“Oh, Hen,” I blubber. “Stay with me. I beg you. I’ll give you my pink satin gown with the blue trim you admire so.”
“Certainly not, miss, thank you all the same. I’d look like mutton dressed as lamb. Besides, you should wear that tonight.”
“I don’t want to go! I have a headache!” Oh heavens, it is like being an infant again.
Hen pushes Mama to one side of the bed and unhooks my ruined yellow gown. “You have a nice rest, miss, and you’ll feel better when you wake up. Why, Mr. Linsley is deep in love, it’s plain to see, and so handsome, and I don’t believe half the gossip I’ve heard about him. He’s not very tall, but that hardly matters for you’re such a little thing. I fear this gown is beyond help, miss, though there’s a good enough length on the back we can save.” As she speaks she unlaces my stays while I snuffle and whimper in a most unbecoming way.
I let Hen rub my back for a while, singing about burning flesh of sinners in eternal fire, one of the hymns I remember well from when I was very young. Then she tiptoes out to leave us alone.
I find it most comforting to lie on my bed in the darkened room with someone for company, particularly as Mama has stopped snoring and does not talk. I have slept alone, elevated to the status of eldest daughter when Diana left to marry, some three years now. Sometimes it is lonely. I suppose that is why married couples, or at least the ones who get on, like to share a bed, for reasons other than the obvious ones related to matrimony. It is pleasant to have someone warm and comforting, who can make you laugh and hear your secrets there next to you.
I snuggle up to Mama, and think how strange it is to feel like a baby again when you take a step forward in your life—even though it is not a real engagement, of course. But I do not doubt that a real engagement will take place soon. I am pretty and clever, I have excellent taste in bonnets, and I can do all the things young ladies have to know to attract a husband reasonably well. I am of a practical nature and can run a household too, and I like babies. Even ones who drool and spit up, and put their fingers up their little noses, or beads, as James did once.
And there is the five thousand pounds a year.
Mr. Linsley will be sorry that he treated me so.
I have not slept with Mama since I was a little girl and when I wake I shall be grown up again and not blubber so, not even these hot, comforting tears which slide down my face and into my hair.
When I wake, I shall be a calm and rational woman, not this weepy child. And I have a great many things to do this night and while shopping tomorrow, viz:
1. Make note of what ton wears so can find similar cloth and advise milliner.
2. Look for bonnet to go with blue pelisse.
3. Ribbon to retrim bonnet bought yesterday. Pink?
4. Stockings.
5. Mrs. Plumley’s lotion to remove freckles etc.
6. Laugh gaily in front of Mr. Linsley to show him how much I enjoy myself.
7. Bonnet to go with hideous moss-green gown should never have bought.
8. Contrasting ribbon to trim above gown so it does not look so much like a bog.
9. Trim for remainder of yellow muslin so Hen can make into sleeves.
10. Flirt with other gentlemen as much as possible.
Chapter 9
Mr. Inigo Linsley
Madam,
I do not deserve the censure you have heaped upon me. Consider that you are so depraved as to accept from gentlemen you barely know offers of engagement in water-closets and
Dear Miss Wellesley-Clegg,
Despite the offense you caused me today when you slandered my person, I shall deign to forgive you, as you come from Trade and cannot
My dear Miss Wellesley-Clegg,
I shall forgive you for your impertinence towards me this afternoon, for a mere woman cannot be expected to understand the delicacies of the responsibilities thrust upon a gentleman
Dearest Miss Wellesley-Clegg,
It is indeed regrettable that I may have caused you inadvertent distress when I revealed my
Dear Philomena,
I do not wish to injure your maidenly modesty further by addressing you so, and regret deeply any indelicacy I may have shown when
Dearest Philomena,
Say I may call you thus. I cannot forget the look on your face, the contempt in your eyes, and I am to blame
Sweet Philomena,
Forgive me. I am a callous brute and you the gentlest and most lovely of women
Philomena,
Sweet beautiful Philomena, forgive me for the hurt I inflicted upon you so unthinkingly. I cannot eat for thinking of you, and were it not but three hours since we parted, I am sure I should toss restless all night on a bed of agony.
I lo
My damned neckcloth will not tie properly, and I hurl five of them to the floor before I am satisfied. I hesitate mightily over which pin to wear—the sapphire, so I am told, complements my eyes wonderfully, but it seems vulgar to wear a gift from another woman, even if I am not really engaged. The diamond is too ostentatious. The ruby, I always suspect, looks like a shaving accident. I send my valet to borrow one from Pudgebum, and he returns with a pearl pin, which I feel reflects my newfound status as a sober, industrious, and engaged country gentleman.
I meet my sister-in-law in the drawing-room before we leave.
“Inigo!” she cries, clasping my hands in hers. “I am so happy for you, my dear. Oh, how I wish we could tell the world! I cannot tell you how I admire your delicacy in letting Philomena enjoy her season, for she has seen so little of pleasure, stuck in that dreadful house in Lancashire, or at least however much is left of it now. But is something wrong?”
