Only a bonnet? I, Philomena Wellesley-Clegg, the arbiteuse of headwear, thinks this item of beauty is only a bonnet?
“Very pretty, miss…and the blood of the lamb…”
“I shall buy it.” I remove the offending—no, to be quite fair, the inoffensive item—and let Hen make arrangements with the shopkeeper. Papa will have a fit when the bill comes, unless a piece of our Lancashire house collapses to distract him.
Oh dear. I did not realize that the changed world brought about by The Kiss included the toppling of the one great pleasure in my life from its pedestal.
Chapter 6
Mr. Inigo Linsley
As my sister-in-law says, I have no idea how to deal with women of quality. All of the ladies who are considered diamonds of the first water amongst this season’s debutantes, all possessed of fortune, represent only feminine bundles of flaws to me.
List of possible wives
1. Lady Caroline Bludge. Thank God.
2. Miss Anne Dyson. Laughs like a wild beast, one inch taller than I. Dreadful mama.
3. Lady Susan Ponsonby. Incapable of conversation, smiles too much. Disabused me of the notion a woman’s bosom could never be too large the last, and only time, I waltzed with her. Dreadful mama.
4. Miss Evelyn Bottomley. Unfortunately but appropriately named, see bosom, above. Insane papa. Dreadful mama.
5. Miss Celia Blundell. Eats all the time, would bring estate to ruin as she chomps through standing crops. Dreadful mama.
6. Lady Amelia Hartwell. Perpetual giggler given to excessively bad performances on the pianoforte, as on the last, memorable occasion when that silly Miss Wellesley-Clegg almost caught me in flagrante with Caroline. Dreadful mama.
7. Miss Barbara Winsdell. Much given to sighing over poetry, casting eyes heavenward, and indulging in serious discussions. Smelly pet dog. Dreadful mama.
8. Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg.
Miss Wellesley-Clegg? Has my lust for Weaselcopse Manor knocked all sense out of my head? For one thing, she is Trade. My family would make life extremely unpleasant if I dared propose to her. True, she was extremely pleasant to kiss, and she displayed an amusing blend of wantoness and innocence, but…Miss Wellesley-Clegg?
Trade. She is Trade. The noble blood of the Linsleys cannot mingle with that of commoners. Never. They own a coal mine—the horror!
On the one hand, the others are not particularly likable women. In fact, the only resemblance to them is that Miss Wellesley-Clegg is also saddled with a particularly dreadful mama.
Sweet, funny, pliable, lovely Miss Wellesley-Clegg.
Damnation.
I go in search of my sister-in-law, and try first the drawing-room. The door is closed, and as I open it, I hear a scuffle, and come face-to-face with my mother, who looks particularly enraged.
The Admiral, who is becoming as much a part of the household as our furniture, stands at the mantelpiece, somewhat red in the face and adusting his neckcloth.
“What the devil do you want?” my mother snaps.
“I beg your pardon, madam.” I back out of the room, giving the Admiral a curt nod, and run Julia to earth in the morning room, busy with her household accounts.
“What are you doing with a Bible, Inigo?”
“I must have you swear on it, my dear Julia.”
She lays down her pen and frowns at me. She is always very proper, though from hints Pudgebum has dropped, not always so while performing certain marital duties. And I was quite shocked to find evidence of activities outside the bedchamber—Julia’s busk lying on the floor in a room with no lock.
“I am surprised a thunderbolt has not felled you, you infidel. What am I supposed to swear?”
“To silence. It is nothing improper, just that a gentleman of my acquaintance has an interest in a lady of yours, and naturally it would be most embarrassing if word got out to either of them.” I peer over her shoulder. “Your last column adds up to fifty-seven, which is four shillings and nine pence.”
“Oh dear me, yes. Thank you. I swear not a word shall pass my lips, and you know, Inigo, I have never seen you blush before.”
The minx.
I finger my neckcloth, which has become suddenly tight. “It is rather warm in here.”
“Oh, nonsense. I suppose it is Philomena.”
