The Rules of Gentility

by Mullany, Janet

  Hen dabs witchhazel and arnica onto my skin.

  Inigo has marked me. Inigo’s mouth. I have hot, shameful memories of our journey home, and now I am horrified.

  “Hold your tongue, Hen.”

  “Beg your pardon, miss. I daresay the marriage will be put forward.” Hen grins. “And the gates of pearl and gold…”

  Fortunately I am dressed by the time Mama enters the room, babbling of the ball, threatening me with the rigors of a visit from the dressmaker, and mentions in passing that Mr. Linsley is here to bid me farewell.

  Farewell?

  Then I remember he is off to Weaselcopse Manor today, and my headache and misery increase.

  He awaits me in the drawing room, and I know I look a frowsty fright, in a morning dress that has never suited me, and I wonder why I chose that particular print. Its colors hurt my eyes. Everything hurts my eyes, even Inigo, who wears breeches (another sixpence) and boots for his trip into the country, and looks handsome and lively.

  “Well, Philomena, you look rather the worse for wear.”

  “That is not a gallant thing to say, sir.”

  “But a true one. Here, my manservant makes this up for me, and it will do you a power of good.” He hands me a silver flask.

  I take a sip. It tastes disgusting, and I fear for a moment I shall cast my accounts onto his boots again. The stuff burns my mouth, and I gulp down a cup of tea in one mouthful—I am dreadfully thirsty, too—and feel slightly better.

  “Thank you. What was in that?”

  “It’s a secret remedy.”

  “Inigo, about last night…” My face heats. Should I tell him he doesn’t have to marry me after what we did? Do we need to marry? And what did we do, exactly? Sudden, startling images flash into my mind—my hand under his shirt, the smooth skin and curling hair. And his hands. Dear God. And his mouth.

  “I beg your pardon. I was very ungentlemanly, but you behaved in a most ladylike manner.”

  “Oh. Did I?” Now I am even more confused. Do all ladies allow gentlemen to unhook their gowns and kiss them like that?

  “Indeed, yes.” He nods in a way that does not entirely convince me. “Philomena, I think you know what I am about to say. As you know I am going into the country to oversee repairs on the cottage on my estate. But now, following a conversation I have had with Mrs. Gibbons, it is imperative I see to the manor house itself. You see—”

  The door opens and Lydia and Charlotte enter the room. Oh, the tiresome things. They curtsey to Inigo and plant themselves on the sofa next to me.

  “Mama said we should practice our social graces,” Lydia says.

  “The weather has been very fine lately,” Charlotte says.

  Rain streams down the windows.

  “I read in the newspaper this morning that—”

  “Miss Charlotte, Miss Lydia, it is charming to see you again,” Inigo says. “Would you like to play the pianoforte for us?”

  “Yes, Mr. Linsley.”

  To my relief they retire to the instrument and bang out a duet, accompanied by a discussion on whether they should take the repeats.

  “Philomena, as I was about to say, Fanny—Mrs. Gibbons—has—”

  Mama, all smiles, enters the drawing room. “Why Mr. Linsley how delightful for you to call as I was saying only just now to Mr. Wellesley-Clegg you should dine with us soon but I hear you are to go to the country well that is a shame indeed but just listen to my two dear girls do not they play with exquisite taste—”

  “F-sharp, dimwit!” shrieks Lydia as the music stumbles to a discordant halt.

  After a brief pause the duet resumes with the grace of a trayful of china falling down the stairs.

  “Ladies.” Inigo rises. “I must leave you. My coach departs soon. Philomena, there is something I must say to you.”

  I accompany him into the hall, where our footman hands him his hat and stick. I stare at him, sick at heart.

  He is to marry her.

  He wishes to release me from the engagement, and I thought this was what I wanted, too. Now I don’t know what I want.

  I think about how he calls me a ninny far too often.

  I remember how frightened and then how angry he was when I fell off Blaze. How when he tucked the pug-scented shawl around me in my aunt’s barouche his voice was full of kindness and concern, and the safety I felt in his arms. And the equally wonderful danger in those same arms last night.