“No, no.” I hasten to reassure her. “I fear…I may have offended Philomena.”
“Already?” She rolls her eyes in disgust.
“Yes, I…” For one moment I’m tempted to reveal all to Julia, who has always had a soft spot for me, but, coward that I am, I am reluctant to lose my one ally in the family.
“I suppose she has heard about your little indiscretion.”
“No. Not yet.”
“I shall not say a word, Inigo, but you know you must tell Philomena of the matter. She is a kind and forgiving person, and if she truly loves you, I am convinced all will be well.”
“Yes, of course.”
At that moment, my mother and Pudgebum join us, and we all pack into our carriage and set off for the theater.
Philomena and Mr. and Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg are already there (the strange twins, not yet being out in society, are at home), in the box of her great-aunt Lady Rowbotham. My mother, who has previously claimed the late Sir Harold Rowbotham must have kept a very good class of drapery shop before achieving his knighthood, now greets her with the greatest of affability. Then the former Maria Cutting and Betsy Wormworth resume their giggling exchange of girlish secrets behind their fans.
Julia and Pudgebum invite Philomena and her papa to join us in our box, a quite natural thing for friends to do, and it is entirely coincidental that I am there too.
I am tongue-tied.
Philomena looked pretty the evening I lured her onto the terrace and kissed her, the same evening she disconcerted me highly by making a grab at my breeches; it was entirely innocent, I am fairly sure of it. But tonight—well, I am most mightily relieved to see her look so well, and also a little disappointed, too. To think I had imagined her weeping on her mama’s shoulder at my sarcasm! Thank God I had not finished or sent any of those ridiculous letters.
She wears a pink dress with some sort of blue encrustation around the bottom, the bottom of the dress that is, whereas the top of the dress, around the bosom, is hardly there at all. (My skills with gowns are mainly in removing them, not describing them; this one, I notice, has only a few hooks at the back and would come off with very little effort.) She has a blue wreath of some sort in her hair, and her curls bounce and shine. But back to the bosom of the dress, which is fairly insubstantial, and reveals that fa
scinating place above the collarbone to which I am alarmingly attracted.
“Good evening, Mr. Linsley,” she says, sticking her hand out.
Her hand is held sideways, poised for a frank and friendly shake.
Two can play at that game. “Miss Wellesley-Clegg.” I turn her gloved hand in mine and kiss it. How I wish my lips were on her skin. “You look very well tonight.”
“Thank you, sir.” She settles into her chair, fiddles with her skirts so not a hint of thigh is revealed, and shoots a brilliant smile at a gentleman in the next box, a total stranger, I believe.
Flirt.
Why isn’t she smiling at me like that?
I peer into her pretty bosom and sigh.
She unfurls her fan, spoils my view, and looks pointedly around the house.
“Philomena,” I whisper.
“Sir? I do not believe I gave you permission to use my Christian name.”
Oh ho. She’s on a high horse all right.
“I’m sorry. I should have told you about the estate before.”
She gives me a regal nod. Then her shoulders relax slightly, and she holds her hand out to me. “I’m sorry, too. I should not have said what I did.”
“It may be true.”
“No!” Her hand grips mine.
“May I call you Philomena?”
“Very well. But you are not to call me Philly. I hate it. It sounds like a horse.” She withdraws her hand. “And not when others are around.”
“Excellent. So we shall be alone soon?”
She rolls her eyes. “Must you flirt all the time? I think you flirt with any woman.”
“I like flirting with you.”
“Yes, but you don’t need to flirt with me.”
“I don’t need to flirt with anyone. I like—I like being with you. I like seeing you smile.” I’m in dangerous waters now.
She frowns and turns her attention to the stage. “What is this we are supposed to be watching?”
“A new comedy, I believe, although no one seems to be particularly amused by it.”
On the stage a piece of scenery wobbles and an actor rushes over to prop it up.
Philomena laughs. “Mr. Linsley.” She leans toward me.
“Yes?” I am careful to keep my eyes on her face.
“I do not…I do not feel comfortable with this arrangement. I did not realize how hard it would be to deceive Mama and Papa, and I cannot even talk to Hen about it.”
“Hen?”
“Our maid. And that is another thing. I have to find a new maid; I wonder if Julia knows of anyone?”
“You can ask her tomorrow.” I lean forward as Mrs. Frances Gibbons comes onto the stage wearing trousers. Old habits die hard. What a glorious sight her legs are.
The play perks up, no more scenery falls, and the actors seem to remember they are there to entertain us, not waste away time until they can get to the nearest alehouse.
I am torn between watching Philomena and Mrs. Gibbons. How pretty Philomena looks, her lips slightly parted, her eyes serious, and a fair amount of jiggling for such a small woman as she takes a deep, sentimental breath.
“Oh, she is wonderful!” Philomena exclaims at the conclusion of the song as we all applaud. “She is better than all the rest of them put together. But as I was saying, Mr. Linsley, I do not like to deceive those I love.”
“Neither do I. Philomena, we’ll end it now, if you like.”
