by Lisa Kleypas
Holly regarded the doll with an admiring smile. Its head, arms and feet were made of china covered in a high-gloss finish, and the delicately painted features glowed beneath a cap of real hair that had been attached a strand at a time. The doll was dressed in a lavish silk gown adorned with buttons, bows and ruffles, and little red shoes had been painted on her feet.
“How lovely,” Holly said sincerely. “What is her name, darling?”
“Miss Crumpet.”
Holly laughed. “I have a feeling you and she will enjoy many tea parties together.”
Rose hugged the doll and regarded Holly over its little head. “May we invite Mr. Bronson to one of our tea parties, Mama?”
Holly's smile faded as she replied, “I don't think that will be possible, Rose. Mr. Bronson is a very busy man.”
“Oh.”
“That Mr. Bronson is a strange one,” Maude chatted, bringing a ruffled white pelisse from the armoire and holding it as Holly slipped her arms through the sleeves. “I was talking with some of the servants this morning—I had to fetch the hot water myself, as no one ever seems to come when the bell is pulled—and they had a few things to say about him.”
“Such as?” Holly asked idly, concealing a flare of curiosity.
Gesturing for Rose to come to her, Maude dressed the little girl in a fresh white chemise and underdrawers, and thick cotton stockings. “They say he's a good master and that no one wants for anything here. But the house isn't run well. The housekeeper, Mrs. Burney, and all the servants know that Mr. Bronson hasn't the slightest idea of what goes on in real gentlefolks' households.”
“And so they take advantage of his lack of knowledge in this area,” Holly concluded, shaking her head in disapproval. Instantly she made up her mind that if she accomplished nothing else during her time here, she would at least ensure that the servants received some instruction. Zachary Bronson certainly deserved proper service from his own employees.
However, Maude's next words dispelled all trace of charitable feeling. Settling a ruffled white dress over Rose's head, the maid ensured that the child's ears were covered before she continued. “They say, milady, that Mr. Bronson is quite wild. He's given parties here sometimes, with drinking and gambling and harlots in every corner, and the guests were all very bad ton. After the goings-on at one of these evenings, they even had to replace carpets and furniture in some of the rooms—”
“Maude!” Rose wriggled impatiently beneath the tent of white ruffles.
“And they say Mr. Bronson is the randiest gentleman of all,” Maude said, seeming to relish Holly's expression of quiet horror. “He doesn't scruple between washwomen and duchesses, he'll chase anything in skirts. One of the maids, Lucy, says she once saw him with two women at once.” Realizing that Holly didn't understand her meaning, Maude added in a whisper, “In bed, milady!”
“Maude,” came Rose's voice from the enveloping dress. “I can't breathe!”
While Maude jerked the dress down and busied herself with tying a blue sash at Rose's waist, Holly sat in stricken silence and contemplated the information. Two women at once? She had never heard of such a thing, couldn't imagine how or why it would be done. A decidedly unpleasant feeling crept over her. It seemed that Zachary Bronson was well acquainted with depravity. Uneasily she wondered how she was ever to influence a man like him. Doubtless it was folly to even try. Well, Bronson would have to change his ways. There would be no bad ton invited here, and no gambling or licentious behavior of any kind. The first time she witnessed a hint of something scandalous occurring, she, Rose and Maude would leave the estate at once.
“The master was a prizefighter, had ye heard?” Maude asked Holly, reaching for a comb to attack the snarls in Rose's hair.
The little girl sighed and waited with tremendous patience, her gaze fixed longingly on Miss Crumpet. “Are you almost finished?” she asked, eliciting a laugh from the maid.
“I will be after I've combed these rats from yer hair, miss!”
“Yes, I'd heard something like that,” Holly said, her brow wrinkling curiously.
“For two years or so, the footman James told me,” Maude reported. “A bare-knuckle fighter, Mr. Bronson was, and he took home a purse every time he was let into the rope ring. Can ye believe James actually saw him fight once, long before Mr. Bronson gained his fortune? James says Mr. Bronson is the finest figure of a man he ever saw, with arms ye couldn't close yer hands around and a neck thick as a bull's. And he fought cool as ye please, never putting himself in a passion. The perfect champion of the fist.”
