When a Rake Falls

by Sally Orr

  “Perhaps you do not consider your feelings for Miss Mountfloy. So you leave me without a notion in my head why you are so eager to leave us, leave the people you love, for some trifling race.”

  “It’s not a trifling race. With my ballooning adventure, I truly believe I have won at least one challenge. Why would I leave a race, abandon the winnings and acclaim, if I have already won?”

  She squeezed his forearm. “Don’t you understand that winning the race will not ease your difficulties?”

  He stared at her wrinkled hand still squeezing his arm, possibly as hard as she could. “I’m not going to listen. Leave me alone.”

  “Although you hide it with your enthusiasm, you are an intelligent young man. Look past your father’s words and into your heart. What will this race accomplish? What do you fear? What matters the most to you?”

  He pulled his arm away. “You are acting like a female, all empathy and consideration, but my father is a typical gentleman, a man who desires successful sons. He was so proud when Richard faced American bullets like a man in New Orleans. But to him, I’m just Piglet, the youngest and the one always in trouble. With my victory, I will win respect and thousands of pounds. That matters the most to me.”

  Her eyes became shiny. “No, upon reflection, you will realize that is not what matters. You have won already in a different sense—think.”

  “I can’t.”

  She paused, shoulders stooped. “I cannot stop you from making a grave mistake, so you must learn it for yourself.” She stepped close.

  “See, like my father, you too think I’m defective—broken.” He understood why she stepped near, so he lowered his head to give her the opportunity to box his ears.

  She kissed him on the cheek. “Come back when the race is over. I want to have the pleasure of boxing your ears.” A fond smile appeared on her ruddy face.

  “Thank you,” he said, with a slight bow. “I don’t know exactly when I can return, but I give you my word.” He resumed saddling Charity, aware of the sound of her footsteps leaving the stables.

  * * *

  Darkness had fallen by the time he reached the small town of Uckfield. His day’s progress was unremarkable, since he’d spent the morning wandering around an old Saxon church admiring the stonework. Then the following day, after traveling a few miles in the afternoon, he had stopped at the Wayward Lion. The rest of the evening, he had spent obscuring his recent memories by means of copious ingestion of the local ale.

  It took him four days before he rode into the small town of Dover late in the evening. The packet would not sail until just after sunrise tomorrow, so he had plenty of time to drink himself to the blue devils. He engaged a small room at the local inn, The Fair Breeze, brushed the obvious dirt off his clothes, and attempted to tie a decent cravat knot. In the middle of a halfhearted attempt at a Maharatta knot, his thumb became stuck in the middle. He yanked his thumb free, messing up his almost-perfect folds. Following a long sigh, he tied a simple knot, adequate to join the locals in the taproom.

  At the bottom of the grimy oak staircase, he heard the loud voices of an unnecessarily happy crowd—an irritating sound. Then directly in front of him, a pretty young lady dressed in pink sarcenet walked through the door in the company of her proud mama. He gave both women a respectable bow, but even the calming loveliness of the fair sex failed to soothe his troubled spirit. Realizing he lacked the ability to enjoy, or even be civil, this evening, he ordered a pitcher of ale, a mutton pie, and retired to his room. Sitting on a rather ugly sofa in front of the fire, he stared at the coals glowing in the hearth.

  Before he became lost to the blue devils, he needed to write a letter to his father and explain his motive in rejoining the earl’s race. Except ready words escaped him. He became lost in contemplation of the random hiss of hot coals in the grate. Why did one silly race and a few ribald books turn him into a disregarded son? He drank the pitcher of ale and ordered a second without bothering to wipe away the heavy foam lingering on two days’ worth of whisker growth.

  Soon his ale-addled mind fixed upon his aeronaut, Eve. He could not think of her—too painful—even now. Unshed tears pooled in his eyes, blurring the hot coals into a smudge of red light. Best to put her out of his mind entirely if he wanted to complete the earl’s race. Maybe someday in the future, he could think of her again. Think of her without tears. Think of her happy. But until that day, if his mind strayed or remembered her in any manner, he’d force himself to sing.

  He put two fingers into his ale and flicked some brew into the fire. The liquid sizzled before it vaporized into acrid steam. He repeated the gesture; the noisome smell of sour vapors suited him. By the time he finished the second pitcher, a wet trail of ale stained both trousers along his thigh, while puddles of brown ale spotted the floor.

  The next morning, he rose late, paid his bill, and chatted about the probability of a smooth crossing with the innkeeper. Standing at the bar, in the middle of the crossroads of humanity, waiting for the packet to sail, Boyce ignored the commotion around him. Then over the hubbub, he heard someone shout his name. Turning, he saw Buxton struggling through the crowd to reach him.

  “Lord Boyce, it’s a pleasure to find you. I thought you’d have sailed by now, but I’m delighted to be proved wrong.” Buxton placed his hands on his knees to recover his breath.

  “Buxton, well met. Let me help you to a chair. Landlord.”

  “This way, your lordship.” The burly innkeeper created a pathway for the men and their baggage through several large parties, into an almost-empty back parlor.

