A Dandy in Disguise

by Meredith Bond

He gestured for her to sit down on the dark green sofa, but stayed standing by the fireplace himself.

  “I want to know precisely what occurred at the docks, Rose,” her father said, in his most serious manner.

  “It was an accident, Papa, just as we told you. Thalia just leaned a little too far out over the water and fell in,” Rose said. It was nearly true, and this way he would not worry overmuch.

  Her father looked at her searchingly. It was clear that he knew there was more to the story than what she was telling him.

  Finally, giving in, he set his drink down on the mantelpiece “Very well,” he sighed. “I am certain you are doing your best to watch after your sisters. I know your mother was always worried about the tricks the three of you got up to. But you know your own sisters, and I trust you to look after them. It’s not easy, but I know you will do the best you can.”

  Rose did not say a word. She could not bear to let her father know how difficult it was for her to have this responsibility. He already had enough to be anxious about; she refused to impose her own misgivings on him as well.

  Looking as strained as he had the last time they had talked in the library, her father sat down on the sofa next to her. Rose felt a rush of warm affection and concern for her father. He was so brilliant despite how impractical he was, and he was trying so hard to be a good parent to her and her sisters.

  Putting a comforting hand on his arm, she said, “It will be all right, Papa.”

  He nodded and patted her hand. “It is not so easy for a man such as I to raise three girls by myself. But I know I can count on you to help me.”

  He then turned to her and gave her a sly smile. “Now tell me about Fungy.”

