, and were I not so weary with sadness I should be excited at having received such a worldly and wicked proposal. But I do feel a little better, and certainly less of a frump in my aunt’s gown, and my hair has never looked better. Why, if I had accepted Aylesworth’s proposal I should hardly need a maid, for my husband could have served as such.

  The two gentlemen leave shortly after, arm in arm, and Aunt Rowbotham bustles me upstairs again to her bedchamber. She has me sort her stockings, and I foresee hours of darning in my near future.

  “Aunt, I believe Roland would like to go for a walk.”

  As I say the word, Roland pants and his eyes protrude further from his head in excitement.

  “The footman can take him.” She reaches for the bell-pull.

  “Oh, Aunt, I should so like some fresh air. I’ll take him into the garden.”

  Roland grunts and cavorts heavily around me.

  “Very well.” She does not sound displeased, but sends a footman for a leash, and finally I am able to descend the stone steps into the garden. It is pleasant to get outside, the only drawback being that I am in the company of Roland, cross-eyed, snorting, and intent on giving every plant some male attention.

  I haul him down through the flowerbeds, past the kitchen garden and chickens, and to my delight find the door that leads into the alley unlocked. I slip out. A few servants linger here, the men smoking and flirting with the women, and they’re too interested in each other’s company to take much notice of me. And so I set off for my sister’s house. It is closest to Aunt Rowbotham’s, and in truth I am afraid to go home—or what used to be my home, before I became a Fallen Woman. I know my aunt would have admitted Mama and Papa if they had called, and I fear I am cast off from my family. I cannot bear the thought that I might be turned away.

  Roland is quite out of breath, his tongue drooling from his mouth when we arrive. To my relief, the butler admits me, but leaves me standing in the hall, where Roland sits on the marble, wheezing and grunting, and it is there my sister finds us.

  She is accompanied by a footman. Oh, how degrading. She will use force to eject me from her house!

  The footman looks embarrassed. He coughs, and murmurs, “Beg your pardon, miss, Mrs. Pullen can’t talk to you.”

  “Oh, dear.”

  “Yes, miss, Mr. Pullen has forbidden it.”

  Diana beckons him over and they confer, whispering together. Then he crosses the hall to me.

  “Mrs. Pullen likes the way you have done your hair, miss, and wants to know whether you would like to take tea.”

  “Oh, yes, thank you, and a bowl of water for Roland, if she would be so kind.” At least if I drink tea with her, she may unbend a little. “May I enquire how her health is? And that of Master James?”

  “Oh, he’s a right little rascal, miss. Beg your pardon, Mrs. Pullen.” He crosses to her side to receive her official answer.

  This is absurd! Why, with the black-and-white tile patterns of the hall, and the to-and-fro motion of the footman, it is though we are participants in a game of chess. I take a step forward, just at the moment the butler, who peers out at the street from the small window by the front door, announces that Pullen has returned home.

  My sister looks at me in horror and shakes her head.

  I gather Roland to my bosom—he is quite heavy and smells horrible, and pants into my face—and run upstairs.

  There is only one place to go, one person who can save me—it has come to me in a flash. Why, oh why, have I not seen his worth before? Why did I allow myself to be seduced—or almost seduced, or as good as, and what a pity I shall never have the pleasure of being seduced properly, or improperly I should say—by that most vile rake who has abandoned me? Dear Tom, who has always been my friend, even when I least deserved it, and who now will probably not chase me with wriggling worms.

  I burst into his office. He starts, and rises to his feet, knocking over a cup of tea on his desk, soaking the papers lying there.

  “Oh, Tom, Tom,” I cry. “You are my only hope. My family have disowned me. Please help me! I’ll do anything you want!” And I fly into his arms.

  Chapter 25

  Miss Wellesley-Clegg

  Of course I had forgotten about Roland, who does not seem too happy to find himself crushed between us, and I swear, becomes even more odiferous. That, and a certain stillness about Tom make me back away.

  “Anything?” he repeats. He produces a handkerchief and blots the mess on his desk.

