Proper English

by KJ Charles

  His eyes ran over her as he spoke. Pat felt her mouth drop open, the blood rushing to her face. Bill said, “I beg your pardon?”

  “In her talents, I mean. I very much doubt most ladies could acquire any skill with a gun.”

  “I disagree entirely,” Miss Singh said. “Why should we not?”

  “Quite,” Pat agreed. “I dare say any lady here could become a satisfactory shot with practice.”

  “Perhaps we should make it a wager,” Mr. Haworth said. “Miss Merton to instruct Miss Singh in the art of shooting, the test to be if the lady can bring down, shall we say, a brace of partridge. Will you take the bet?”

  “I will not,” Miss Singh said composedly. “I do not hunt.”

  “You won’t put your convictions to the test?” Mr. Haworth spoke as though he’d scored a point. “What a shame.”

  “Ooh!” said Miss Carruth, an excitable squeal. “Then may I?”

  The expressions around the table suggested Pat wasn’t the only one startled by this. Jimmy said, “May you what, Fen?”

  “Be Miss Merton’s student, of course.”

  “That would be an awfully good idea, but I don’t think you should wager on it,” Jimmy said carefully. “It is a skill that takes some work, you know.”

  “I could work,” Miss Carruth said, with just a fraction less bright enthusiasm in her tone.

  “Of course you can,” Pat said. “I’d be delighted to give you a few lessons. Unless Jimmy would rather do it.”

  “Oh, I’ll probably be an awful duffer, and I’d hate to make him impatient,” Miss Carruth said, with a giggle. “I’m sure you’re a wonderful teacher, Miss Merton. I doubt I could ever shoot birds, though, poor little cheeping things, even if they don’t have much of a family life.”

  Mr. Haworth’s mouth twisted with incredulous mockery. Miss Singh’s face was so blank that the blankness was an expression in itself. Pat couldn’t help glancing round at Jimmy, who had shut his eyes.

  “I’m sure I can help,” she said. “I’d be delighted to show you the ropes tomorrow.”

  Mr. Keynes cleared his throat. “Speaking of grouse,” he began, and launched into an unstoppable hunting monologue that kept everyone including Maurice Haworth silent for the next five minutes, allowing the atmosphere to settle. Pat addressed herself to her plate with some relief, and wondered what on earth was going on.

  THE LADIES DECAMPED to the drawing room after the meal was over. Pat had rarely been happier to leave a room. Jimmy hadn’t turned to speak to her once, and she’d had Maurice Haworth’s nasty little smile opposite her for the duration of the meal, which was enough to put anyone off her food. No wonder Lady Anna was thin.

  It was a cosy room, wood-panelled and adorned with numerous gilt-framed pictures, ornaments, and whatnots, from a pair of china King Charles spaniels to a glass bell filled with dusty stuffed birds, a ship in a bottle, and a curved knife with an intricately patterned steel handle in a beautifully carved sheath. The decidedly Victorian trappings of an old-fashioned family home. Pat wondered what Miss Carruth might do with it. Would she sweep it all away for a modern look?

  The Countess seemed somewhat strained as she sat down and waved at the maid to serve tea or coffee. Lady Anna was tense and silent; Miss Carruth wore her apparently permanent bright smile. Miss Singh sat up straight with her cup of tea. She did not look happy at all.

  “Well, how nice,” Miss Carruth trilled, seemingly oblivious to the atmosphere. “It’s always a relief to let the men have their drinks and cigars, isn’t it? Did you mean it about teaching me to shoot, Miss Merton? Do say you will.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Pat said. “I’m not promising anything. Do you jump at loud noises?”

  “I might,” Miss Carruth said with a comical expression.

  And squeal, Pat was prepared to bet. She’d had her ears boxed to nip that habit in the bud. “That’s something you’ll have to get used to. But I dare say Jimmy will be happy for us to set up a target. Do you shoot, Lady Anna?”

  “No.” One word, icy.

  “How about you, Miss Singh?” Pat asked, mostly to be polite. “Would you care to have a crack after all? Only target shooting, of course.”

  “I practice archery,” Miss Singh said, unexpectedly.

  “Really? I used to handle a bow myself. That was a long time ago.”