  Rose just shook her head and laughed.

  ~~~~

  Fungy surfaced from the deepest sleep, coming to consciousness as slowly as he had swum up from under the surface of the river.

  He sat up with a start and took in a deep breath of air.

  It was all right. He was in his own bed. The binds around his legs were only his covers, not the rope that had held him under the water. Quickly, he pulled his legs free, throwing back the blankets and reveling in the feel of the cool air.

  The murky light of the waning day seeped in through the mostly closed drapes. Fungy’s stomach rumbled with hunger.

  Donning his dressing gown, he found his valet, Thomas, in the small kitchen attempting to save his waistcoat from the rubbish heap.

  Fungy always felt like Gulliver in the land of the Lilliputians whenever he walked into the little kitchen that was Thomas’s kingdom. Everything was small, even the dapper valet, who stood a full foot shorter than him.

  Thomas looked up as he entered the room. “It may be hopeless, sir,” he informed Fungy. “Even if I got all the dirt off, the stench would be sure to linger. And the embroidery is so delicate that I would be afraid it would be quite ruined were I to attempt to wash it.”

  Fungy caressed the waistcoat like an old friend, but then handed it back to the valet. “Do not bother with it anymore, then, Thomas. Simply throw it away.”

  The man slouched forward for a moment in resignation, but he quickly regained his erect posture, and sighed, “Yes, sir.”

  He folded the destroyed garment and put it out of sight.

  “I am famished. Is there anything to eat?”

  “Certainly, sir. If you would wait for just a few moments in the drawing room, I will bring out a cold collation of meat and cheese.”

  Fungy nodded and went back out to the drawing room—where everything was once again of a normal size. He sat down in his favorite chair by the fire, next to which stood a table littered with the day’s newspapers, all opened to the gossip pages. There were also a couple of books, lying face down to the pages where he had stopped reading. He had searched through his old trunks a few days earlier, and found a gold mine of all his old favorite books.

  Idly, he picked up Socrates’ rendering of Plato’s Apology. But deciphering the original Greek was too much of an effort just now. He was sure it would come easily to him once again, but he needed a bit more practice.

  Tossing it back onto the table, he reached for a newspaper, and turned it back to the front to read what was happening in the world around him.

  Thomas came in with his food, and Fungy ate and read in silence—until the unbidden thoughts that had haunted him while under the murky depths of the Thames slid into his consciousness once more.

  No legacy. No wife or children. No occupation. What have I done with my life? Who will remember me when I’m gone?

  The words echoed over and over in his mind. In desperation, Fungy jumped from his chair, striding to the window. There must be some way to shut out these nagging voices. He leaned his fevered head against the cool glass of the window, and closed his eyes.

  And there she was. Rose Grace. Her face hovered behind his eyelids, looking so worried and fearful as she called out his name, begging him to return to the dock.

  She really was quite lovely. It had been absolutely impossible to look up into that face and then consign himself to the depths of the river.

  Fungy opened his eyes and looked out into the street. People walked by, carriages carrying ladies home from their shopping expeditions drove past—an ordinary day for most, and yet such an extraordinary one for him.

  A knock on the door jarred Fungy out of his pensive mood. He waited and heard another man’s voice in the hall. Julian, Lord Huntley, entered the room, looking ready for the evening in his dark blue coat with a pair of matching pantaloons.

  “Hello, Fungy. I hope you don’t mind me dropping by—I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Fungy took his friend’s brown outstretched hand and held it in a firm grip for perhaps a moment longer than usual.

  “You are all right, aren’t you?” Julian asked, now with a worried tone to his voice.

  “I shall come about, I suppose.” Fungy turned around and noticed the rest of his meal still spread out on the table. “Care for something to eat?” he offered.

  “No, thank you. I’m off to Whites for dinner in a bit. How is it that you’re not dressed? Are you sure you are all right?”

  “What?” Fungy looked down at the maroon brocade dressing gown he was still wearing. He hadn’t even bothered to put any slippers on his feet, preferring the feel of the solid wood floor beneath his toes after the dreadful memory of his dip in the water that morning.

  “Er, yes! Quite all right. Come along then, and keep me company while I dress.”

  Julian followed him to his bedchamber, and then settled down on a chair while Fungy pulled clothes out of his drawers and wardrobe at random.

  Julian sat up, watching him closely. Fungy noticed that his blue eyes were now full of concern, and wondered how much he could unburden himself.

  “What happened this morning, Fungy? What is wrong?”

  Fungy randomly tossed a dark green coat on top of the pale blue pantaloons on his bed, and then sat down heavily on top of them, heedless of the creases it would cause.

  “I have realized that you and Sin were right, Julian,” he said. “I need to do something. To marry, have children... perhaps Sin’s idea of an occupation was the right one. O de anexetastoz bioz ou biotoz anthropo, you know.”