  Old-fashioned and on the small side, the private room had giant oak beams holding up the walls and ceiling. In a corner, under this low-beamed ceiling, a wealthy, respectable gentleman and his son waited for the packet.

  The landlord showed them several oak chairs around a small table. Once they were comfortably seated, Boyce ordered coffee before the landlord left the room.

  “What brings you all the way to Dover? Is there an emergency at the priory?” Boyce could not think of any reason his friend would set out on a journey of eighty or so miles. At least, not a good reason, so he began to panic over the welfare of his friends.

  “No, not in the least. Let me catch my breath—I ran all the way from the stables—and then I’ll tell you the purpose of my visit.”

  “Right ho.” Boyce watched his friend regain his breath. After his first mug of coffee, Buxton returned to his usual self. Except, Boyce noticed an extra-wide smile shining on his friend’s face, wide enough to make him suspicious that Buxton held some good news. “You seem happy today. Happier than I’ve ever seen you, in fact.”

  “Bliss, Lord Boyce. Bliss.”

  “Bliss is a rather strong word for a fellow to use. What has caused this overwhelming happiness?”

  “Actually, you had a hand in my good spirits. After Drexel’s field guide became published, I talked myself into a spot of bother. Saw my wife’s initials between the pages and jumped to all of the wrong conclusions. I firmly believed my worst fears, that my wife lied to me or was incapable of love. I even sent her down to my mother to punish her.”

  “Yes, yes. I say, rather harsh, that. For someone like Lydia to be isolated is a sure path to a strained marriage and unhappiness for you both.”

  Buxton chuckled. “And so I found out. She cleverly alluded to the consequences of the riot act, and I deserved it.”

  He nodded. “I think you’re a lucky man. She is a delightful companion and a good and faithful wife. I truly wish you both happy.”

  Buxton held up his mug. “To Mrs. Lydia Buxton.”

  “Mrs. Lydia Buxton,” Boyce said, smiling at his friend and touching their mugs in salute.

  “Thank you.” Buxton put down his coffee and then pulled a parchment letter out of his waistcoat. “This is why I came all this way to Dover.” He slid the letter across the
table.

  “What is it?” Boyce felt his pulse begin to throb.

  “I don’t know the precise contents of the letter. But Lady Buxton urged me to place it in your hands immediately.”

  “What did Lady B. say it was?”

  “I doubt Mother knew for sure, but she indicated that she had good feelings about it and urged me to find you with all haste.”

  Boyce gulped loudly. Not expecting a letter and unsure of his readiness to face censure in a missive from his father, he opened the letter and immediately read the valediction: Mr. Thomas Harrison, Secretary of the Royal Institution of Great Britain. He yanked and pressed the letter flat with his hands, almost tearing it in half.

  “Steady on,” Buxton said.

  Upon a rapid perusal, Boyce learned Mr. Harrison wrote to inform him that the recent paper he submitted relating the observation of parhelia was interesting and important. Enough so, they accepted it for publication in their Journals. “Huzzah!”

  Buxton patted him on the back. “Congratulations, I knew it would be of some importance. Important enough to justify my journey. What does it say?”

  The innkeeper approached with fresh coffee. “Good news, your lordship?”

  “Yes, yes.” Moreover, the letter contained an invitation to relate his observations in person at a Friday afternoon lecture, at two o’clock, on the third of the month. “Huzzah! Our paper has been accepted by the Royal Institute, and they would like me to present my sun dog observations in person.” He vowed to give a credible speech and make Eve proud.

  “Congratulations, old man,” Buxton said, clapping his hands.

  To the amazement of everyone in the small room, Boyce rose to sing and dance a little jig, successively lifting and bending each leg at the knee. “Yes, yes, my man, good news, indeed. So off to London with Godspeed.”

  Eighteen

  Boyce canceled his reservation on the packet. Then he headed back to his family’s London town house at a record pace. Once he and Charity had set off on the return journey, he fully approved of the sun’s choice of brightness, a perfect sunny day.

  Standing in the front parlor of Sutcliffe House almost a week later, Boyce saw his brother Richard jauntily hopping up the steps of the family’s town house on Portland Place.

  Within two ticks, the famous war hero shook his younger brother’s hand before landing a punch on his arm. “Guess what I have here, Whip?” He pulled out the afternoon edition and held the newspaper in front of Boyce’s nose. “I see congratulations are in order.”

  On page four, under an advertisement for oil of rhubarb, was the announcement of the afternoon lecture at the Royal Institution of Great Britain.

  For the edification of all, the courageous aeronaut, Lord Boyce Parker, will present his observations regarding his unusual atmospheric discovery of parhelia (sun dogs).

  Boyce hoped the praise would continue, but the remainder of the announcement merely reminded all of their subscribers to arrive at the Albemarle Street entrance, with their horse’s heads pointed toward Grafton Street, to avoid another tangle of carriages heading in two directions. He held the paper up to examine the size of the announcement, relative to the entire page, and found it satisfactory. A song bubbled up from his toes, but Richard stood next to him. Boyce had stifled the urge to sing so many times in front of his brothers, in order to avoid retribution, so he could easily do it now. Deep inside, however, he sang a merry tune. Dream within my reach, my father will hear my speech. “I cannot wait for my presentation; then I’ll gain father’s respect.” He sat near the fire holding the newspaper high in the air to admire it again.