  “Oooh! Perhaps you could have a match,” Miss Carruth suggested.

  “We could certainly take one another’s measure,” Miss Singh said. “I insist on that before any formal competition. I have grave suspicions that Miss Merton is being modest about her accomplishments.”

  “I did win a county championship,” Pat admitted.

  “Ha! I knew it.” Miss Singh smiled then. She had a remarkably lovely smile, one that lit her dark liquid eyes.

  “It was at school!” Pat protested. “And I haven’t picked up a bow in years.”

  “In that case, a match it shall be,” the Countess said. “Anna shot at school as well. Anna, perhaps you will organise the ladies’ shooting and we’ll have a tournament.”

  Lady Anna did not acknowledge that with so much as a blink. Miss Carruth said, clapping, “What a good idea! I shall keep score for you.”

  “Maybe Miss Singh could teach you to shoot a bow,” Pat suggested.

  “If Miss Carruth is interested. Although it can be more difficult for ladies with substantial embonpoint.”

  “Oh, I know,” Miss Carruth said. “Amazons used to cut off their bosoms, didn’t they? I shan’t be doing that.” She glanced down at her impressive bust. Pat couldn’t help following her gaze. “No, it would get in the way, wouldn’t it? I’ll stick to guns, I think.”

  “It might be best,” Miss Singh agreed. “Miss Merton, I wanted to say that I hope I didn’t offend you earlier.”

  “Me? Not at all. How would you have done so?”

  “When we first discussed shooting. I feel strongly on the subject, so I express myself strongly.”

  “I had four older brothers,” Pat said. “I’m used to people expressing themselves strongly and really, I see no reason why you shouldn’t. We can still be friends if we don’t share all our beliefs, can’t we?”

  “I should think it depends on the belief,” Lady Anna remarked. “If Miss Singh believes that you are a murderer for shooting—”

  “I did not say that,” Miss Singh said levelly. “But since you raise it, I do think the mass slaughter of two or three thousand birds at a time is an unfit pursuit for gentlemen. Or anyone.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” Pat said. “Firing into a cloud of birds in the hope that some fall down isn’t sport. That’s what did for the passenger pigeon and in my opinion it is a criminal waste.”

  “The passenger pigeon?” Miss Carruth asked. “What is that?”

  “A bird that used to fly in such numbers that it blotted out the sun,” Miss Singh said. “Fifty years ago there were flocks of millions and the noise of their approach was like thunder. The last of them in the wild was shot last year, though I believe some pairs remain in zoological gardens.”

  “The last? But what happened to them?”

  “People killed them. Firing into a cloud of birds and watching them fall, as Miss Merton says.”

  “Well, it was more than just unchecked shooting, though that played its part,” Pat added. “The American West is being civilised, towns built where the birds once bred. I suppose it’s the march of progress, but it marched over the passenger pigeon.”

  “But they can’t have killed all of them.” Miss Carruth’s pretty mouth was round with shock. “Not millions.”

  “We observe game seasons and hire gamekeepers for good reason,” Pat said. “And yes, millions. There are certain sorts who like to go out and pull the trigger till the birds lie in heaps that are left to rot. I don’t, myself, consider those people guns.”

  “One might think you were describing the Prince of Wales and his set in those disparaging terms,” Lady Anna obs
erved coolly.

  “I am.” That had clearly been intended as a snub, and Pat had no great desire to pick a fight with her hosts’ daughter, but this was not a subject on which she was prepared to equivocate. “And I’ll repeat it to anyone’s face. It displays gross self-indulgence, and no respect.”

  “Is there respect in killing single birds?” Miss Singh asked.

  “Someone killed every bird, fish or animal I’ve ever eaten,” Pat said. “And at least the partridge I shoot has a chance to dodge, unlike the chicken whose neck I wring. Of course, you don’t eat chicken either. Do you know, Miss Singh, I have far more respect for that stance than I do for those who eat meat but shudder at killing. In fact, I think you’re quite right.” Miss Singh’s brows went up. Pat opened her hands. “Not right, as such, but your position is entirely consistent. If I condemned shooting wild birds, I could hardly approve of eating domesticated beasts.”

  “And conversely, if I believed that eating animals was right, it would be foolish to balk at shooting them. In other words, we hold the same view, but from opposite perspectives.”