  “I’m sorry, Fungy, what was that you said?”

  Fungy gave a little laugh, and translated. “The unexamined life is not worth living. Sorry, old man, I’m reverting to old habits. It’s Greek.”

  Julian laughed in turn. “I see. They didn’t teach us Greek in Calcutta. If you need an appropriate quotation in Bengali, though ...”

  Abruptly, Fungy held up his hand to stop his friend from speaking. There was something nagging at his mind.

  In a snap, he had it. He jumped up and opened the door, calling for his valet.

  The man came at a run. “Yes, sir?”

  “Thomas, there was a card from a Lord Halsbury in the pocket of my waistcoat, the one I wore to Lady Ans
on’s soiree...” Fungy began.

  The man nodded and immediately went to his shaving table and pulled a card from one corner of the mirror. “You mean this one, sir?”

  Fungy took it. “Yes. Indeed, this is the one. Thank you, Thomas.”

  The man nodded and then went to straighten the clothes Fungy had tossed onto his bed. He shook out the blue pantaloons and then offered them to his employer to put on.

  “So, you are going to start looking about for a wife?” Julian asked, hesitantly.

  Fungy stopped to button his pantaloons, thoughts furiously swirling around in his mind, visions of Georgiana, his first love. No one had ever been able to compare to her beauty in Fungy’s eyes. No one had ever been as intelligent, sweet, and thoughtful. In fifteen years he had not been attracted to another woman. For fifteen years he had remained faithful to his first love. Was he really willing to give up his steadfast devotion?

  Not willing, perhaps, he decided, but it was something he would have to do.

  “Yes, I actually did meet a fascinating young woman, Miss Rose Grace.” The name just slipped out of his mouth.

  “I don’t believe I know her,” Julian said.

  “Extremely intelligent. Father is the famous archaeologist Lord Pemberton–Howe. Just back from Greece.” Fungy knew he was justifying her existence in his mind to himself as much as he was to Julian. But really, he thought, it was natural that she would be the first young lady he thought of, he had, after all, seen her only that morning.

  “I’ve never thought of you as fancying the blue–stocking sort.”

  Fungy gave a shrug. “There is also Miss Halsbury—you know, the Parliamentarian’s daughter. Very sweet girl,” Fungy said, forcing himself to go through all of the young ladies he’d met recently.

  “I’ve met her. Rather quiet, isn’t she?”

  Fungy reached for the neckcloth Thomas was offering him.

  “Yes,” he said, as he tied a simple knot in the starched linen. He tried to think of other young ladies, but his mind kept going back to Miss Grace.

  He paused for a moment before slipping his arms into the waistcoat Thomas was holding out for him. The man was about to return the green coat to the wardrobe, but Fungy absently took it from him, while trying to remove the vision of Miss Grace in her soaking wet dress from his mind. Somehow it refused to budge.

  As the valet began to protest, Fungy continued, “Can’t think of anyone else who has caught my eye recently. Imagine there will be more if I look about.”

  “Yes.” Julian tilted his head to one side. “Er, Fungy, that coat with those pantaloons...?”

  Fungy having just slipped his arms into the coat, took a look in his mirror. He frowned at his reflection.

  “Won’t do at all, will it?” he said, with a little laugh.

  Julian burst out laughing as well. “You are a cad! You nearly had me going there!”

  Fungy gave his friend a rueful smile. He shook off the coat and gave it apologetically back to Thomas.

  He really needed to watch himself if he both wanted to attract a young lady and keep his friends from worrying overmuch. Luckily, Julian had just thought that he was funning.

  But, in fact, he had not been watching, or caring about what he was doing. It was very unlike him — or rather, very like he had once been. But again, it was not every day that one nearly died and had to completely reprioritize one’s life.

  Chapter Nine

  HOW kind of you to call, my lord,” Rose said as she sat back down on the dark red–and–white striped sofa of the drawing room. Lord Kirtland took the seat opposite her in the matching chair.

  Clasping her hands together tightly in her lap, Rose tried to calm herself. She desperately wished that Laia was next to her to support her in what she had to do, but she was across the room, with Aunt Farmington hovering over her, gaily entertaining the two other gentleman callers. And besides, Rose had not yet told her sisters about either Lord Kirtland or her gambling.

  But at least he had finally come! She had been so afraid he wouldn’t visit, especially after quite a few of the other gentlemen she’d met the other night had already come and left that afternoon. Lord Kirtland was the only one she truly wanted to see, so naturally he had been the very last one to call.

  Rose had had a difficult time sitting still and being polite to all of the people who had visited during their at–home. All afternoon, she’d jumped up each time another guest arrived, but now, finally, Lord Kirtland was here.

  Rose took a deep breath. Now, for the next step. How could she bring card–playing into the discussion, and dare she introduce it into the general conversation?

  No, she quickly decided. If she was going to find out where to play cards, she had to speak to Lord Kirtland privately. She remembered what her father had said—that it was inappropriate for young ladies to want to play cards and gamble.

