The Rules of Gentility Read online

  For the first time in my life I understand why the waltz is considered an indecent dance.

  “So, are you engaged yet to that dolt?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir?”

  “Elverton, you silly little ninny. Or possibly Darrowby. They buzz around you like bees around a hive.”

  Heavens! First he calls me his dear woman, and now a silly little ninny, and compares me to a beehive, which no one has ever done before. I tread on his foot in my excitement.

  “Why, no, Mr. Linsley, I am engaged to neither gentleman, and that is a most impertinent question.”

  He grins. How warm and large his hand is on my waist!

  “Miss Wellesley-Clegg, you are quite delightful when you pretend to be offended.”

  “I am offended, sir.” He thinks I am quite delightful! I get out of step and release a small shower of silk flowers.

  “Dear me, you are quite disordered. Let us repair outside and make all well.”

  Before I know it, he has danced me through the open doors onto the balcony outside, where I am beyond the sight of my chaperones. There are a few other couples out here, standing close together, who pay us no attention whatsoever.

  I am alone with a man of bad reputation. I cannot wait to tell my sister.

  “Do you wish to scream and run to your mama?” We are no longer dancing, but he still has one hand on my waist.

  “No, sir. You do not frighten me.” Oh, but he does, but it is in a very good way.

  He takes a step closer while pulling me towards him, and I am now pressed close to him. Some bits of me, despite my stays, squish up against him…and he is interesting. Bony and hard, and very, very warm, with a faint scent of lavender. He is not so tall as that great gangly Elverton, so he has only to bend his head a little to…

  “I believe I am about to kiss you, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  “Oof.” My breath is entirely gone for some reason.

  His lips brush mine. They are very soft and gentle, and I remember their contours as I have observed them from time to time—the full lower lip that now twitches, although I think that is the wrong word, against mine. It is both shocking and innocent. I open my mouth to ask him if that is all that is involved, for why should people make such a fuss if that is all there is? And then his mouth brushes mine again, with the tip of his tongue, warm and soft and wet, reaching to touch mine.

  Did he really mean to do that? He tastes delicious. Of wine, naturally, and, although this sounds most silly, of velvet, and music, and the smoothness of a seashell. And beneath all, he is the wild creature who will eat me up.

  Now I want to eat him too.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  Devil take it.

  A fellow does not want to open his eyes to see his dear mama and his eldest brother at the foot of his bed.

  It reminds me of my ill-fated army career, the shortest in history, a full twenty-two hours, which ended in an ignominious fall from a balcony and a broken leg. The colonel told me my conduct was unbecoming to the uniform. How could it have been? I was naked as Adam, my regimentals strewn on the colonel’s bedchamber floor where his lady had ripped them off me but fifteen ecstatic minutes before.

  And only to think that had the colonel not come home early that night, I could have been gloriously blown to pieces for king and country on the field of Waterloo. And then, instead of being known as the wastrel son of the family, I would have been elevated to damned near sainthood.

  That time I woke with a demon in my leg, another in my head, and a damned parson mumbling of fornicators and adulterers, for I was not expected to live.

  As then, my immediate thought is: What the devil have I done this time?

  Terrant has his older-brother sanctimonious smirk pasted onto his face, the look of a man doing his duty at the expense of his debauched younger brother and making sure everyone knows how much he enjoys it.

  “Why, Mama and Pudgebum,” I say, using the nickname he had at school, something I know will annoy him. “Good morning.”

  My head and heart pound. Foxed, yes, I was certainly foxed. It’s expected of a gentleman. But not overly so.

  “You must marry, Inigo,” Mama pronounces.

  Oh, dear God. “Wh—who?” I quaver.

  She frowns. “Whom, Inigo.”

  “This is the way of it, Ratsarse,” my brother says, using my own hated childhood nickname. “You need someone to bring you up to snuff.”

  “I do?”