  “It sounds like it.” Pat offered her a smile. Miss Singh smiled back.

  Miss Carruth clapped her hands. “That is agreeing to disagree. Goodness me, ladies are civilised. Now tell me, if I eat meat but am terribly squeamish about hunting, where do I come on your spectrum of opinion?”

  “You fall off it, because you don’t have a leg to stand on,” Pat said. It came out a little drily. Miss Singh laughed aloud, and Miss Carruth gave the most delightful gurgle, just as if she were in on the joke too.

  CHAPTER THREE

  The next day dawned bright and extremely early, since the sun rose at around five o’clock this far north. Pat was woken by the dawn chorus, made a perfunctory effort to get back to sleep, then lay in bed, thinking about the previous night.

  The men had joined the ladies after half an hour or so, and instantly ruined the comfortable atmosphere they’d developed. Jimmy had given every impression of being made of wood, barely speaking either to his fiancée or to his old friend. Bill had seemed preoccupied to the point of rudeness; Pat hoped he wasn’t thinking about work. Miss Singh had relapsed into silence as soon as the men were present; by contrast Lady Anna had dropped her cold, brittle anger in favour of smiling flirtation with Jack Bouvier-Lynes as her husband looked on, smiling too. It had been a relief when Mr. Bouvier-Lynes had proposed a round of cards and taken himself, Haworth, Jimmy, and Mr. Keynes off. Bill had gone to bed.

  This ill-assorted gathering was not at all what Pat had expected or wanted and she gave some serious thought to making her excuses and leaving. It would be rude to Jimmy, but frankly, he deserved it after his inexplicable silence at Haworth’s astonishing behaviour. The man might be his brother-in-law but that was no excuse for tolerating such poor manners.

  Especially to Miss Carruth. Pat could quite understand that Jimmy had found her irresistible: the laughing eyes, the generous mouth, the soft and very lush curves. Not an intellectual, perhaps, but very pleasant, and Jimmy was hardly over-burdened with brains himself.

  Only, Jimmy did not seem to find her irresistible. He’d barely spoken to her, and he’d apparently given no thought to her entertainment. Pat wondered how long her sparkling humour would last if she were left with Miss Singh and Lady Anna for three endless weeks of thumb-twiddling. It seemed a rash way to treat a fiancée upon whom one was depending for financial rescue, especially one with a history of bolting.

  Maybe Jimmy was hoping she’d bolt, since he didn’t seem charmed by her chatter. Pat wasn’t a lover of empty nonsense either, but it was hardly the worst characteristic one could expect in an advantageous marriage. It seemed greedy to demand perfect compatibility if one’s prospective spouse also had a kind heart, overflowing coffers, and that bosom. Not that it was any of Pat’s business, because the woman was marrying Jimmy. Lucky bloody Jimmy.

  She stared up at the ceiling, slightly startled at herself. She ought to be thinking Lucky Miss Carruth. Jimmy was a decent fellow who would one day be an earl, and whose estates might be suffering financially—there were notably fewer staff on view than Pat would expect for a house this size—but were not to be sneezed at. He was steady, too, the sort of man who would probably be a good father and a faithful, or at least discreet, husband. In fact, he was an excellent match, and Pat couldn’t for the life of her see why Miss Carruth would want any of it. The thrice-engaged Miss Carruth who jilted men ought to have a husband who danced with her at balls, or covered her in jewels, or...or took her to Monte Carlo, possibly? This was outside Pat’s experience. In any case, a man who’d kiss her hand and adore her, much as Jonty adored Olivia, patting her hand and telling her, inaccurately, that he’d take care of everything.

  Pat would have loathed that, but she wasn’t soft or helpless or delicious. She was plain in looks and manner, and had never regretted that because she had never particularly wanted to attract a husband. And yet, Miss Carruth undeniably made her think about soft curves and lushness and pretty, frivolous primping, and why those things were so very desirable to see, or to have.

  Pat been looking forward to the shooting party precisely because she could be as mannish as she pleased with Jimmy and Bill. She hadn’t expected to feel undermined by her lack of feminine graces because another woman was there, being different. And it wasn’t just “another woman”, either, because she was unconcerned by the sylphlike, fashionable Lady Anna or the poised, elegant Miss Singh. It was Miss Carruth’s presence that bothered her, and Pat’s irrational nonsense was hardly the girl’s fault.