  But it was essential that she arrange something this afternoon, she simply wouldn’t get another chance, and those bills were weighing on her mind.

  “I was disappointed to find you not at home yesterday, Miss Grace,” Lord Kirtland was saying, as Rose handed him a cup of tea.

  He was looking as handsome as ever, neatly and fashionably dressed, still causing her little shivers every time he looked at her with those dark eyes. “Oh, my sisters and I had gone to see about our household goods, my lord. They are being shipped from Greece. Unfortunately, the ship has not yet arrived.”

  Rose forced a smile onto her face, trying to hide her anxiety. This was definitely going to be difficult. Bound by convention, she was forced to sit and make polite conversation, but it was unquestionably the most arduous exchange she had ever had.

  Luckily, Rose and Lord Kirtland were sitting quite by themselves. She wondered if she dared to quickly change the subject while she had the opportunity.

  Before she could continue however, Lord Kirtland replied easily, “I am sorry to hear that. I hope that it arrives soon. May I ask if you have brought back any interesting artefacts from your father’s expeditions?” he asked. He was sitting back comfortably with his tea, completely unaware of her tension.

  “Oh, no. The most significant objects were immediately handed over to the government. Unlike Lord Elgin, my father does not believe in stealing precious artefacts from Greece.”

  “Old Lord Elgin stole the marbles?” Lord Strapton asked dimly, arranging his lanky limbs in the spindly chair next to Lord Kirtland. He was followed by Laia, happily leaning on the arm of young Lieutenant Wroughtly, with her aunt quietly bringing up the rear.

  Rose groaned silently. She had lost her opportunity.

  But Lord Kirtland had also seized upon Rose’s statement. His voice rising slightly, he proclaimed, “Lord Elgin did not steal the marble relics from Greece, Miss Grace. He rescued them.”

  Rose’s nails bit into her palms, temper flaring at his tone. This was a very touchy subject among archaeologists, but it was one that she and felt strongly about, and that she was absolutely confident in.

  She kept her tone deliberately moderate and polite. “That is what he claims, my lord. However, there are others in the archaeological society who feel...”

  “Oh, in the archaeological society!” Lord Strapton said, with a dismissive air—not, Rose thought, that he knew anything about the society at all. “Well, of course, they would hold odd views about the subject.”

  Lord Kirtland frowned at the gentleman. Clearly, he too knew that Strapton was totally ignorant about the subject. “There are differing viewpoints even within the archaeological society, Strapton. And I believe that Lord Elgin should be commended for saving the marbles from falling further into ruin and be rewarded handsomely for doing so.”

  Laia gasped, but Rose immediately put a hand on her sister’s knee while simultaneously biting back her own sharp retort. While she would have dearly liked to have engaged Lord Kirtland in an argument on the topic, this was not the time—she needed him too badly just now to alienate him in any
way.

  “Miss Grace, do you plan on attending Lady Yarborough’s soiree tomorrow night?” Lieutenant Wroughtly asked.

  Rose threw him a grateful look. He had — rather wisely — stayed out of the argument, and for once his polite, meaningless conversation was exactly what was needed. She was only worried about how besotted Laia looked as she gazed at him.

  “I had rather hoped that you would attend Mrs. Cartwright’s rout, don’t you know, so that I might have another opportunity to dance with you,” Lord Strapton added, giving Rose his usual, vacuously charming, smile.

  “I am deeply flattered, gentlemen, truly I am. But my aunt and I have not yet decided which party we shall be attending tomorrow. Have we, Aunt Farmington?”

  “No, my dear, but I was thinking that we should try to pay our respects to both hostesses.”

  “Oh, but Mrs. Cartwright’s routs are really quite out of the ordinary,” Lord Strapton said with conviction.

  “Not any more so than Lady Yarborough’s soirees,” the Lieutenant argued.

  This was the opportunity Rose had been waiting for.

  While the two men carried on their good–natured argument, with Laia and Aunt Farmington proffering their opinions, Rose turned back to Lord Kirtland and said quietly, so that only he could hear her, “My lord, I was actually hoping that you would know of some place where I might go to play cards once again. I have to admit, I truly enjoyed myself the other evening.”

  He leaned forward so that they might have a more private conversation. Unfortunately, his discreet words were not what Rose wanted to hear.

  “I am happy you enjoyed our little game, Miss Grace. However, it is not strictly proper for a you to play cards.”

  He reached forward and helped himself to a slice of cake. “In fact, I was quite surprised that your father brought you into the card room at Lady Bascombe’s ball. It is quite unheard of for a young lady to play cards at a ball; dancing is a far more likely, and more appropriate pursuit.”

  “Oh, well, I did dance quite a bit that evening, but I had grown tired. My father was kind enough to offer to escort me into the card room for a rest,” Rose said, fudging a little on the details. She was not sure how Lord Kirtland would react if she told him that her father had only brought her into the card room on a lark—he might very well be one of those straight–laced gentleman who stuck to the rules.