  Good heavens, I really did say that. “Yes. Anything.” To cover my extreme embarrassment I put Roland onto the floor, where he slurps up spilled tea.

  “You asked me quite recently not to propose marriage to you.” He folds his arms and glares at me, as though he was angry with me, and I cannot bear it.

  “Tom, please—”

  “Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I am not a—a piece of clothing, a bonnet or some such that you can take from a peg on the wall when you fancy a change, or when you have need of me.” This is so close to my own heartless assessment of Tom that tears of shame rise to my eyes. “I have feelings, too, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, but there’s only so much a man can take. You broke my heart once, and I won’t let you do it again.”

  “I—I’m sorry.”

  “And I certainly can’t afford to keep a mistress.”

  Well, I asked for that. We speak plainly where we come from.

  “Philly,” he says then, more gently than I expected, which makes me cry harder, “you don’t love me the way I love you. You never will. You’re asking to make yourself unhappy, and me along with you. It’s no good, lass.”

  I have to acknowledge he is right. I have never been so ashamed in my life, not even when I speculate on what vulgarities I may have uttered in the church in front of the ton. “Forgive me,” I say, and wipe my nose on my sleeve.

  “I’ll escort you back to your aunt’s,” he says.

  “No, Tom. You don’t have to do that. Pullen would be angry if he found out. I have Roland to protect me if you could call a hackney.”

  He nods and accompanies me downstairs. Pullen, fortunately, is nowhere in sight, and neither is my sister.

  We wait together in silence as a footman is sent to summon a hackney, and then Tom accompanies me outside. His silence almost breaks my heart. I have lost a dear friend through my own selfishness.

  “Tom,” I say, as I step into the carriage, “I should like to ask you something I have wondered about for years. Do you remember when I fell in the duck pond when I was five?”

  He nods, smiling slightly.

  “Did you push me in?”

  Then he leans forward and kisses my cheek. “Not telling,” he whispers, shuts the carriage door, and I am driven away.

  Roland, exhausted by the exciting events of the day, snores horribly on the short journey back to Aunt Rowbotham’s. By this time it is almost dark, and after I have paid the driver and I am about to ascend t
he steps to the house, a cloaked figure dashes toward me. Heavens, it is a brigand! Or a thief! I scream quite loudly, and Roland, growling horribly, lurches forward, teeth bared.

  I am afraid he will catch something if he bites the ruffian, and haul him into the house, telling him that even though he stinks he is the best and bravest of dogs.

  The butler takes my cloak and bonnet and tells me, to my surprise, that my aunt expects me in the drawing-room. She is not there, but someone else is—my dear papa.

  He holds out his arms to me and I burst into tears once more.

  “There, there, lass,” he says. “Don’t take on. Everything’s all right.”

  It is not, but I am grateful to him for saying it.

  “How is Mama?” I ask.

  He shakes his head. “Silent as the grave.”

  We both sit down and he hands me a large handkerchief. “I owe you an apology, lass.”

  It’s the last thing I expect to hear, and I stop crying from surprise.

  “You see,” he continues, “I laid a trap for Blackwater, but I wasn’t quite clever enough. I baited him with the fifty guineas—I knew as soon as I was out of the house, or supposedly so, he’d ask you for money. And I knew he’d press you to marry him while I was gone. But I had to catch him red-handed, although I never intended it to happen at the altar. I meant to confront him at the house, but there was some problem with traffic—a dray overturned from some fool driving a hackney too fast, apparently.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me?” I burst into tears anew. “Did you trust me so little?”

  He doesn’t answer, but I know what he is thinking, and I don’t like it one bit. His daughter was frivolous enough to be almost engaged to two gentlemen at once and made a dreadful mistake. And I have spent a huge amount of Papa’s money on bonnets. I shall not buy one for at least two months. After one month I shall allow myself to look in the windows of milliners’ shops, but only look. I shall not go inside…“I’m sorry,” I whisper. “Papa, is it true that he runs Mrs. Bright’s house?”