Holly's dismay rose with each word the maid spoke. “Oh, Maude…I must have been mad to bring us here. It's hopeless to try to teach him anything about etiquette.”
“I don't think so, milady,” came Maude's reply, as she cheerfully flipped aside the blond curls that had escaped the front of her coiffure. “After all, the master brought himself all the way from the rope ring to the fanciest estate in London. Surely being a gentleman is only one more step away.”
“But it's the biggest step of all,” Holly said wryly.
Rose picked up her doll and came to the bedside. “I'll help you, Mama. I'll teach Mr. Bronson all about his manners.”
Holly gave her daughter a loving smile. “You're very sweet for wanting to help, darling. But I want you to have as little to do with Mr. Bronson as possible. He's…not a nice man.”
“Yes, Mama,” Rose said dutifully, heaving a disappointed sigh.
As Maude had indicated, no amount of bellpulling could summon a servant to the room, and Holly finally gave up with a sigh of frustration. “If we wait for a servant to bring Rose's breakfast to the nursery, she'll starve,” she murmured. “I'll have a talk with Mrs. Burney this morning, and perhaps she will explain why not one out of a household of eighty servants can manage to climb the stairs.”
“They're no good, milady,” Maude said darkly. “Not a blessed one of them. When I passed through the servants' hall this morning, I saw one housemaid with a belly out to here—” she indicated an advanced pregnancy—“and another giving kisses to a sweetheart—right there in the hall, mind ye—and another girl was sleeping upright at the table. One footman was going about with his hair half-powdered, and another was charging about complaining as how no one had washed his livery breeches on laundry day—”
“Please, no more,” Holly begged in laughing dismay, holding up her hands in a helpless gesture. “There is so much to be done that I hardly know where to begin.” She bent down to her perplexed daughter and kissed her soundly. “Rose, darling, why don't you bring Miss Crumpet downstairs, and we'll try to find some breakfast?”
“Breakfast with you?” the little girl asked in delight. Like most children of her station, she was accustomed to taking her morning meal in the nursery. Eating with adults was a privilege usually granted to children of appropriate age, as well as highly developed manners.
“Just for this morning,” Holly said with a laugh, gently straightening the huge blue bow atop her daughter's head. “And I sincerely hope that you'll set a good example for the Bronsons to follow.”
“Oh, I will!” Holding Miss Crumpet firmly, Rose began to instruct the doll on the importance of ladylike behavior.
Holly somehow managed to guide her daughter and maidservant to the breakfast room, from which an appetizing aroma drifted. The breakfast room, with its tall windows overlooking the sumptuous gardens and walls paneled in gilded fruit motifs, was charming. A side table fitted with plate-warmer drawers had been weighted with domed silver trays and a tiered stand with revolving china compartments. Six small round tables gleamed beneath a crystal chandelier.
Elizabeth Bronson was already seated at one of the tables, lifting a delicate china cup to her lips. As she saw Holly, Maude and Rose enter the room, she gave them a glowing smile. “Good morning,” she said cheerfully. “Why, Rose, are you going to share breakfast with us? How delightful. I hope you'll sit beside me.”
“And Miss Crumpe
t, too?” Rose asked, holding up her new doll.
“Miss Crumpet shall have her own chair,” Elizabeth said grandly, “and the three of us shall discuss our plans for the day.”
Wriggling with delight at being treated like a grown-up, Rose headed for the girl as fast as her short legs would take her. Quietly Maude went about preparing a breakfast plate for the child, as if to demonstrate to the household how a properly trained servant should go about her duties.
Holly wandered to the sideboard, where Zachary Bronson was filling his plate with a selection of eggs, cold meats, breads and vegetables. Although he was dressed in the gentlemanly attire of a charcoal-gray morning coat, black trousers and a dove waistcoat, there was something a bit piratical about him. She supposed he would never completely be able to rid himself of the street-seasoned air that lurked beneath his well-groomed facade. His assessing dark gaze caused a tickling flutter just beneath her lower ribs. “Good morning,” he murmured. “I hope you rested well?”