  I whisper the only thing I can under the circumstances. “I understand. Of course this false engagement may end at any time. That was always our agreement.”

  “Dearest Philomena, that is precisely the point I wished to make.”

  The footman opens the door.

  I raise my chin and offer him my hand. I smile. I am not sure how I manage to do it, but my reflection in the hall mirror seems quite satisfactory. I may as well remind him he is not my only chance. “I am sure I shall receive an offer soon. I have great hopes of Almack’s tonight. Everyone says I must be snapped up soon, and there is a wager on me at White’s.”

  He has raised my hand halfway to his lips, but stops. “I see. I shall wish you good hunting, then, Miss Wellesley-Clegg.”

  He steps out into the rain.

  He’ll get even wetter if he travels outside on the coach, but he is no longer of any concern to me.

  I sink into a chair in the hall.

  I will not cry.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  She was flirting with me.

  Surely that was what she meant.

  Thank God I have a sensible woman like Mrs. Gibbons in my life, who, when I went to visit her and Will earlier this morning, told me in no uncertain terms what I should do—marry Philomena as soon as possible and drop this idiocy of a false engagement.

  Rain pours down, the coach rocks and lurches, and the umbrella of the man seated next to me tips chilly water down my neck. Yes, I had an inside ticket, but gave it to a young woman with a baby of about Will’s age who was to travel outside.

  She blushed scarlet and scrambled into the coach, stammering her thanks, while the others with inside tickets scowled at me for setting an infant in their midst.

  I turn up the collar of my greatcoat and consider Philomena. Didn’t she realize I was about to propose to her before her sisters, her mother, and that damned footman intervened? I curse myself for my procrastination, and, to be honest, my cowardice. I could, after all, have dragged her into the water-closet, butler’s pantry, coal-hole, or some other convenient nook for an honest proposal.

  Philomena, my beloved Philomena. I thought her an empty-headed, silly little thing at first, and I am quite sure she thought no better of me.

  She loves me, I have no doubt of it.

  I imagine her at Almack’s, flirting with determination, wearing one of her delightful gowns. That Darrowby fellow had me somewhat concerned, but I believe Philomena regards him as a sort of brother, and it is a strange thing, that women tend to discard the decent man beneath their noses for the lure of an adventurer or rake. Why they think such a man will turn over a new leaf after a parson has babbled for a couple of minutes is a mystery. However, since I have not achieved truly great distinction in the realms of depravity, I am more than willing to learn to be a decent fellow for Philomena.

  I wish I had known about the wager at White’s. Some very determined gentlemen will be after my sweet Philomena, and I don’t like it.

  I almost jump off the coach and rush back to London to propose to her again.

  No, I shall not. I shall let her enjoy herself.

  As we leave the grime and smoke of London behind us, the rain stops, and the sun comes out, hedgerows and trees alight with sparkling drops of rain. It is an omen, I am sure of it.

  Miss Wellesley-Clegg

  I am quite low for the rest of the day, and Mama, Papa, and Hen treat me with great kindness, which only makes me feel worse.

  My mood improves slightly when I put on my new lavender gown, with a silk overski
rt and train, and a most beautiful trim at the hem in silver and purple. Hen made me lie down in the afternoon with slices of cucumber on my eyes, and now I look very well, and the prospect of an evening of dancing and flirting, even if it is at Almack’s, does not seem quite so bad. The rain has stopped, too, so I am not quite so worried about damage to my slippers or my gown.

  I do not need Inigo’s presence to make me happy.

  I am glad the pretence and deception are over, that is all.

  Almack’s is as dreary and stiff as usual, but Julia takes me aside and tells me some delightful news. She wants me to be a godmother! And she very much admires my gown.

  But it is not enough to lighten my mood.

  I attract much attention from gentlemen, which is most gratifying. Yet I find them mostly insipid. Oh, what is wrong with me? Am I catching a cold, or a consumption, or colic?

