Minor Indiscretions

by Barbara Metzger

  Melody hesitated outside the door. She really should not do this. Her reputation, her future—his practiced charm. She tapped lightly.

  He was sitting, stiffly it seemed to her, in a high-backed chair. He was wearing a bright paisley dressing gown with a black velvet collar and gray pantaloons. The colors of the robe, which was open enough for her to see wide swatches of bandages across his chest, were as nothing compared to the colors of his face.

  “Oh my,” she said, going closer. “You shouldn’t be up.”

  “And you shouldn’t be here.”

  My word, Corey thought, standing cautiously. He must have taken a harder hit to the brainbox than he thought. Yesterday, with her hair down and her toes bare, his angel was a most appealing little baggage, and he had wanted—needed—just one more look at her dewy innocence to remind him that the world wasn’t all hardened cynics. Today she was nothing more than a pretty schoolroom chit, all prunes and prisms, not a hair out of place, bundled sensibly against the cold. By all that was holy, even he had more conscience than to make mice feet of her good name, whatever it was. “You had better leave.”

  Of course she shouldn’t be here. Any peagoose knew that. But hadn’t he asked for her and arranged the whole elaborate scheme so she could come? Obviously, he had changed his mind. So had Miss Ashton. Instead of wishing him God speed and hoping that by some miracle this nonesuch would ask for her direction, she would stand tall—she had her shoes on today—and make polite inquiries as to his health, then return his largesse. A lady never let a strange man pay her way.

  She pulled at the strings of her reticule—the weight of the thing was making it devilish hard to undo—and raised her proud chin.

  “What the deuce is that thing around your neck?”

  Drat Nanny anyway! She couldn’t admit the muffler was her own cross to bear, so Melody answered, “It’s all the thing, don’t you know, my lord.” But she showed her adorable dimples, and a lot of the viscount’s good resolutions melted.

  He raised the one moveable eyebrow. “Perhaps in Shavbrodia, my girl, but in London ladies don’t pay attention to the weather. They are wearing the flimsiest of gowns, with the least underpinnings. Some are even dampening their skirts.”

  Her green eyes opened wide. “They are? Whatever for?”

  He grinned. “Child, you have so much to learn. I only wish I… No, you had better leave.”

  “I am not in leading strings, Lord Corey. About your paying my shot at the inn, I do know that’s not the thing.” She couldn’t get the blasted strings unknotted, and the wretched man was laughing at her! She stamped her foot in frustration.

  He reached for the bag to help her, and exclaimed, “My God, what’s in here? The thing weighs a ton.”

  She snatched it back, not about to reveal the reticule’s contents, but he kept her hand in his, to her confusion. “If you must know, it’s a going-away present from my schoolmistress.”

  “A fine instructor she must be, not teaching her young ladies about the danger of rakes.” He was teasing her purposefully, noting her stress on the “going-away” part to distance herself from the schoolroom. He also noticed how the color came and went in her peach-blushed cheeks.

  “School taught me everything I need to know, thank you.”

  “Everything, mon ange?” With that Corey drew her forward and brushed his other hand across her cheek and behind her head. He lowered his mouth to hers and kissed her, tenderly enough for his bruised lips, thoroughly enough to leave Melody dazed.

  Now why the bloody hell had he done that? Corey asked himself. Most likely it was the same devil that had put Albert in his path: he just could not resist a dare. It would never do. The viscount shook himself, bringing his cracked ribs forcibly back to mind.

  “Angel, Angel, you mustn’t look at me all dewy and awestruck, or I’ll forget I am a gentleman altogether. It was only a simple little kiss.”

  Her first rake. Her first kiss. The first time a second became eternity. And to him it was just a simple kiss? Melody sighed. “I suppose I have a lot to learn, after all.”

  “You’ll get swallowed whole in the ton, else.”

  “I might never get to London.” Never know another libertine, never feel that delicious tingling.

  “Well, then your rural society, which can be even more moralistic. I really feel I owe it to you, to finish your education.”

  Melody felt that his kiss had opened more horizons than all the books in Miss Meadow’s library. She sighed again.

  His fingers stroked her hand, which was somehow still in his. “The first rule is no sighing; it gives a fellow notions. No, the first rule is never let a man get you off somewhere alone. Then you don’t need any other rules. But if you should find yourself alone, say on a starry balcony, and the cur dares to take liberties with you, like this—”

  This time the world stopped.