Remembering the scandalous allegations of his wild behavior, Holly responded with a polite, rather distant smile. “Very well, thank you. I see we've joined you in time to start breakfast together.”
“I started a while ago,” Bronson replied cheerfully. “This is my second plate.”
Holly felt her eyebrows inch upward as she saw the mountain of food he intended to consume.
The housekeeper entered the room just at that moment, and Holly gave her an inquiring glance. “Good day, Mrs. Burney…as you can see, I've brought my daughter downstairs for breakfast, as no one seems able to answer the bellpull. I wonder if perhaps the mechanism is broken?”
“We've a very busy household, milady,” the housekeeper replied, her face expressionless except for the taut pull of displeasure around her eyes and mouth. “The maids can't answer the bell every instant after it is pulled.”
Resisting the temptation to ask if the maids ever answered the bell, Holly resolved to take up the matter with Mrs. Burney later in the day. The housekeeper set out more silver and left the room.
Having loaded his own plate, Bronson lingered at the sideboard as Holly chose a few delicacies for her own breakfast—a slice of toast, a spoonful of eggs, a tidbit of ham. “I have business to attend to this morning,” he remarked. “I'll be able to start our lessons after lunch, if that's pleasing to you.”
“That will be fine,” Holly said. “In fact, why don't we plan a similar schedule every day? I will instruct your sister during the morning hours, and your lessons will take place during Rose's afternoon nap.”
“I won't always be available during midday,” Bronson replied.
“Perhaps on those occasions, you and I could meet during the evening hours, after Rose's bedtime,” Holly suggested, and Bronson nodded in agreement. With those arrangements settled, Holly handed Bronson her plate. “You may carry my plate to the breakfast table, sir. On the occasions when a footman is not available to perform this service, a gentleman may offer his assistance to a lady.”
“Why should I carry a woman's plate when she is perfectly capable of carrying it for herself?”
“Because a gentleman must act as a lady's servant, Mr. Bronson. He must make all possible convenience for her convenience and comfort.”
One of his dark brows arched. “You ladies have things rather easy.”
“Hardly,” Holly replied, matching his dry tone. “We spend every other minute of our lives bearing children, managing the household accounts, attending the sickroom when necessary, supervising the mending and laundry and meals and planning our husbands' social schedules.”
Bronson stared at her with laughing dark eyes. “Is that what I can expect of a wife? I'd like to get one soon, then.”
“Someday I'll instruct you as to the rules of proper courtship.”
“I can hardly wait,” he replied softly.
Bronson carried their plates to the same table that Elizabeth and Rose occupied. Before Holly could instruct him as to how to seat a lady, Rose glanced at Bronson with bright, inquiring eyes and asked a question that nearly caused Holly to faint.
“Mr. Bronson,” the little girl chirped innocently, “why did you sleep with two women at your party?”
Stunned, Holly realized that Rose had overheard her earlier conversation with Maude.
Maude paused in the act of filling the child's plate, the fine china slipping from her hands and clattering on the sideboard.
Elizabeth choked on a mouthful of food, somehow managed to swallow and concealed her crimson face with a napkin. When she was able, she glanced at Holly with eyes brimming with equal parts of dismay and mirth, and spoke in a strangled murmur. “Excuse me—my right shoe is pinching—I believe I'll change into another pair.” She fled the scene hastily, leaving the rest of them to stare at Bronson.
Of all of them, Bronson was the only one who showed no visible reaction, save for a thoughtful quirk of his mouth. He must have been a very, very good card player, Holly thought.
“At times the guests become very tired at my parties,” Bronson said to the child, his tone matter-of-fact. “I was merely helping them to rest.”
“Oh, I see,” Rose said brightly.
Holly managed to find her voice. “I believe my daughter is finished with her breakfast, Maude.”
“Yes, milady.” The maid rushed forward in a panic to gather up the child and quit the mortifying scene.