  I do hope not. I want to be well when Inigo returns, for I should hate him to think I fell into a decline as soon as he told me he was to marry Mrs. Gibbons. I repeat the words to myself: He is to marry Mrs. Gibbons. He is to marry Mrs. Gibbons. Repeat anything often enough and it becomes a meaningless jumble of sounds; eventually I shall be able to say those six words without pain. I am determined it shall be so.

  So I smile and make polite conversation, dance every dance, and watch the clock. And then, when it is the last dance before suppertime, Lady Jersey condescends to introduce me to a gentleman I have not seen before.

  “Captain Horatio Blackwater at your service, ma’am.” He bows low and kisses my hand.

  When he straightens up, my eyes are on a direct level with the gold coat buttons of his regimentals. I tilt my head back and see a noble, dark countenance, with expressive, flashing eyes, and tumbled, heroic waves of black hair.

  He is quite the most god-like creature I have ever seen.

  He still holds my hand.

  Mr. Linsley was never really quite tall enough for my tastes—taller than Papa but not as tall as Tom Darrowby.

  This gentleman will do very well.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  Reasons I should marry Miss Wellesley-Clegg

  1. She is a shocking flirt and will break the heart of every bachelor in town if I do not intervene.

  2. I do not want any other gentleman teaching her about men.

  3. Ditto kissing her.

  4. Ditto unfastening any of those scandalous gowns she favors.

  5. Her papa tolerates me, I have learned to insinuate conversation into her mama’s babble, and her younger sisters do not alarm me quite as much now.

  6. She likes Will and Fanny.

  7. She loves me, I am quite sure.

  8. I love her.

  9. I love her.

  10. I love her.

  I can scarcely wait to see her again. Seated atop the coach—it is a fine day, and a pleasure to sit outside—I grasp a basket of eggs to my chest and grin like a fool. I do not care that I look like a country bumpkin. I probably have straw in my hair, and my coat, shared with a family of moths, is one of the old ones I keep at Weaselcopse Manor for working on the estate. I consider for a brief moment returning to our house to change into town clothes, but my ardor knows no bounds.

  I take a hackney to the Wellesley-Cleggs’ house, and the traffic in London has never seemed slower. I trust she is not out buying herself more silly bonnets. I imagine her engaged at home on genteel pursuits, mending her stockings—that arouses some very ungentlemanly thoughts in my head; possibly sighing over a book of poetry—I imagine the sweet turn of her lips as she reads; or playing the pianoforte, her little fingers skittering over the keys like mice.

  This must be love. I have certainly turned into a sentimental fool.

  After a few centuries of travel I arrive and am admitted into the drawing room, where I place my basket of eggs on the sideboard.

  Philomena flings open the door and gives me one of her adorably sweet smiles. “Oh, Inigo, I am so glad to see you!”

  “And I you.” I restrain myself from kissing her. I don’t want to alarm her.

  “Papa said I should talk to you.”

  “Why? Philomena, my love…” I grasp her hands in mine.

  “Inigo, I trust you will be happy for me.”

  What the devil does she say?

  “You see…” She blushes most becomingly. “I wish to release you from our engagement.”

  Chapter 18

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  Inigo’s face is quite pale all of a sudden.

  “You want to do what?” he says after a very long pause.

  “I have received an offer of marriage.”

  “Who is it?” His jaw is very tight and his eyes fierce.

  “Why do you wish to know?” I am becoming less comfortable by the moment.

  “So I may kill him.”

  I truly believe, from the look in his eyes, that he will.

  “Inigo, this was our arrangement, and after our last conversation—”

  “Arrangement be damned!”

  “I am desperately in love with him.” That really didn’t sound quite passionate enough. Will I sound foolish if I repeat it while sighing and casting my eyes to the ceiling?

  He releases my hands which he has held quite tightly all this time. “You love him.”

  “Yes.”

  “I see.”

  In the silence that ensues, my uncertainty turns to confusion.