I give up all attempts at subtlety. “How did you guess?”
“Well, I am neither blind nor deaf. Inigo, she is a sweet girl and my dearest friend, and you shall not break her heart.” She looks at me with all seriousness now.
“I have no intention of doing anything of the sort!”
“Or dishonor her.”
“Good God, Julia, have you no shame?”
“I do, but you do not, sir.” She thrusts the Bible at me. “Swear it, Inigo. Swear you will only offer her marriage.”
“Well, obviously I cannot do that. The family is in Trade. Our mother would never approve. Incidentally, why is that Admiral always in our house?”
“Sev?” She dips her pen into her inkwell. “The Dowager Countess is fond of him. He was a great friend of the late earl’s when they were boys, and I think she enjoys talking to him. He is good company, Inigo, you must admit it. She misses your papa, you know.”
“So do I.”
“Terrant, too. I think he finds it hard, being the head of the family.”
“Terrant isn’t the head of the family. My mother is.”
“So you may like to think, since you and Terrant and the rest of you are such milksops, under the thumb of—oh, Mama-in-law, what a pleasant surprise. How well that color suits you.”
Mama ignores Julia and beckons to me. “Inigo, you shall accompany me on my morning calls.”
“Yes, madam.”
“Remember what I said,” Julia whispers to me. “And remember, Inigo, she’s as good as engaged to Tom Darrowby—the families have been friends for years, and although it is not a brilliant match, I believe they would be very happy together. And he’s such a kind man. Please do not flirt with her.”
I follow my mother out of the room.
Miss Wellesley-Clegg. Trade. Sweet, funny, lovely, pliable Miss Wellesley-Clegg. I believe her eyes are some sort of hazel. They change with the light and with her mood. Her hair is brown that picks up red and gold by candelight. How can she be both so innocent and so fearless? She unsettles me mightily. This will not do. Dreadful mama. Trade. Dreadful mama.
I must remember her dreadful mama, for I cannot forget that kiss.
And I swore to nothing.
“I suppose we should call on those Wellesley-Cleggs, since you were condescending enough to dance with their chit last night,” my dear mother remarks after an hour or so of vicious drawing-room banter. She has made several unfortunate hostesses writhe in shame and stifled fury, and now, like a prizefighter who has warmed up with a few lesser opponents, she wishes to take on someone worthy of her mettle.
I grunt in acquiescence.
“Trade, my dear,” she reminds me, metaphorically flexing her knuckles.
Our arrival at the Wellesley-Cleggs’ house interrupts an artistic endeavor in the foyer. Miss Wellesley-Clegg, swathed in a linen apron, and with her hair in wild curls around her face, is doing something to the statue on the plinth at the base of the staircase.
She steps off her chair to curtsey to us both.
My mother nods in acknowledgement, and sweeps into the drawing room to pick her corner.
I wait until the footman has closed the door behind her. “What are you about, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”
“Oh, this…” She waves a hand at her work and steps up onto the chair again. “It is new, you see. Papa ordered it, and then Mama decided, that, well…” She blushes most becomingly.
“Ah. It is meant to be Hebe, cupbearer to the gods?”
“Mama thinks it is too unclothed.”
“But that is how Hebe is traditionally represented, with one, ah, one…in that way.” I stare at the offending bared breast,
which is quite pretty. I wonder what…
“So I am attempting to paint her some more drapery.” Her voice interrupts my musing on her own anatomy.
“On bronze, Miss Wellesley-Clegg? I don’t think it’s possible.”
“Oh, but it is not bronze, Mr. Linsley. It is plaster, and I have scraped her to provide a surface for the paint, which is some left over from when we had the dining-room painted. It is a very fashionable color, and they just finished yesterday.”
“Most handsome.” So the imitation bronze Hebe is about to be decently covered with sky-blue draperies.
“Well, I hope it will be.” She gazes at the statue, dips her paintbrush into a small bucket placed on the stairs, and hesitates. “There is only one problem. Her…well, I do not think it will convince anyone, because her…”
Oh say it, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. Say that word. I will her lips to part for the N.
