The Rules of Gentility

by Mullany, Janet

  Julia frowns. “It is three o’clock in the afternoon, you sorry rake.”

  “I know of a singer who—”

  “Certainly not, Inigo!” I am proud of Julia for her staunch support of our friend.

  “And another thing…” He approaches our gathering, bows, and continues, “The name of your association is dreadful.”

  “No, it is not, Mr. Linsley,” I say. “It is genteel. It mentions nothing indecent.”

  “You won’t offer me a cup of tea? I am quite parched.” He sinks onto the sofa next to me although we ladies have not invited him to sit.

  His elbow brushes against mine.

  Heavens! My pen drops a big blot of ink onto my yellow muslin.

  “Oh, very well.” Julia pours him a cup.

  “But Mr. Linsley is right. It is a very cumbersome name,” Miss Celia Blundell says as she reaches for more cake.

  He winks at me. Why does Mr. Inigo Linsley have such pretty blue eyes, if somewhat bloodshot? “Call it the Protection of Innocent Maidens in Peril Society, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, and I’ll give you a hundred guineas.”

  “You don’t have a hundred guineas to offer anyone,” Julia says. “Aren’t you supposed to be helping Terrant write his speech?”

  Mr. Linsley swipes the last piece of cake before Celia can get to it, which raises him in my estimation somewhat, for she is an accomplished eater. “I’d much rather stay here with you ladies. His speeches are excessively boring, even when I write them.”

  “Certainly not,” Julia says. “If you wish to join our committee, you must make a contribution of fifty guineas, that you do not have, and you must take our work seriously.”

  “But, my dear Julia, I do. I long for you to rescue a fallen woman so I may succor her. I should like nothing better.” He stands and bows. “Your servant, ladies. Oh, and I thought you’d like to know—Elmhurst is to be leg-shackled at last. He’s engaged to Lady Caroline Bludge.”

  Celia, Amelia, and I digest this news with varying degrees of gloom and jealousy.

  “I never thought she was very pretty,” Julia says.

  “Vulgar,” Celia says, with her mouth full.

  I find I don’t really care. I am watching Mr. Linsley stroll to the door and sigh as it closes behind him. It is such a pity, as Mama says, that he is only a younger son and a wastrel, and I therefore cannot add him to my list.

  I really must stop thinking about how he looks in his breeches.

  I am in great need of distraction, and as every woman knows, a new bonnet is the best diversion of all. I must go shopping as soon as possible.

  Chapter 2

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  One week later

  “…And I do think it the most dreadful shame that Elmhurst has made an offer for Lady Bludge for she is not at all a pretty woman and a widow too and there have been rumors as I said to Mr. Wellesley-Clegg the other day our Philly for all her hair stands out like a great bush it is so distressing for it looked quite tidy when we left home and I know it is the fashion to look romantic but as I was saying Philly despite your hair you are prettier than she and you have a greater fortune and I thought he showed marked partiality and I fear people will say you are a flirt and chasing a title do we clap now or is there another movement I really cannot tell and although I know nothing of music…”

  Oh, this is dreadful, just dreadful. My mother’s whispered conversation is as relentless as Amelia’s playing. Beside her my papa snores gently.

  He is not alone. Half the room has fallen asleep, half of them are fidgeting or flirting, half wander in and out—and I know that does not add up, but the enormity, the horror, of Amelia’s recital makes everything seem at least one and a half times worse than it is. Whether she has learned new pieces or not, the effect is the same—they all sound alike, and since she is always the first young lady, hardly bothering to attempt a show of modesty, to claw her way to the pianoforte at the slightest excuse, we have heard them, or something like them, a dozen times before. The Duke of R—snores openly, his mouth hanging open, and a thread of drool gathers on his chin and descends to his neckcloth. Will no one wipe off His Grace?