  “So,” Terrant continues, “the family has decided—regretfully you slept through the meeting, which concluded half an hour ago—that you should marry. As soon as your engagement is certain, you shall have Weaselcopse Manor and its estate as your own, and to which you shall bring your bride.”

  Since I already act as land agent for Weaselcopse Manor, and a handful of other smaller estates the family owns, I am only thankful I am to inherit some land in good order. “Why, brother, how exceedingly generous of you.”

  “I should expect you to continue in your duties elsewhere.” Terrant may lose income from Weaselcopse but he’s too tightfisted to pay someone else.

  “Shall I not be too busy dandling my children on my knee?”

  “Which brings us to another matter,” Mama says. The dear woman has an unpleasant grin on her face. I anticipate she is to have revenge for the years of worry her troublesome youngest son has caused. She nods at Pudgebum.

  “You may come in, now, sir!”

  A black-clad, obsequious figure bows his way into the room at my brother’s command.

  “We wish to make sure,” my sweet, retiring mama says, “that everything is in working order. This is Dr. Ferguson.”

  “I beg your pardon, Mama?” I clutch the sheets to myself. Everything in working order? Surely she cannot mean…no, it is obscene.

  “You lead a life of dissolution, yet have shown no inclination to marry. What do you expect us to think?”

  “I may be dissolute, but I am no fool! I have spent a considerable sum on—”

  Pudgebum glowers at me, shaking his head, to remind me that our dear mama is a creature of delicate sensibilities whose mind may not be sullied by the mention of sheep gut, except possibly in the context of sausages.

  Dr. Ferguson ingratiates himself forward and drops a leather case, which lands with an ominous rattle, on my bed. His nose is long, embellished with an unhealthy drip. He produces a small porcelain vessel and shoves it at me, spluttering something in a barbarous, onion-scented Scottish accent.

  Mama leaves the room in a rustle of self-righteousness.

  “Piss,” my brother translates.

  “Piss on you,” I say, with the wit and grace for which I am renowned, and resign myself to my fate.

  This must be divine punishment for kissing that pretty, silly, affected husband-hunting butterfly, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. I shall never do it again.

  Never.

  Chapter 5

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  D—n.

  If I were a man, of course, I should have the privilege of spelling out the word. It seems my sister, as right as rain and stuffing herself like a pig in the supper room last night, has good reason for her hearty appetite, thus ruining my bonnet and gossip plans.

  “I shall die,” she moans from her sofa. Her face is much the same color as her morning gown, a misty green that otherwise would be quite attractive. “I shall never get in whelp again. Oh, if only Pullen were not so passionate a man.”

  Pullen, passionate? I wonder he has time to take his nose from his collection of butterflies, which I have always considered the true love of his life.

  “Now my dear I was like this every morning all the while I carried you and Philly too but they do say it is the sign of an easy confinement or a boy I cannot remember which oh of course an easy confinement for I remember not ten minutes after I had you dear Diana I was calling out for some good roast beef do you think we should call your maid my dear?”

  “No. Pra
y do not talk of food, Mama.” She waves away her angelic son James, who toddles around the room with a toy clutched to his chest. “Show your horse to your aunt.”

  “No,” he says in a singsong voice. “No, no, no.” He lurches against my knee, stuffs a finger into his nose, removes it and smears my gown. I am thankful it is the unfortunate yellow muslin, from which the ink removal has not been altogether successful.

  “Sit on Aunt Philly’s lap like a good boy,” my sister says in a faint voice.

  I brace myself, remembering what happened last time James sat on my lap, and arrange the inkblot strategically under his inadequately padded bottom. He climbs up, with the help of very sharp elbows and knees, and stares at me.

  “No,” he says as an opening conversational gambit.

  I stick my tongue out at him.

  He returns the courtesy.

  “Pray do not encourage him Philly well my dear we have high hopes of Elverton…” Mama launches into a frenzied monologue of how soon Elverton will propose, in much the same way gentlemen will talk of a favorite in a horse race.

