Regency Romances for the Ages

by Grace Fletcher

  “Could you really?” she asked, suddenly hopeful.

  “Aye,” he replied, putting a hand on her cheek as she blushed, “For ye, my girl, anything. But we need to move fast before yer sisters get here.”

  Just then, there was a clamor outside as they heard the clip clop of a horse pull up followed by the crack of a whip. “Here boy!” called a man, and the horse neighed. Eleanor passed a sad smile to her father who returned it. Both of them knew that her sisters and mother had arrived. There was no chance that their scheme could work now. Her sisters had gone shopping to the nearest market in central London. Eleanor sighed as she saw them walk in, carrying flutes and fiddles and harps as well as gowns and brand-new dancing slippers.

  “Da!” called Henrietta, the eldest sister out in greeting as she walked into the house, “Look what we got!”

  “But why would you be needing so much posh stuff?” asked her father as he kissed his eldest daughter on the cheek.

  “There’s a ball coming up!” exclaimed Laura, the second eldest daughter, “Down in central London!”

  “Ye need invitation for that sort of thing, girl,” replied her father, shaking his head, “And I don’t see anyone inviting you lot.”

  “This lot is already invited,” came a voice from the back as her mother stepped up, waving a small piece of parchment in her hand as she panted, “This family right down the street is having the ball and the woman invited us when I told her that our girls are musically talented.”

  “Aye, that they are,” added her father, smiling widely at his Daughters, “Talented to burning hell and back. And ye be panting quite heavily, darl.” Ye shouldn’t be going around so much because of your breathing condition.”

  “Aye, aye,” she replied, waving a hand in the air to dismiss the thought, “I be fine. And aye, our daughters be talented and they shall do us proud.”

  “Except Eleanor, of course,” said Henrietta snidely, “She can’t play anything if her life depended on it.”

  “Now, now,” said her father, raising a finger in a stern manner, “What did I say about ye talking ill about yer youngest sister? The girl is a beauty and just because you can run your hands against a harp don’t mean ye be any better than her!”

  “Aye, aye,” replied Henrietta, waving her hand through the air exactly like her mother had a few moments ago, and for the same purpose, “Harmless comment, Da.”

  Eleanor stood by quietly as the conversation rolled out in front of her. She was used to Henrietta’s comments about her lack of talent as compared to her sisters. It did not help that Henrietta was beautiful beyond compare. Where they came from in North Yorkshire, she was the known as the prettiest girl in the area. Her other sisters refused to be out done and all of them were beauties with suitors coming left right and center. They all had something that made them more attractive than the average girl.

  Henrietta had her flowing hair, Laura her beautiful eyes and Anne was tall and lean like one of those statues down in Paris. But Eleanor had always been nothing more than average if not worse. Her hair was always in a tangle, she was paler than the white sand of the northern beaches and her most recent weight loss had just made things worse. Additionally, she lacked talent whereas Henrietta was renowned as a harp player, Laura played the flute, and Anne the fiddle. They were extremely talented and occasionally had small concerts in North Yorkshire. At those concerts, Eleanor normally collected money from the viewer or handed out refreshments.

  It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to learn to play something. She had tried her luck at all three instruments and even the lute but had failed miserably. It was worse that two of her three sisters discouraged her to the point of insult while it was only Anne who had ever tried to help her hit her notes right or learn the basics of music. Out of her sisters, it was only Anne that she truly felt something for. She felt as if she was the only one who she could truly call a sibling.

  “Where’s Anne?” she asked, stepping forward hesitantly.

  “Outside,” replied Henrietta curtly. Her tone made her falter and flinch as she took a tentative step back and looked away.

  “I’m right here, girl!” called Anne from the entrance of the door before appearing at Henrietta’s side. She kissed Da on the cheek before stepping up to hug Eleanor. As she held her close, Anne whispered in her ear, “I got ye something from the market, girl. I knew you wouldn’t want to miss it.”