  We are to serve supper after, so the greed of the ton traps them in our web of musical mediocrity. Meanwhile, across the room, Mr. Inigo Linsley fidgets until his mother, the Dowager Countess, smacks him on the hand with her fan. On her other side sits a gentleman I have met quite frequently in the last few days at the Terrants’ house, Admiral Riley. As he releases a gentle snore, the Dowager Countess raps him with her fan, too, and he starts awake, saying something about the mainsail and those d—d Frenchies, beg your pardon, ma’am.

  I catch Julia’s eye and we giggle together in a helpless, childish way that will be impossible to stop if we look at each other.

  “Mama,” I whisper, “you are absolutely right. My hair is a fright. I shall go and do something about it.”

  I mean to ask Julia to accompany me, but she has turned to whisper something in Terrant’s ear, their hands intertwined, and I do not have the heart to interrupt them. As I rise, I see Elverton’s head swivel like a hound scenting a hare.

  Oh horrors! If he catches me alone, he may propose.

  I leave the room at a brisk pace and hesitate. I know the Terrants’ house quite well, but when I emerge into an unfamiliar passageway, I do not know which way to turn. I am sure Elverton follows, so I take the first doorway I find and lean against the shut door while deciding what to do next.

  And now he is pushing at the door, turning the handle as though he thinks it locked, or jammed. Another room opens from this one, I see, and I dart toward that doorway. At the same time, Elverton, or so I think it must be, pulls the door tightly closed, and there is a dreadful ripping sound. The train of my dress is caught in the door!

  “What the d—l…” says the voice on the other side.

  Oh, thank heaven. It is not Elverton. In fact, it is the only gentleman I should welcome under these circumstances.

  “Aylesworth?” I grab the back of my gown with one hand and open the door. “In here immediately, if you please.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Now!” I grab his sleeve and haul him in, afraid that Elverton snoops around outside and may join us. “You must go and fetch me some pins.”

  He lounges against the door, raises his quizzing-glass, and examines me from head to toe. “Lord, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, you look quite a fright.”

  “Thank you, Aylesworth. The pins, if you please.”

  He sighs and reaches into the pocket of his immaculately tailored coat. Of course, if any man were to carry pins on his person, it would be Aylesworth. “A moment. You may have these on one condition.”

  “What is that? Not that I shall agree to anything, of course.”

  “Tell me, who is that fascinating creature next to the Dowager Countess of Terrant?”

  That what? “Oh, that’s Admiral Riley.”

  “Madam, credit me with some taste.” He rolls his eyes. “The other one.”

  “But the Admiral is quite fascinating. He has some exciting stories of life at sea. I suppose you mean Mr. Inigo Linsley.”

  He drops one pin, dangled from his fingertips, onto the palm of my hand. “Indeed. One of Terrant’s brothers, I presume?”

  “Yes, the youngest. There is another one in the country who took orders.”

  “Indeed.” He taps a pin thoughtfully against his teeth. “Quite the best-looking member of that family, although the young countess has some elegance. Whereas you, my dear—what on earth have you done to yourself?”

  “I was wondering when you’d ask.” I move over to a lamp on a small table and squint over my shoulder. I let out a loud cry of alarm, gather some detached fabric in my fist, and attempt to pin it into place.

  “Dear, dear.” Aylesworth moves to inspect the damage. “Don’t be a cake, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. I assure you I have no designs on your honor. Hold still. Did you tack this together especially
for the occasion?” He whistles softly through his teeth as he pleats and pins the back of my gown back into position. “Do not attempt any violent movements, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, and you shall survive the rigors of the evening. But—”

  Someone else is coming into the room! Aylesworth and I look at each other with sudden understanding. If we are discovered together, with the cream of the ton here, he will be obliged to offer for me and I to accept him. While a gentleman who carries pins and is adept at making repairs to a lady’s gown is most useful, I am not sure I wish to marry him for that reason alone.

  He extinguishes the lamp, and we both duck behind a screen in one corner of the room. That, the table, and a sofa, are its only furniture, and the window shutters are still open, allowing a little light to come in from the gaslit street outside. My cream-colored gown and Aylesworth’s oyster-gray satin coat and breeches will be highly visible in the dim light. We can only hope the intruder will not stay.