“…Because of the contours of the torso.”
Damnation.
“Very true.” Her own bosom is level with my head. What would she do if I pushed my face into…Enough. “May I suggest, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, that you, ah, remove the offending, ah, protrusion.”
“An excellent idea, Mr. Linsley, and I had intended to do so.” She removes a small sanding-block from the pocket of her apron. “But I was afraid I should crack the plaster, or remove too much.”
“Allow me, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.” I, after all, have considerable skill at handling the female anatomy.
She places her hand in mine to step from her chair. I have removed my gloves, of course, and her hand is bare and warm in mine.
She gives me a nervous half-smile.
“If you do not object, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I believe I should remove my outer garment.”
“Your…?” Her eyes widen.
“My coat, that is.”
“Oh, of course, Mr. Linsley.”
Coat off, I mount the chair in my turn, thus finding myself eye-to-eye with Hebe, and begin the removal of her nipple. It is harder work than I expected, and I place a foot on the plinth to steady myself.
“Mr. Linsley, do be careful!”
At that point, there is a knock on the front door, the footman opens it, and I turn my head to see that fool Elverton, accompanied by a large dog, entering the house. Elverton looks somewhat surprised to see me, apparently embracing a statue in my shirtsleeves, one hand working on its bared breast.
“How d’ye do, Elverton,” I say with as much carelessness as I can muster, caught in an unnatural act with a plaster goddess.
His damned dog advances and sniffs at the plinth in the way male dogs will do.
“Away, sir!” I bellow to the cur as one hind leg rises, and I reach down to swat at it with the sanding-block.
Too late, I realize the statue is not firmly affixed to the plinth, and Hebe, I, and the bucket crash to the floor in a spray of plaster and blue paint. Miss Wellesley-Clegg shrieks, and the door to the drawing room flies open, revealing our respective mamas and a gaggle of other ladies.
“Now sir I hope you are not badly hurt lord that is too bad blue paint all over and poor Wellesley-Clegg’s new statue in pieces Elverton you must think you are come into a madhouse I declare Philly that gown is now ruined such a shame for I think yellow suits you well do not you Elverton…”
“Good afternoon, Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg, ladies.” To his credit, Elverton cuts her off in midflow with considerable adroitness. “If I may be so bold, I’m here to see Mr. Wellesley-Clegg.”
An expectant hush falls over the assembled company. We all know what that means.
Beside me, someone gives a small gasp.
The silence is broken by a rhythmic scraping sound, and I turn my head, from my sprawled position on the floor, to observe the damned dog straddling the miraculously preserved left leg of Hebe.
“Call off your dog, Elverton!” I swipe at the idiot creature.
“What, pray, is in your hand, Inigo?”
Oh, Lord. My own dear mother. “A breast, madam. A plaster one.”
She snorts, turns around, and marches back into the drawing-room.
Babbling continuously, Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg gives Elverton and the dog into the care of a footman, instructs another to see to cleaning the floor, and picks one of Hebe’s fingers from her daughter’s hair. Finishing with a comment about soap and water, and the availability of Mr. Wellesley-Clegg’s valet, she leaves to attend her guests. The sound of her voice fades away as the drawing-room door closes again.
“Oh, bloody damnation!” Miss Wellesley-Clegg says.
Then she bursts into tears.
Chapter 7
Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg
I am mortified.
Everyone knows there is nothing a gentleman hates so much as the sight of a female in tears, but I cannot help it. Worse still, my tears are not of the sensitive, refined variety, but huge gulping sobs, accompanied by copious streaming from my nose.
I bury my face in my apron, even though I know blue paint will now be smeared onto my face, and hope that Mr. Linsley will retire to wash as Mama suggested.
And to think I almost said “nipple” in front of him! And he heard me swear most horribly!
“Miss Wellesley-Clegg, pray do not distress yourself.” His voice is low and gentle. Oh, why does he have to be so kind? “Please, take my handkerchief.”