  Suddenly excited, Eleanor gestured towards her and signaled for the two of them to slip upstairs. The two of them looked around before hastily ducking out of sight and rushing upstairs. Anne was one of the nicest people Eleanor knew. She was soft spoken, sweet and very easy to get along with. For that reason, it was extremely easy for her to make friends and be generally liked. Even their elder sisters seemed to like Anne a lot better than they liked her. Once upstairs, Anne turned towards her, dug into the cloth back that she had on her shoulders and pulled out a long ball gown that was extremely small around the bodice.

  “Freshly tailored gown for ye,” she said, “I ain’t going to the ball without my sweet sister, now am I?”

  “Thank you,” whispered Eleanor as she ran her hands over the beautiful dress with the silk as light as air, “Thank you so much.”

  “And there’s more,” whispered Anne excitedly as she dug into her bag again and pulled out a huge book, “Very heavy, this, but I knew you would love it, the worm that ye are.”

  “Wow,” whispered Eleanor as she grabbed the black volume that was titled ‘Works of Shakespeare’ in bright gold, “It looks beautiful.”

  “It’s got all your favorite plays in it, don’t it?” she asked excitedly as she hugged her sister.

  “I wish they were all like you, Anne,” Eleanor muttered into her sister’s ear as she chuckled softly into hers, “Thank you.”

  Chapter 3

  Tobacco

  B eaufort sat in the study of his Mayfair home, running his eyes over one of his least favorite plays by Shakespeare: Romeo and Juliet. Most people around Britain had chastised him over his opinion but the play seemed exceptionally idealistic and utopian. The way the two protagonists fall in love over their first two meetings to the extent of sacrificing the honor and tradition of their respective families seemed barbaric to Beaufort.

  For most sensible highborn men and women, the tradition, culture and honor of their families were of the utmost importance. They wouldn’t allow any compromise on that. To him, Juliet and Romeo were nothing more than squabbling children who did not know any better.

  Duke Beaufort had not seen love as he had grown up. Even his parent’s own marriage was nothing more than a well-thought and well-planned move by both families towards political stability and a stronger royal lobby at the annual meetings at the Palace of Westminster. The House of Lords met annually at the palace and the old coots debated the prosperity of the country among themselves under the watchful eye of his Grace, the King—or in this case, the King Regent. Even though most dukes or earls had no say in the proceedings of the committee but a lobby could influence the meetings to the extent of bending them to their own personal gains.

  Over the years, he had seen his parents grow fond of each other and even develop feelings of mutual respect and affection but never did they love each other. Love, as an emotion was unfamiliar to the duke. How could someone feel so strong for someone that he would give up all else for them and their happiness? His father had raised him to be responsible and thoughtful towards his family and its name. He was a hard man who did not know compromise.

  On the other hand, his mother was soft and loving. She, too, was idealistic and craved for love. However, as she adapted to the roll of the Duchess of the castle, she grew more refined and cultured. But to her dying day, she had remained loyal to love, waiting for it even as she drew her last breaths on her death bed. As she grew weaker and weaker and death threatened to take her, she had spent most of her time reading and writing memoirs. In her last moments, Beaufort had been with her
. He was already duke of the castle but had handed over his responsibilities to his trusted advisor in order to spend some time with his mother.

  He remembered his mother calling him forward as he sat on a desk a few steps away from her bed and handing him a rolled-up peace of parchment. He grabbed it and asked what it was to which his mother replied with a smile, too weak to even speak. It was then that she passed to the void, smiling as she looked up at him. The parchment, which she had handed to him, was sealed and had a small note scribbled right on top of it in elegant and rather calligraphic writing. It read, “When faced with a crossroads between responsibility and your happiness. Go for happiness, my dear Beaufort; there is nothing in this world more important.”