  He told me he was going to marry Mrs. Gibbons.

  Didn’t he?

  And then I am angry. Angry that he threw his mistress and his b—d son in my face, and unhooked my dress and kissed me in a most disrespectful manner; and angry at myself that I enjoyed it far too much. Angry that he loved another woman and not me.

  “Well, what did you expect? Besides, sir, your affections are engaged elsewhere, as you have clearly made plain to me.”

  “Indeed? And who is the lucky woman?” He sounds angry, now, too, and I fear what we are about to do to each other.

  “It is Mrs. Gibbons, as you know well. You told me as much when you were here, that she had agreed to marry you—”

  “I what?” He stares at me in bewilderment, or a good imitation thereof.

  “You told me—” My voice croaks. I clear my throat and start again. “You told me you had spoken with her, I presume that very morning, for if it was not, then what you did to me in the carriage the previous night was even more depraved—”

  “What I did to you? You were perfectly willing, as I remember.”

  He stands there a moment, fists clenched, as though collecting his thoughts. “Philomena—Miss Wellesley-Clegg—I spoke with Mrs. Gibbons that morning. I visited my son; naturally she was there too. She advised me that I should ask my future wife if she were willing to have my former mistress and our child live half a mile from my house, on my estate. That is all.”

  “But you said—you said you were to marry her.” Didn’t he?

  He looks down his nose—he is quite tall enough to do that. He drawls, all languid, ton arrogance, “I think Mr. Gibbons might have something to say on the matter.”

  So it is an adulterous liaison! He is truly depraved!

  “Wipe that maidenly shock from your face, you ninny,” he says.

  “Don’t call me a ninny!” I fairly bellow at him, the way I shout at my younger sisters.

  “She married him when she was fifteen, they lived together for some three months, and she has not seen him since. And, yes, we have a child, but she does not love me, and although I have proposed marriage, has rejected me each time. I love you, Philomena, although I must be a fool to do so.”

  “Oh, thank you very much!”

  “I love you,” he repeats.

  I had supposed, that if I were to force him to declare his feelings for me that I would feel triumphant, vindicated. Instead, I feel quite dreadful.

  “I’m sorry. I did not mean…”

  “Oh, please, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. You knew perfectl
y well what you were about. I have no need of your pity. I was a fool, and that is the end of it.” He advances on me then, and I am quite fearful of what I see in his face, and at the same time, to my shame, quite thrilled.

  He backs me up against the sideboard, and his voice is low and dangerous. “Just remember one thing, Miss Wellesley-Clegg. Whoever he is, he’ll not love you as I do. He won’t kiss you the way I do, and you’ll regret you turned me down. You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  Before I can remind him there was nothing to turn down since he was too careless to bother with a real proposal, I can move back no further and he reminds me of exactly why I entered into this sham engagement in the first place.

  I am incapable of thought as his mouth closes over mine, but one sentiment rages in my head: that he is right. No one else can possibly make me feel weak and soft and silly and at the same time as though I am burning up, and all from his mouth on mine. And at the same time I know that he has nothing to lose, he kisses me as though his life depended upon it, and although I should be indifferent, I am not.

  My legs begin to give way and I clutch wildly with one hand for support. My fingers grasp something woven and woody.

  As he releases me, the basket falls to the floor and eggs break all over the floor in a flood of smashed shells.

  “Good-bye, Philomena. I wish you well.”

  And I stand there, with broken eggs lapping at my feet, and watch him go.

  It’s very quiet. There’s the occasional quiet splintering sound of a broken eggshell settling, and a crunch when I move one of my feet.

  “Well, miss, I don’t know why it is he makes such a mess when he comes to our house. First the paint, and now this.”

  “Oh, Hen.” I hadn’t even heard her come in. Maybe I should fling myself into her arms.

  Maybe not. She looks at me with cool disapproval. “You know what they say about a girl and broken eggs, don’t you, miss?” Now there’s a slight smirk on her face.