  The other person—no, persons, there are two of them—blunder their way through the room. They do not seem particularly concerned with their surroundings, for they seem only intent on each other, breathing heavily, with much rustling and sighing.

  Then one of them backs into the sofa, and I hear it creak as he or she sits on it.

  “Wait,” says a female voice.

  “What’s wrong, my dear?”

  She sounds out of breath. “Can’t bend in these d—d stays.”

  Heavens! I know who they are!

  There are some soft, moist sounds—goodness, they are kissing!—and then a clatter as something falls onto the wooden floor. I suspect she must have removed the busk from her stays.

  The rustles increase, as do the kissing sounds, and I listen in horrified fascination.

  “Permission to come aboard, ma’am?”

  “Aye, aye, Cap’n.” She giggles.

  Oh, this is dreadful! The Dowager Countess is known as one of the proudest ladies in London. And at her age, too! This is making me most uncomfortable, and I whisper into Aylesworth’s ear, “We cannot stay here.”

  He nods, reaches for the lamp we so recently extinguished, and hurls it across the room.

  The couple spring apart, with some colorful expressions that I suppose must be nautical terms on his part, and appear, in the half-dark, to be putting their clothing to rights. Then they stumble from the room, and thankfully, Aylesworth and I are alone.

  “Well, well, well,” he drawls. “And such a respectable lady, too. I am quite shocked. And so, my dear, we’d best return, but separately to preserve your reputation. After you, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  “Thank you for pinning my gown.”

  “Your servant, madam. As a reward, I should be delighted to accompany you and your maid next time you visit the milliner’s.”

  “I should be honored,” I say, thinking that he might even be quite useful, but at the same time resolving not to put the plan into practice.

  As I step into the corridor, the door from the recital opens, and I see to my horror that I am once again on the verge of a compromising situation.

  It is the Mad Poet, whose hair is in worse disarray than my own, although I suspect he spends time to make it so. “Madam—goddess—”

  He falls to his knees. There is a loud, vulgar sound of the sort not often heard in polite society (except, according to my brother Robert, when the ladies withdraw after dinner and such sounds are in great evidence, and appreciated, nay, encouraged). Heavens, I hope he does not think it is me!

  “D—n it!” He scrambles to his feet and regards the knees of his breeches.

  The sound I just heard was in fact that of satin ripping. The knees of both breeches, which are fashionably tight (one cannot help but notice such things), are split across, and beneath them the poet wears rather pretty embroidered garters.

  He shrugs, in acknowledgment of damage done, and drops to his knees again. “Have pity on me!”

  “If you need pins, Mr. Carrotte, I believe Lord Aylesworth may have some.”

  “Pins! Oh, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, adored creature. I shall die for a smile. Feel how my heart pounds like a wounded creature!”

  He grabs my hand and presses it to his waistcoat.

  “Sir, release me! I shall be ruined if we are found here together.”

  “You have ruined me, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. The sun is dark in my eyes, the beauties of nature itself appear as dross, because you will not favor me with a look, a smile. Cruel temptress!”

  I attempt to tug my hand away, which he holds tight against his chest. “That’s a very handsome waistcoat,” I say in an attempt to placate him. “I like the embroidery. Please let me go, Mr. Carrotte.”

  “Fair cruelty, you will kill me. To talk of a gentleman’s waistcoat at such a time! Have you no feelings, madam?”

  “Of course I have feelings. It is just that I do not have them for you, sir, as I have made quite clear. Now let me go!” I aim a kick at his leg, and I regret that my aim is not very good, and in fact I kick him elsewhere (another interesting male phenomenon Robert has shared with me).

  He gives a loud grunt, drops my hand, and doubles up, both hands in an indelicate place.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, for he appears to be in some pain, “but I did ask you…”

  Aylesworth joins me in the corridor and looks aghast at the Mad Poet on the floor. “Good lord, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, must you have every man in London at your feet? Carrotte, may I be of some assistance?”