“But your estate…”
I wish I could say, hang the estate, but I cannot. Nothing is yet signed, and I cannot remain in my brother’s good graces indefinitely.
She sees my hesitation. “Whom do you love, Mr. Linsley?”
I am glad she does not ask me whom I deceive, for I am so used to deception it bothers me very little.
I reply, “My brother Terrant. And my other brother George, the parson. He has a living on Terrant’s estate. My niece and nephew, George’s children. Julia. My nurse. My old dog, Venus.” To my embarrassment I blow my nose at this point.
She looks at me with eyes full of sympathy. “Is—is she dead?”
“Yes, but I’ve several of her puppies.”
She frowns. “I meant your nurse.”
“Oh, she’s lively as a cricket. And there’s someone else, too…” Well, I have to tell her sometime, and why not now? “My son.”
“You have a son?”
Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg
Hen was quite right to insist I wear the pink dress tonight, for it shows off my bosom mightily well. Mr. Linsley, not to mention the gentleman in the next box, the one opposite with the quizzing-glass, three gentlemen on the way into the theater, and several others who visited my great-aunt’s box, have all noticed my feminine charms.
Mr. Linsley apologizes to me, which I find astonishing, for both Julia and Diana have told me that a man will never admit to be in the wrong. It is in fact quite endearing, and although I have enjoyed playing the flirt and being high and mighty with him, I unbend a little. But only a little.
He wants to call me by my Christian name! The impertinence! I love the way my name, which I do not like over-much, sounds on his tongue. His tongue. That odd, strange, fizzing feeling returns. When he says my name, I mean.
And he gets vastly sentimental over his dead dog, and I feel quite tender toward him.
And then he mentions a Certain Matter which reminds me once again that he is of the ton and I am not, and I just gape at him like an idiot. I am aware, of course, as Mama has told me, that men have Needs, and that sometimes children will result. It is a matter to be treated with discretion, so I have always thought—not, of course, that Papa would ever have done such a thing; he has always been too busy with the mine and lately with the subsidence problem, and, besides, I know he loves Mama faithfully.
There was a girl at Miss Grimsley’s Academy for Gentlewomen (yes, I too attended that august establishment, and I can only hope in a decade or so I will believe I enjoyed it half as much as the Dowager Countess and Mama apparently did)—who had no discernible papa, for she never talked of him. And then one very exciting day, a handsome carriage with a coat of arms drew up, and I shall never forget the look on her face, for it was her papa come to visit. He never returned. For days after she cried and none of us could comfort her. Much later I realized she was born out of wedlock, and that was why her father visited only the one time.
But I digress.
When Mr. Linsley made his announcement, I sat there dumb with astonishment.
What disconcerted me was the pride and joy on his face. It was not the boastful leer I should have expected. He seems genuinely pleased that his Needs had resulted in what, to other men, might be an inconvenience or an embarrassment.
“I do not shock you, I hope, Philomena?”
“Oh, no. That is, well, it is unexpected to be sure. I…” I wanted to say it was a good thing we were not really engaged, for not every woman would wish for the open acceptance of her betrothed’s b—d. It is an ugly word, to be sure.
“Ah. So that is why your mouth hangs open so.”
“It does not!”
He casts a wary look around the box. Papa, as he tends to do when seated in a relatively quiet place (away from Mama and her chattering tongue), has fallen asleep. Terrant and Julia sit close together, carefully ignoring us.
“We are friends, are we not, Philomena?”
His whispered question takes me by surprise. Friends? I am not sure. We are…something, and I fear to explore exactly what that may be. His warm breath heats my skin but it makes me shiver.
“Allies, then? Fellow conspirators?”
“I—I suppose so.”
“And you trust me?”
“I’m not sure. I don’t think you are a particularly trustworthy person.”
“Ah. I asked for that, I suppose.” His arm settles on the back of my chair and his fingers touch my shoulder. My skin.
I move away from him. It is too much like when we were in the w
ater-closet and he made me agree to a plan of dubious honor which already, only hours later, proves to be troublesome. Then, as now, it is his physical presence which stirs me and makes a jelly of me. However, I am a sensible woman, and not kitchen ingredients.
He stands and offers me his hand. “Miss Wellesley-Clegg, I should be honored if you would pay me the great compliment of meeting my son.”
I have a thousand questions on the tip of my tongue. How old is he, who is his mother, does he love her? Instead I blurt out the silliest thing I can. “He is here?”
“Close by.”
He has a son old enough to attend the play? Mr. Linsley is, I believe, five-and-twenty, which would have made him very young to become a father. There are a few children in the pit, of course, but…
I place my hand in his.
Julia, who has kept her eyes carefully averted from us as though she found the play interesting—Mrs. Gibbons has left the scene and it rapidly deteriorates again—offers to accompany us.
“It’s all right, Julia,” Mr. Linsley says. “We’re paying a visit to the backstage.”
“Oh. I see.” She gives me a concerned look. “Are you sure, Philomena?”
“Quite sure,” Mr. Linsley replies. “We shall be very discreet.”
The Rules of Gentility Page 7