  “—then you are supposed to slap him, like this.” And he raised her hand to his face, but instead of the slap, her palm caressed his empurpled cheek.

  The viscount took a deep, painful breath. “You’re not a very apt pupil, are you, sweetheart?” He laughed.

  He was laughing at her! “Of all the miserable—”

  “That’s it, Angel, you are supposed to be mad, not moonstruck. Here, make a fist, since your slaps would not precisely discourage an overheated beau.” Corey’s hands curled Melody’s fingers into a ball, and he grinned at her. “Now pretend I am a randy buck toying with your affections.”

  She didn’t have to pretend. She hauled off and swung at him, she really did. She missed, of course; he ducked back. But her reticule, with its roll of coins and hefty little book, swung right behind her fist—and it didn’t miss.

  Mingleforth’s Rules of Polite Decorum came in handy, after all. Now Corey’s nose was broken.

  *

  One other event interrupted Miss Ashton’s journey home. Late in the afternoon, a shabby boy ran onto the roadway chasing a small dog, and Toby pulled back on the reins. The pup ran between the sturdy legs of Old Bess and Thimble and stayed there cowering, while the boy shouted louder, and Toby’s hearing grew worse.

  Nanny positively swelled in anticipation. Now here was someone she could intimidate. Here was a male, dirty, full of profanity, disturbing the right-of-way, and small. He was going to pay for all the indignities she’d suffered at his fellow men’s hands. She grabbed the lad by the ear and jabbed him with her knitting needle. She called him a misbegotten whelp and a gorm-grown gallow’s bait. She would have gone on for at least an hour, if Melody hadn’t taken part.

  At first Miss Ashton hadn’t even stepped down from the carriage. She was too despondent to care about a foul-mouthed boy and his dog. But it was getting later, and other vehicles might come along, so she intervened. At the sight of a reasonable face, the boy rushed into explanation: “It’s me own bloody dog, and the old dungcrow’s got no damn business akeepin’ me from it. Bloody mutt were worritin’ the chickens an’ Ma says iffin I catch it, I can help drown the bleedin’ bitch.”

  So Melody slapped the brat. Then she tossed a coin into the dirt at his feet. “There, now it’s not your dog any longer. And if you are not out of here in two minutes, I’ll send for the magistrate, you little muckworm.” The boy grabbed up the coin and ran. Melody used a piece of cheese to coax the dog out from the proximity of Thimble’s massive hooves. The little mongrel was ridged-rib starving, shivering, and filthy. It was young, mostly hound with something shaggy mixed in, and it licked Melody’s hand in pathetic gratitude. She wrapped it in her wool muffler—with an I-dare-you look to Nanny—and carried it back to the carriage, where the pup had food and water from the hamper before falling asleep in its savior’s lap. Melody promptly named her new friend Angel, then proceeded to dampen the poor beast with her tears.

  Chapter Six

  You brought home another charity case? For heaven’s sake, Melody, we are a charity case! How could any child of mine be such a skitterwitted ninny
hammer? Where’s my hartshorn? I need my salts. Perhaps a cordial.”

  Lady Jessamyn Ashton was reclining on the lounge in her bedroom, exhausted from the effort of offering her cheek to be kissed. She was interestingly pale, dressed in lavender gauze, and she fluttered a square of silk between her watery eyes and her ample bosom. With an air of die-away frailty, she asked, “Was ever a woman so beset?”

  Melody poured out a tonic from the tray nearby. “Come, Mama, things cannot be as bad as all that. You sent me money for new clothes, remember?”

  “A lady has to keep up appearances no matter what. Do you think I would let that harpy in Bath discover we are in Dun Territory? The woman has a wider correspondence than I do. Did, alas. I could not bear it if everyone in the ton knew we were below hatches. Could you sprinkle some rosewater on my handkerchief, dear?”

  Melody did, and placed it tenderly across her mother’s forehead. “But are we?” she persisted. “Are we below hatches?”

  Lady Ashton tossed the cloth on the floor, dropping the role of tragedy queen with it. “Don’t be such a gudgeon. We’ve been punting on tick for years. Now there’s almost no income at all.”

  “But, Mama, the way you live, all the clothes and traveling, and my schooling, my allowance. I do not understand.”