  Beaufort sighed as he thought of the small rolled up letter and pulled it out of his inner pocket. He always kept the letter with him in case he ever needed it. The parchment was dented and bent after years of being pressed against his chest. Even though he knew himself to be a rather pragmatic person, there were some things that turned even him into a visionary or a romantic. His mother’s last letter to him before she died was one of those things. He put the letter back in his pocket before reaching out for his pipe that stood on its stand not too far from him on a table of polished oak. As he looked into it, he saw that it was empty of any tobacco. A bit disappointed, he grabbed a bell from next to where his pipe was and rang it once, sharply. Immediately, there was a knock on his door and after getting his permission, a small messenger boy that usually stood outside his door rushed in.

  “You need something, your grace?” asked the boy as he bowed to him, “Perhaps a drink or a new book?”

  “Nay, neither of those,” he replied. Holding out his pipe, he said, “What I need is for someone to fill my pipe.”

  “Allow me, your grace,” said the boy as he stepped up and gently took the pipe from him, “Madam Daisy left some of the new shipment of tobacco in the study in case you needed it at hand.”

  “That was smart of her,” replied Beaufort, surprised at the revelation as he looked around to see the boy slide open a small drawer on his book shelf and pull out a small pouch, “If that was the case, I could have done this myself.”

  “But we wouldn’t be having this delightful conversation, would we?” asked the boy with a smile as he filled up his pipe with the perfectly refined and cut Indian tobacco.

  “What’s so exceptionally delightful about this conversation, my boy?” asked Beaufort, confused, “It seems rather mundane to me.”

  “Perhaps to you, your grace, for you are addressing no one but a mere messenger boy,” he replied. He was done filling the pipe and went on to tapping it gently against the wood to settle the tobacco. As he put the pouch away, he continued, “But I have the honor of addressing a great duke. To me, this conversation is delightful beyond measure.”

  “Quite the sweet talker, are you?” asked Beaufort with a smile as the boy walked over with a filled pipe, “Keep at it and you might just end up as a squire to a narcissistic Knight.”

  “Narcissistic, your grace?” asked the boy, confused.

  “Someone who thinks too highly of themselves,” replied Beaufort.

  “I would prefer to be squire to a knight who I could learn valuable lessons from,” replied the boy as he handed over the pipe to him.

  “You’ll have to go to Ireland for that,” replied Beaufort with a smile, amused at his own joke.

  “May I take my leave, your grace?” asked the boy as he bowed again.

  “You may,” replied the duke and watched the boy back away to the door. As he was about to walk out, he said, “This was a rather delightful conversation for me too, boy.”

  “I’m honored,” replied the boy before closing the door behind him.

  Beaufort chuckled as he put the pipe to his lips and attempted to light it with a splint. A gust of chilly wind from the window extinguished the lit splint in his hands and turned pages on the book in his lap. Rolling his eyes, he lit the splint again and brought it to his lips but paused as he looked down at the scene at which the book lay open. It was the one where Romeo wanders into the Capulet’s orchard and sees Juliet on a balcony. His eyes ran over the page as he read through the scene. As Romeo sees Juliet, he says what used to be Beaufort’s least favorite bit of Shakespeare’s writings but now; he seemed to have a different opinion on it. It read:

  But, soft! what light through yonder window breaks?

  It is the east, and Juliet is the sun.

  Arise, fair sun, and kill the envious moon,

  Who is already sick and pale with grief?

  That thou her maid art far more fair than she:

  Be not her maid since she is envious;

  Her vestal livery is but sick and green

  And none but fools do wear it; cast it off.

  It is my lady, O, it is my love!

  O, that she knew she were!

  She speaks yet she says nothing: what of that?

  Her eye discourses; I will answer it.

  I am too bold, 'tis not to me she speaks:

  Two of the fairest stars in all the heaven,

  Having some business, do entreat her eyes

  To twinkle in their spheres till they return.

  What if her eyes were there, they in her head?

  The brightness of her cheek would shame those stars,

  As daylight doth a lamp; her eyes in heaven

  Would through the airy region stream so bright

  That birds would sing and think it were not night.