  Had Diana been in good health, she would have reminded Mama of my comparative youth—but heavens, at almost twenty I am perilously close to being an old maid—and the possibility of bigger fish in the matrimonial sea. As it is, she groans occasionally, a sound Mama takes as encouragement, while I make faces at my sister across the room.

  James makes faces at her too.

  “…and James my dear if you should pull such a face and the wind turns in the other direction for sure you shall be stuck like that forever and all will say what a shame it is that such a pretty boy has turned so plain…”

  “It is not true,” I whisper to my nephew. “She told me that, and I tested it.”

  “No, no, no,” he responds.

  It is about as rewarding as a conversation with Elverton, whose only saving grace in comparison is that he does not stick his finger up his nose in my presence. As my sister groans on the sofa, my mother prattles, and James alternates between holding his breath and repeating his favorite word, Tom Darrowby enters the room and bows.

  “Mr. Pullen sends his regards, madam,” he says to my mother, “and wishes to know if you would still like to borrow the music for the younger Misses Wellesley-Clegg.”

  “Oh the music yes indeed Tom it is so kind of you to remember for my dear children are so avid for new pieces to play they are the most prodigiously talented girls and Philly will be only too happy to help you choose the pieces why Philly my dear do you have something in your eye that you wink so hard at me you may go with Mr. Darrowby why it is hardly improper since our families are such great friends her modesty is charming is it not Tom…”

  I am swept along by her words as if in a flooded torrent, and somehow find myself being escorted by Tom toward the library, and I must confess I am quite put out.

  “So, how are you, Philly? I hardly have the chance to have a word with you these days.” He gazes at me with his soft brown eyes. “Is it still all right for me to address you by your first name? You have not become a grand London miss, I hope.”

  Of course I have to say it is no matter. After all, I have addressed him in public as Tom, something I see now is most irregular, particularly with Aylesworth, the worst gossip in London, present. I have always called him Tom, and it is a hard habit to break.

  “I was hoping,” he continued, “that we should have a dance together last night, but you were so much in demand. I barely saw you after you danced with Linsley.”

  “Oh, indeed yes, it was a capital ball.” I add, hoping it will make him feel better, “But you and I have danced together a hundred times already, Tom, in the country, and I expect we shall dance together a hundred times more.”

  “I should like to think we could share a lot more than that, Philly.” He opens the library door and ushers me inside. “I must admit I am concerned about you. I should not like you to fall into the clutches of an adventurer.”

  “Oh, I am too sensible for that.” At least, I hope I am. I think again of Mr. Linsley’s threat to gobble me up and go all shivery inside as though I am catching a chill.

  “Well, I suppose it is natural you should enjoy London. Young ladies do like that sort of thing.” He lifts a large leather folder of music from a shelf and spreads it out on the table. “As for me, I miss home, and the easy, neighborly society we enjoyed there.”

  I make a noncommittal noise, remembering long evenings at cards while my mother talked and Tom’s mother threw in the occasional odd comment about the health of Darrowby family members none of us had met. I open the folder and turn the pages, picking out pieces I hope my sisters will enjoy. The sheets of music smell musty and my nose itches.

  “And I think after you have had your fill of the season, Philly, and Parliament is in recess for the summer, we shall all return to Lancashire and then maybe—”

  I interrupt his proposal—for I am sure that is what he intends—with a loud sneeze.

  “I beg your pardon,” I gasp in relief. “Oh, this is splendid. Lydia and Charlotte will be most grateful.”

  “Philly, they play piano. Why are you taking them a piece for two violins and the violoncello?”

  “Oh.” I give a nervous giggle. “My mistake. Thank you, Tom.”

  “And the duet for baritone and soprano? Does Mr. Wellesley-Clegg sing?”

  “Not really.” Oh, I am making a complete fool of myself. And then my mind is made up. I am from Lancashire, where we pride ourselves on plain speech. “Tom, please do not ask me to marry you.”