  “Then you are a paperskull, Melody. The only hope we ever had was to find you a wealthy parti. The breeding was there, along with a modest dowry, thanks to Judith, and we made sure you had the education the highest sticklers demand in a wife. We encouraged the necessary connections, all those well-born girls at your so-fashionable school, all my so-called friends. Friends, hah! Where are they now, I wonder.”

  “Do you mean everything was for me to make an advantageous marriage? I thought I was to have a love match.”

  Lady Jessamyn gave that the consideration it deserved, none. “I researched the prospects for years before settling on Dickie Pendleton, whom I have been cultivating for ages now. He’s an earl, and as rich as Croesus, they say, and needing an heir before he’s too old to—before much longer at any rate. He wouldn’t commit himself till your come out, of course, but we did talk settlements over Christmas at Sally Jersey’s.”

  “Without…without even asking me?” Melody choked out.

  “Of course, the man’s the most sanctimonious Methodist in town, and I should have known he’d shab off at the first hint of gossip.”

  Gossip? Melody’s head was already reeling, and for a moment she wondered if there was talk of her indiscretion—indiscretions—at that inn. Rumor could not possibly have reached Copley-Whitmore, not if Nanny hadn’t brought it, and there would have been a rare trimming indeed, in that case. Nothing was making sense! Setting aside the question of Lord Pendleton, forever, she hoped, Melody asked, “What gossip, Mama?”

  Lady Jessamyn recalled her persona. She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes. “Ah, if only I knew. Not that it would have mattered either way. With no new money coming in, there isn’t enough blunt left for a proper Season: renting a suitable address, throwing a ball, presentation gowns, you know. Mr. Hadley says no one will extend me credit.” She pounded her fist on the table. “I should have made the stiff-rumped prig put an offer in writing! No, not Hadley, you twit,” Lady Ashton scolded at Melody’s gasp. Mr. Hadley was the family’s aging man of business. “That twiddlepoop Pendleton. Not that Hadley was any big help. And stop pacing, it is wearing on my delicate nerves.”

  “Forgive me, Mama, but I just cannot comprehend the situation. We got along for years. What happened? I thought Aunt Judith left us in good stead, and the nabob was always sending money.”

  “Judith left us the house and its property, your dowry, and all those grubby little mouths to feed. My widow’s jointure was barely enough to keep us in candles, without the other income. Then people started talking, invitations were withdrawn, checks stopped coming in.”

  “What checks were those, Mama? I never knew of any—”

  “Didn’t they teach you not to interrupt at that fancy place? When the money stopped coming ages ago, I wrote to the nabob, Sir Bartleby, that is, that we found ourselves in temporary embarrassment. Did he even answer? Hah! That’s just like a man, underfoot when you least desire them, and least in sight during times of need. Don’t tell Felice—the dear child has been such a help to me—but I think her father is not as wealthy as he pretends to be.” What a great match he’d be for Mama then, Melody thought. Out loud, she asked, “So what are we to do now, Mama?”

  “Do? Do? How should I know? A lady of my tender sensibilities cannot be expected to deal with financial matters. That’s a man’s province, child. You’ll just have to take it up with Mr. Hadley.”

  “Me? I mean I? Deal with your man of business?”

  “Who else? I told you, you’re the only one with any money. Heaven knows Hadley won’t let me touch that dowry of yours. And dear, do try to do something about those hordes of children, and that dreadful Mr. Pike. Can you pour me out some laudanum before you go? Perhaps I’ll write Barty again, after my nap. I’ll ring when I need my writing case.”

  *

  Mr. Pike, the constable? Melody shivered as she started to unpack her belongings, and not just because there was no fire laid in the grate and no maid to carry coals. There seemed to be a lot Mama had not told her, like those checks and the “other income” Lady Ashton glossed over, and rumors, and—ugh—Lord Pendleton. Well, her little chat with Mama relieved one of Melody’s worries: she wouldn’t be sitting around Copley-Whitmore for the rest of her days, moping over any toplofty aristocrat. No, she’d be trying to straighten out this mingle-mangle, if they did not all land in gaol first.

  And then there were the children. Surely, Mama could not have meant that Melody was to take responsibility for the orphans at Dower House; surely, there was some provision for them. Wasn’t there?