  I am reluctant to stay with them and so retreat back into the room from which I so recently escaped. There is another lamp burning on the table, and a servant sweeps up the remains of the broken one. She curtsies to me and leaves. A small looking-glass on the wall shows me that my hair is indeed a dreadful fright as my mother said, and I should endeavor to repair it—how else will I explain my protracted absence?—I remove my gloves, spit on my hands, smooth down my hair, and replace a few pins.

  And then…oh, no. Someone is opening the door. Really, this is just dreadful! Can I not get a moment’s solitude? I do hope it is not the Poet—my brother did not tell me how long recovery from such an Incident takes, and while I do not wish him to be discovered in such an indelicate posture, neither do I want him to resume his pursuit.

  So, foolishly, I retreat behind the screen.

  A couple reel into the room, tightly clasped together.

  To my horror, it is Mr. Inigo Linsley and Lady Caroline Bludge. She shoves—there is no delicate way to say this, either—him up against the wall, her hands clasping his coat. I am most impressed that they manage to do all this with their mouths locked together.

  “D—n, we can’t do this,” Mr. Linsley says, when his mouth is free for a moment, for I imagine they must have to breathe. “I offered to take you into supper. You’re engaged.”

  “One last time. Elmhurst won’t mind. He won’t know.” She is breathless, and her bosom rises and falls so dramatically I wonder how it stays in her gown. “Why were you in the country so long? I have been mad for you. And you’ve been in town a week and not called on me.”

  “Caro, don’t be foolish. I don’t want Elmhurst to kill me.” I notice that although he protests, he does not attempt to escape or let her go, and his voice lacks the conviction I would have thought appropriate. So he and Lady Caroline had a liaison! It is a pity Aylesworth is not with me, for he would appreciate this greatly, loving gossip as he does.

  To my surprise, Lady Caroline drops to her knees in front of Inigo. Oh, poor woman, is she about to beg for his favors? I cannot countenance this!

  “Sir!” I emerge from behind the screen. “You should be ashamed of yourself!”

  Mr. Linsley says some rather interesting words—to be sure, my vocabulary is greatly expanded tonight—and Lady Caroline, whose hand is at the, well, in the vicinity of Mr. Linsley’s breeches, utters a shriek and leaps to her feet.

  “Oh! Miss Wellesley-Clegg! I was, er, looking for an earring!”

  Wha
t sort of fool does she take me to be? Unless she has a hidden, third ear, there is no earring she could possibly have lost.

  Mr. Linsley leans against the wall, arms folded, and regards us both with a smirk.

  Lady Caroline hisses at me, “If you tell anyone of this, I shall ruin you. You should not even be in society, for you are from Trade and your family is excessively ill-bred for no lady would spy on another so—”

  “Hold your tongue, Caroline!”

  I think Mr. Linsley’s response startles Lady Caroline almost as much as it does me, for she slaps his face, wrenches the door open, and leaves, slamming it behind her.

  Mr. Linsley straightens his disordered neckcloth and bows.

  Under the circumstances it is a ludicrous action, and I cannot help giggling.

  “I regret you were, ah, exposed to such a scene,” he says. “And Lady Caroline was inexcusably rude.”

  “It is no matter, sir.” Well, what can I say? That my maidenly modesty is outraged? It was, in fact, rather interesting, and I am now not convinced that she was about to beg him for anything, as I first thought. I shall have to ask Julia, or my sister Diana, about it.

  He nods, then steps past me to pick up something from the floor.

  He grins and holds out the discarded busk. I suppose the servant did not pick it up while I was in the room, for she was intent only on sweeping up the broken lamp, and the busk lay half under the sofa. It is an exceedingly pretty one—I am quite envious—carved and painted ivory, and with the Terrant coat-of-arms prominently featured in the design.

  He says, “Julia and Terrant should really be more discreet. You might have seen worse, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  I almost did, and obviously he has no inkling whatsoever of it.