  He bites his lip and looks quite hurt. “Philly, will you tell me there is no one else? May I hope?”

  When I do not reply, he mutters, “Elverton, I suppose.”

  I do not like to tell him that my current list of eligible gentlemen is down to the last three, all of whom, for various reasons, are entirely unsuitable.

  I grab a handful of what I hope are piano duets. “Tom, I should like us to be friends, for that is what we have always been.”

  “Friends are honest with each other.”

  I stuff the music under one arm and try to think of an appropriate response. Part of me—the rational, sensible Philomena who does not waltz with disreputable men and allow herself to be kissed by them, although to be sure it was only once, and it will never happen again—urges me to encourage him. We know each other so well, after all. It would be a good, appropriate match, and my fortune would surely aid his parliamentary career (for such are his aspirations).

  But the other part of me, the wanton who has not been able to stop thinking of Mr. Linsley’s voice and touch, and his mouth, particularly his mouth (and that business of the tongue, which bothers me far more than it should)—that part of me wants to rage at Tom for his presumption.

  “I think I should go back to Mama now,” I say, as we face each other like a pair of hares about to box each other. It is a particularly feeble excuse—I did not bleat about my mama when Mr. Linsley (the vile seducer) lured me onto the terrace—and I am ashamed to behave like a milk-and-water miss.

  He makes a gesture that is half nod, half bow, and opens the library door for me.

  I sweep past him, leaving, I am sure, a smell of musty old paper in my wake.

  I am absolutely sure that we are not friends now, and I am not happy about it. I do not like to treat Tom so, even if he has done his share of unpleasant things to me, although some time ago, it is true, and usually involving spiders, worms, and one time, an unexpected immersion in a pond.

  What is worse, I cannot stop thinking about Mr. Linsley’s kiss, or, as I should probably refer to it, The Kiss. How can a few seconds, a touch of lips, make the world seem an entirely new and wondrous place? How can anything so wicked be so comforting and sweet at the same time? And the tongue, too. I should like to ask Diana whether that is customary, but I fear a mention of anything entering anyone’s mouth might make her puke, and thus sully my memory.

  I should also like to ask
her whether it is the done thing for the gentleman to say, “Well, that is enough of that,” and dance the lady back into the ballroom to join the others.

  Maybe he was embarrassed by the tongue episode, too. Or he was alarmed, as I was, by the sinuous writhing of the lady and gentleman not six feet from us. I wonder who it was, for her face was quite hidden against his. She wore a very pretty headdress, comprising some plumes and sparkly things, surely not real jewels, they must have been paste, and loops of a very elegant braided cord. But I digress.

  How can I look Mr. Linsley in the face, knowing his tongue, accidentally or otherwise, has touched mine? I should like to do it again, so long as there is no chance I should be ruined and packed off to our disintegrating Lancashire house. Were it any other gentleman, I should of course consult Julia, but she is his sister-in-law! It is impossible.

  Thank heaven I have the pressing subject of bonnets to distract me, and so later that day I set out with Hen to Bond Street to pay tribute to the delightful confection of the milliner’s art that has haunted my thoughts. And this time, it is perfect. I do not have any gentlemen hovering around, paying me ridiculous compliments, and generally getting in the way. Aylesworth, I am afraid, spent far too much time whispering sotto voce comments to The Mad Poet that I could not fully catch.

  “What do you think of this, Hen?” In delaying the delicious moment of sartorial consummation I try on a lesser masterpiece.

  “…cast into that everlasting pit… Not your color, Miss Philomena.”

  I pick up the bonnet that was my first love, a paragon of simplicity, elegance, and delicate quilling. I am not so sure of the ruching of the ribbon on the brim, now I examine it more closely, and it really is a rather peculiar shape. Eyes shut, I place it on my head, tying a fetching bow beneath my left ear. When I open my eyes to admire it, I feel only a sinking sensation in my stomach.

  What I see is only a bonnet.

  Fashionable, flattering, and highly expensive, but still only a bonnet.