His handkerchief is much the cleanest thing in the foyer, even with a large blue thumb-print on it. I blow my nose, revealing yet another unattractive feature—that when I do this, it is no delicate sniffle but the sound of an angry goose.
“I am dreadfully sorry about the statue.” He prods a piece of it with his foot. “I shall replace it, of course. If possible, I shall find one of Hebe wearing a pelisse, requiring no further alteration.”
“It is not that.” I honk again into his handkerchief. “It is—it is that Elverton is requesting my hand, and of course Papa will say yes, and then I shall have to accept him, and I don’t want to.”
“Then don’t.”
“But there is no good reason to refuse him. Everyone looks down on us because we are in Trade, and I have two sisters in the schoolroom still, and I must marry as well, if not better, than my sister Diana.”
“Oh, fustian, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. Tell Elverton and his hound to go to the devil.” He looks quite annoyed, beneath the blue paint.
“You are in a shocking state, Mr. Linsley.”
He nods. “You too.” He puts his hand under my elbow and leads me out of the way of our servants, who have arrived with cloths, buckets, brooms, and other such stuff, to clean the wreckage of the foyer. The pungent odor of linseed oil rises in the air.
He sniffs, and sighs. “Do you care for cricket, Miss Wellesley-Clegg?”
“No.” What does that have to do with anything? How typical of a man.
“Ah, well, you are not alone in your sex in having an indifference to the game. The odor of linseed oil reminded me, that is all.” He takes the handkerchief from me, finds a dry corner, and wipes my face. “So you are determined to accept Elverton?”
“I can see no alternative. I must marry soon, and I must marry well.”
“But you don’t even like the fellow. Or his dog.”
“Oh, pray, Mr. Linsley, if you wish to meddle in my affairs, run into the street and select a suitable bridegroom for me. I am sure there is a coachman or chimney-sweep who would suffice.”
“I think we can do better than that.”
“What do you mean?” A horrid, dreadful, breathless suspicion rises in my mind.
“Miss Wellesley-Clegg, at any moment Elverton’s interview will be concluded and your fate will be sealed. And…”
The drawing-room door rattles, and he pulls open the nearest door, unfortunately the one to the water-closet beneath the stairs, where we take shelter as Mama’s guests depart. All of them, except his mother, whose barks punctuate the limpid flow of Mama’s never-ending conversation, have now gone.
Heavens, I am in a water-closet with a man of dubious reputation and I cannot even savor the moment. It is too bad. Already I feel the bonds of matrimony with Elverton close around my soul like iron.
Mr. Linsley inspects the apparatus with great interest. “The latest model, I see.”
“Indeed, yes,” I respond, trying for a similar, detached tone. “It is guaranteed odorless.”
“And to think I blamed the dog. Well, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, pray do not stand on ceremony. Shall we sit?” He gestures to the double seat.
“Certainly not!”
“Very well.” He leans toward me. “The problem I see is this. You are not averse to the idea of matrimony itself, just with Elverton. What you need, Miss Wellesley-Clegg, is a dispensable fiancé—one whom you can cast off whenever you choose. You need to know that your jilted gentleman will not expire of a broken heart, or challenge your new swain to a duel, or some such nonsense. Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I am your man. I regret there is not room enough for me to kneel.”
“But—”
“And naturally, the engagement shall be secret until the end of the season, although I assure you, you shall discard me long before then, as enchanting a creature as you are.”
“But why—”
“Say yes, madam. Do not deny me.”
Goodness! His eyes burn in the dim light. He raises my hand to his mouth and we exchange blue paint in a sizzling, exciting sort of way.
“But why, Mr. Linsley? Why do you wish to do this?”
We hear masculine voices and footsteps as Elverton and Papa, their business concluded, walk past the water-closet and continue to the drawing room.
“I’ll tell you later, you ninny. I have good reason, I assure you.”
The drawing-room door opens.
“Well?” He is pressed up closer to me than he needs to be, even with the dimensions of the water-closet. My legs turn to jelly.
The Rules of Gentility Page 5