  The longer she lay in bed and thought, the worse she was making herself feel, so she got up and dressed. Pat did not corset. She had had no mother to train her waist to a span of eighteen inches or so; her father thought wasp-waists were for insects and preferred his daughter able to walk, climb trees, shoot, and run around the house. She had never learned to be laced, although she had eventually and reluctantly obtained a loose pair of stays for evening wear. It was one of many things about which she had rarely thought in her life at Stoke St. Milborough, and might have to consider when she moved to live elsewhere; she didn’t wish to be perceived as an eccentric. Or perhaps that would happen anyway, so she’d do as she pleased.

  As an adherent of Rational Dress, she was able to clothe herself without a maid’s assistance. She simply donned combinations, drawers, camisole, stockings, undershirt, petticoat, walking dress, and boots, and was ready to face the day.

  It was not yet seven o’clock; breakfast would doubtless not be served for an hour or more since they weren’t shooting today. She came downstairs anyway, deciding to find a servant who would point her to a quiet back door, and came across Jimmy Yoxall sipping a cup of coffee.

  “Goodness, you’re up early.”

  “You too,” Jimmy returned. “Sleep well?”

  “Very. You?”

  Jimmy shrugged. “Up rather late.”

  “Playing cards with your chums.”

  “Well, with Maurice, Jack, and Preston,” Jimmy said. “Bill was wise to go to bed. Jack’s a devil with a pack of cards; he cleaned Preston out. Are you off for a walk?”

  “I thought I would. How do I get out without waking the house?”

  “Give me a moment to put on my things and I’ll come with you. There’s a pot of coffee here. I usually wake early these days.”

  Pat gulped down the coffee—from the temperature it seemed that Jimmy had been up a while—and strode out with him into a very pleasant day. It was bright, sunny, and breezy, the wind rolling over the long open curves of the land.

  “It’s lovely here,” Pat remarked.

  “It is. Would you find it too remote? If you were called upon to live here, I mean?”

  “I wouldn’t,” Pat said cautiously, “but I’m not much of one for society, or cities. Or towns, even. I’d be perfectly happy not seeing other people for days on end, going to dinner three times a year and visiting a tailor twice, b
ut that wouldn’t suit everyone.”

  “No,” Jimmy said. “It is rather a way to the nearest town, and that’s not awfully big. Fen remarked on it when she arrived.”

  “Presumably Miss Carruth has been here before?”

  “No. No. Our engagement was a—what do they call it when one proposes in a spur-of-the-moment sort of way? Not to say I didn’t consider matters, of course, just that it was terribly quick. All in London. This is the first time she’s seen the house, or the area.”

  “Does she like it?”

  “She’s awfully enthusiastic. Marvellous girl. I’m not sure she’s grasped what the winters are like up here.”

  “Shan’t you live in London when you’re married?”

  Jimmy made a face. “We have a house there, but it’s a terrible expense and I wanted to persuade the parents to get rid of it. But Anna and Maurice live there, you know, and it’s not as though one can ask them to move.”

  “Do they not have a place of their own?”

  “Not any more. Maurice lost his job and their money in the crash.”

  “What crash was that?”

  “Stockbroker’s firm. Overextended, fell to pieces. They’re living in the family house now.”

  “I see. But he and Lady Anna surely won’t carry on living there when you and Miss Carruth move in.”

  “Oh yes they blasted will,” Jimmy said, with suppressed vehemence. “Maurice hasn’t anything of his own, and he’s spent every penny of Anna’s that he can get his hands on. That pair live entirely off the Aged Parents. If it wasn’t for him— Well. And of course one couldn’t ask Anna to move to some ghastly hovel while Fen and I take the London house, but you’ve met Maurice. Would you want to live with him?”

  “No,” Pat said frankly.

  “No. And if he can’t live in London, he and Anna will come here, and you’ve already seen how he is when he can’t get his cocktails, or his cocktail waitresses. I don’t know if my parents could put up with it.”

  “I’m awfully sorry.”