  See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand!

  O, that I were a glove upon that hand,

  That I might touch that cheek!

  He thought back to the girl he had seen that same morning, leaning out the window of the newly occupied Mayfair house. He thought back to her simplicity and her grace and felt warm inside. Much like Romeo in the play. “Bah!” he muttered to himself before slamming the book shut. He tossed it onto the table closest to him and shook his head to rid himself of his most recent thoughts before lighting his pipe and taking a deep puff and relishing in the sweet taste of the Indian tobacco.

  Chapter 4

  A Lady’s Carriage

  Oh, when she’s angry, she is keen and shrewd!

  She was a vixen when she went to school.

  And though she be but little, she is fierce.

  E leanor read over her favorite Shakespearean lines thrice before putting the book to her chest and smiling to herself. Ever since Anne had gotten her ‘Works of Shakespeare’, she had dedicated most of her time to reading through the various plays in the book. Her favorite lines of Shakespeare were from A Midsummer Night’s Dream where Helena talks about Hermia. She really liked Hermia and how she stood up for herself throughout the play. She wanted such courage and confidence for herself and aimed to get there someday.

  “Eleanor!” came Anne’s voice from downstairs, “Get ready now, girl. We be leaving for the ball soon. And check up on mum as well!”

  “Aye!” she called back as she got up hastily and put the book away.

  She didn’t like all the shouting the family did ever since they had moved to this place. The house was rather large, and they had to be extra loud to be heard around the place. For houses like these, royal families had messenger boys, but the idea seemed nothing but absurd to her and her family. Eleanor skipped to her mother’s chambers, which was a hallway away from her own room. Even though the house had extra rooms, the sisters had decided to live as roommates with two sharing one chamber like they did back in Yorkshire. It was more homely feeling. She skipped past the empty rooms until she reached her mother’s and knocked before entering.

  “Anne says we be leaving for the ball soon so you better get ready,” said Eleanor as she entered the beautifully furnished chambers, “We don’t want to be late, do we?”

  She stopped short as she saw her mother lying in her four-poster, looking at her with a sad and weak smile on her face. She had the covers pulled u
p to her neck and her hair was open and spread outwards towards the back of the bed. Her mother had had severe breathing issues ever since she was a child.

  One of the major reasons that they had moved down from the industrial town that was their home to the much cleaner and posh London was because the dirt and the smoke was not doing well for their mother in this age. Even now, she had attacks where she couldn’t walk or even talk because she would be breathing too heavily. Now she seemed to be going through one of them.

  “Mum, what’s wrong?” she asked, sitting down next to her on the bed “Are ye having an attack again?”

  “Aye,” she huffed as she reached up a hand to caress her cheek, “Seems I won’t be going to that ball, after all. You girls go on ahead, eh?”

  “I won’t be going without ye,” she replied, “I can’t, mum. I’m scared to go alone; I’ve never been to a ball before.”

  “Anne will look out for you,” replied her mother, “Ye can’t miss out on this. This is your opportunity to connect with the society we be living in now. Go, girl, and tell me all about it and about the men you danced with when you get back.”

  “Aye, I will,” she replied before slumping her shoulder, “Ye sure ye can’t come with? Ye don’t have to dance.”

  “I wouldn’t have danced either way, girl,” she replied with a weak chuckle, “Go and have fun, Eleanor. And tell your sisters I won’t be going. Remind them to take their instruments with them because the host has requested a performance.”

  “Aye,” she murmured glumly before planting a kiss on her mother’s brow and leaving the room.

  As she walked down to inform her sisters of the development, she couldn’t help but feel excited about the prospect of going to a ball. She had repeatedly fantasized about meeting her soul mate and her true love at such a ball, just as Juliet meets Romeo in her favorite Shakespearean play.

  “Henrietta!” she called at the stairs, “Mum is sick and won’t be going to the ball so it’s just us four. And she told me to remind you lot to not forget to take your instruments along.”