  “What are you referring to?” Richard poured a brandy and sat in the opposite stuffed chair. “Of course he respects you. Don’t be daft. What a notion.”

  “No, he doesn’t, not really. After the race, General Hansen called me Piglet—”

  “You have to admit you deserved that, ol’ man.”

  “That is not the point. The point is, Father said nothing. He said nothing after the race and nothing after the publication of The Rake’s Handbook: Including Field Guide. He just scowled and walked away, on both occasions.”

  “What did you expect him to do? He naturally blames Henry for egging you on, but father felt you should have known better. Publish and edit more respectable books, like that novel, or travel or adventure stories.” Richard finished his brandy in a single gulp. “I also think he imagines Mother’s response to your unsuitable books, her likely disappointment.”

  Boyce failed to swallow even a sip of brandy.

  “Don’t take it to heart,” Richard said. “It’s all just flummery. Pater will come around. Give him grandchildren—pleases him no end.”

  The mention of his mother’s possible disappointment only pained Boyce more. “It’s not flummery to me. After my speech, I know Father will be proud of me, and Mother…” He managed to swallow awkwardly. In a minute, he’d be in difficulties and a bothersome tear might fall. He jumped up, strode to the door, and on his way out said, “Mother would be proud too.”

  * * *

  The next day, London sparkled. Boyce glanced up at the gleaming gray-and-white Portland stone buildings of St. James Street. It had rained last night, so some of the coal soot had been temporarily washed away. Even the windows seemed to sparkle like cut crystal in the morning sun.

  He needed a new waistcoat from his tailor in Cork Street, but he decided to forgo the direct route and take a westerly route through the park. Up ahead, two gentlemen turned the corner. One tall gentleman he immediately recognized as his father, while the other, stouter man was General Hansen, his father’s boon companion. Boyce winced, but the general had seen him, so there was no escaping the duo now. He must go through the perfunctory greetings and hope his father saved his usual dressing-down for another time and not in front of the general.

  “Hail, sirs, well met.” Boyce bowed to both men. “General, fine day.” He wondered if either man had seen the yesterday’s newspaper with the announcement of his speech at the Royal Institute. Boyce kept the newspaper tucked away under his arm, fearful that if he presented it to the men, his father might level another charge of attention seeking. However, if required, he could produce the edition in a second.

  “Well met, Son,” the marquess said. “Yes, it is quite a fine day.” The two older gentlemen stopped on the pavement in front of him.

  At the priory, Boyce had noticed his father appeared aged, his temples sported gray hair, and his shoulders bowed slightly forward. Today he looked younger, more lighthearted. The gray temples still revealed his years, but his broad smile, straight carriage, and green eyes expressing a rare twinkle—only observed when he was delighted with someone—reminded him of his father’s appearance a decade ago.

  “General, you are acquainted with my youngest. This is the son who will give a speech at the Royal Institution.”

  Boyce felt giddy, like the earth had started spinning faster, so he widened his stance so as not to fall on his nose in front of his father and the general.

  The general was a short, rotund man, wearing somber mourning clothes, but even his severe dress failed to dampen his natural effervescence. The general tapped the marquess’s upper arm with his silver-headed walking stick. “Congratulations are in order once again, Sutcliffe. Needless to say, the whole club is proud of the boy. Congratulations to you too, Piglet, quite an achievement.”

  The word piglet caused Boyce’s spirits to flag, and the old feeling of failure returned. He couldn’t slight both men by walking swiftly away. Instead, his mind started the infinite calculations of the appropriate excuses to do just that.

  The general tapped his cane hard on Boyce’s chest. “Ha, ha, can’t call you Piglet any longer, can I, you young dog? The fact is, when Donkins showed us the announcement in the newspaper, your old nickname became obsolete. It didn’t take very long for
the fellows in our club to come up with a new nickname, and it quickly became fixed. Goes without saying that every gentleman in the club then enthusiastically discussed your discovery. The result is you are now called ‘Parhelion Parker.’ Quite the encomium, I can tell you. I suppose all of London”—he leaned close—“even the ladies, will call you that soon enough.”

  Boyce’s spirit leaped so high that, if he were a bird, he’d have been in the treetops by now.

  The general turned to the marquess. “It’s the helion part of parhelion, you know. Sounds like hellion, hellfire, so the word makes Lord Boyce sound dangerous in the manner all ladies admire. So, Sutcliffe, gather up your best. You might find this young cub leg-shackled any day now.”

  His father winked—winked!—a gesture Boyce had never seen directed toward him. “So your letter earned you a chance to speak. Well done, Son. Both the general and I will attend your speech. We look forward to hearing your presentation. Right, sir?”

  “Oh, yes,” the general said, followed by a short huff. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

  Meanwhile, he noticed his father studying him. “We’ll be on our way, then. I’m sure you will want to practice your speech. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir.” He understood his father did not want the repetition of his failure at the priory.