  * * *

  Mama’s nerves recovered well enough for her to do justice to an excellent luncheon, and the meal encouraged Melody to hope the rest of the doom and gloom was as exaggerated as Lady Ashton’s fragile sensitivities. The woman was tough as nails when she chose! The menu included poached salmon, mutton with parsleyed potatoes, tomatoes in aspic, and trifle for dessert. At least they still had Mrs. Tolliver to cook. No pureed peepers or chicken foot soup.

  Unfortunately luncheon also included Felice, who would have been even prettier than Melody remembered, with her butter-yellow hair and perfect complexion, if not for the petulant twist to her rosebud mouth and the whine in her high-pitched voice.

  “It’s about time you got here to pull your weight,” she greeted Melody before Lady Jessamyn drifted into the morning room. “I’m no paid servant to be fetching and carrying for your mother, you know. Why should I be concocting tisanes and matching threads, while you are having it soft in some uppity school?”

  Melody’s training at that same uppity school kept her from inquiring just what Felice was doing there at all. Miss Bartleby had been Aunt Judith’s ward, and for as long as Melody could remember she had been bragging about going off to live with her father in India. If she was not going to join the nabob, why wasn’t the ungrateful witch seeking a husband, a position or, by Jupiter, a broom? Mama seemed to enjoy her company, however, and the two must have memorized the fashion journals and the on dits columns together, judging from the conversation during the meal.

  “A lady does not bring unpleasantness to the dining table, my dear.” Lady Ashton rejected Melody’s pleas to have some of her questions resolved. After luncheon, of course, Mama needed a nap; the strain of her day was so fatiguing. Felice disappeared without a by-your-leave, and Melody went in search of her answers.

  *

  Mathematics was not Melody’s strong suit; obviously, it was not Mama’s either. Lady Ashton’s bookkeeping system consisted of a rat’s nest of bills, receipts, demand-due notices, and more bills jammed into the pages of an accounts ledger marked Dower House Home for Children.

  Melody sat at Aunt Judith’s
rickety old walnut desk, the dog Angel—now Angie at Mama’s dread of the vicar’s visit—lying under the desk with her head on Melody’s kicked-off slippers. Newly washed and constantly refed, the pup’s ribs still looked like a scrub board, and Melody was still her personal deity. “All that wriggling and tail wagging is fine,” Melody told the dog, rubbing Angie’s head with one bare foot. “But can you add?”

  There were slips from mantua-makers and London linen-drapers, jumbled among those from every local merchant in Copley-Whitmore. None were marked paid. The rough sum Melody arrived at in her head was staggering; her addition must be at fault. She turned to the ledger.

  On the last marked page, in the credits columns, were sets of initials, dates, and amounts, haphazardly listed in Mama’s spidery hand next to the names of children Melody knew to be at Dower House. Heavens, Mama could not be sending the children out to work, could she? Five pounds for Harold. That would be Harry, who never seemed to stay at any of the homes or schools Mama found for him. Perhaps, Melody thought, trying to find some humor in this bumblebroth, Harry had turned thief at the age of twelve and was handing his bounty over to Lady Ashton. Ten pounds, four shillings for Philip. Dear Pip was quite Melody’s favorite of the recent Dower House residents, a serious, studious lad of what? He must be all of fourteen by now, unfortunately rendered shy and awkward by a disfiguring port-wine birthmark on one side of his face, which also kept him from attending school, where other lads would make his life a misery. Regrettably, Pip was a natural scholar. The last time Melody was home he had already absorbed all the vicar’s teachings and was devouring the library at the Oaks. Maybe Pip was earning his keep by tutoring, but fifty pounds for Ducky?

  There was no polite way of putting it; Ducky was a wantwit. His moon face was always smiling and drooling, and he was happy to play with a wooden spoon or a shiny stone or a sunbeam. Nanny doted on him, finally having a baby who would not grow up. No foster parents would ever take him, nor little Meggie, the next entry. Why should anyone pay another ten pounds for a sickly, spindly slip of a thing? For each of Meggie’s six winters, Melody recalled, there were fears for the little girl’s life, and every minor childhood ailment almost carried her off. No likely family had come forth to adopt the twins yet either, the last entry. Laura and Dora were identical five-year-old imps who resisted all attempts to send them in different directions. Together they were hellions, often talking gibberish that no one understood, except the other twin.