“But Mama,” Rose protested, “I haven't even—”
“You may take your plate to the nursery,” Holly said firmly, seating herself as if nothing untoward had occurred. “Right this minute, Rose. I want to discuss something with Mr. Bronson.”
“Why don't I ever get to eat with the big people?” the child asked sullenly, accompanying Maude from the room.
Bronson seated himself beside Holly, his wary gaze fastened on her disapproving face. “Apparently the servants have been talking,” he muttered.
Holly made her voice as cool and brisk as possible. “Mr. Bronson, there will be no more ‘helping ladies to rest’ at this house as long as we are in residence, in ones or twos, or any number. I will not have my daughter subjected to an unwholesome atmosphere. Moreover, although the servants owe you respect as a matter of course, it would help immensely if you behave in a manner worthy of their respect.”
Rather than look ashamed or embarrassed, Bronson returned her steady stare with a growing scowl. “Your task is to teach me a few points of etiquette, my lady. How I conduct my private life is my own concern.”
She picked up her fork and pushed a few yellow egg curds around her plate. “Unfortunately, you cannot separate your private life from your public one, sir. No one is able to check his morals at the door like a hat, and pick them up when he leaves.”
“I can.”
Amazed by his cool assertion, Holly let a disbelieving laugh escape. “Apparently you like to think so!”
“Don't try to tell me that every moment of your private life could stand up to public scrutiny, my lady. Hasn't your halo ever slipped just a little?”
Discovering that she was gripping her fork as if it were a defensive weapon, Holly set the utensil down. “What exactly are you asking?”
“You've never had too much to drink? Gambled all your pin money? Cursed like a sailor when you can't hold your temper? Laughed in church? Said something nasty about a close friend behind her back?”
“Well, I…” Earnestly she searched her memory, conscious of his expectant stare. “I don't think so.”
“Never?” Bronson seemed perturbed by the answer. “Spent too much at the dressmaker's?” he asked, as if hoping beyond hope that she had once committed some grievous mistake.
“Well, there is one thing.” Holly smoothed her gown over her lap. “I am much too fond of cakes. I am quite capable of eating an entire plate of them at one sitting. I can't seem to help myself.”
“Cakes,” he muttered with obvious disappointment. “That's your only fault?”
“Oh, i
f we're discussing weaknesses of character, I have several,” she assured him. “I am self-indulgent, opinionated and I battle a great streak of vanity. But that is not the point of this conversation, Mr. Bronson. We are talking about your personal habits, not mine. And the fact is, if you wish to have the appearance and manner of a gentleman, you must never allow your lower nature to rule over your higher one.”
“I don't have a higher nature, Lady Holland.”
“No doubt it is more convenient—and pleasurable—to pretend so. However, a man is never his own master until he is able to control his lustful impulses. And when such behavior is excessive, it causes degeneration of the mind and body.”
“Degeneration,” he repeated gravely. “With all due respect, I've never noticed any harmful effects, my lady.”
“Well, you will someday. It is unhealthful for a man to indulge any excessive appetites, whether for food, spirits or…or…”
“Sexual activity?” he supplied helpfully.
“Yes. Therefore I hope that you will practice temperance in all areas from now on. I think you will be pleased to discover the positive effects it will have on your character.”
“I'm not a choirboy, Lady Holland. I'm a man, and men have certain needs. If you care to refer to our contract, there was no mention of the activities in my own bedroom—”
“Then if you must have your harlots, bring them elsewhere,” Holly said. Although she did not raise her voice, it was threaded with steel. “Out of consideration for your mother and sister, and my daughter…and me. I insist on an atmosphere of respect and decency, and I will not remain under the same roof with such goings-on.”
Their gazes held for a challenging moment. “You're telling me that I can't lie with a woman in my own house,” he said, as if he couldn't believe her audacity. “In my own bed.”
“Not as long as I am residing here, sir.”
“A man's sexual habits have nothing to do with being a gentleman. I could tell you the names of at least a dozen so-called ‘gentlemen,’ highly respected souls all, who are frequent guests at the same bordellos I choose to visit. In fact, I could tell you the most remarkable practices they are known for—”