The Rules of Gentility

by Mullany, Janet

  I regret pride and modesty will not allow me to speak, and neither will Mama, who bursts into the room in full flood. “Oh my dear Mr. Wellesley-Clegg just look at this child she is not even dressed oh Philly have you been using the lotion I gave you and your hair it looks like a Medusa or a Myrmidon or some such I cannot remember these classical names and my dear child if you cry you will ruin your looks oh Philly my love every young lady becomes sentimental when she becomes engaged why the evening my engagement to Mr. Wellesley-Clegg was to be announced I ran upstairs and hid under my bed and my brothers had to pull me out and I was covered with dust for our house-maids were a sorry lot—”

  “She’ll do, Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg. She’ll do.” Papa pats my shoulder and I snort loudly into his handkerchief. “Our Philly will do us proud, you’ll see.”

  I love Horatio.

  I do not love Mr. Linsley.

  “But there’s something else,” Papa says. “I received news from Robert that the main staircase at home has developed a sag of some six inches, and that’s not good, not good at all. Robert has propped it up, but I fear I must travel north as soon as possible and see the damage for myself.”

  “Oh, Papa! But you will stay tonight, I hope.”

  “Of course, my dear. I’ll see the dancing and merrymaking underway, and then leave, and come back as soon as possible. I don’t want to miss my little girl’s last days with us.”

  I look at my parents, who stand, hands clasped, and gaze at me with such pride and love, I vow not to let them down. They have already been distressed at my decision to end the engagement to Inigo, Mr. Linsley, I mean, and Mama wept long and bitter tears at the possibility that her newfound friendship with the Dowager Countess of Terrant was over.

  It was Mr. Linsley’s fault anyway.

  “And just in case you need a few wedding gew-gaws, I thought you might like a little extra,” Papa says. He produces a leather bag from inside his coat. “Fifty guineas should buy you a couple of bonnets, I think. Why, for all I know, I’ll come back and find my little Philly a married woman.”

  “Oh, Papa!” I am overcome with gratitude at his generosity and kiss him so hard I nearly knock him over.

  I swear I shall be a dutiful daughter from now on.

  And from that point, everything goes well. Hen comes back with the gown, now pristine, mended and ironed, and with a piece of lace inserted in the bosom. I do not wish to appear immodest, and neither do I wish to drive Horatio mad with temptation. After all, we are expected to marry very soon. It is a pity the prospect fills me only with gloom.

  Hen does something miraculous to my hair and my fan turns up in my glove drawer. And so I am ready to make my grand entrance, and see all the ton there, and flirt and be admired.

  And, oh yes, Horatio will be there too.

  Mr. Inigo Linsley

  Well fortified with claret I join my family for our foray into what is now enemy territory. We arrive late, of course. It is what the ton does. We stand at the top of the staircase leading down into the ballroom and view the ranks below.

  I produce a quizzing-glass, borrowed for the occasion, and receive a haughty view of tiny, distorted figures.

  “Wrong way round, Ratsarse,” my brother Terrant says and plucks it away from me.

  We are all astonished by the decoration of the room. It is Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg’s speech personified, if that were possible—a never-ending riot of exuberantly-hued garlands, swags, Chinese lanterns, model pagodas, and strange artificial birds. The servants are dressed in exotic costumes covered in mirrors, paste jewels, and feathers. It is both vulgar and endearing.

  “Most unusual,” says my mama.

  We Montagues make our aristocratic descent into the pit of Capulets, looking down our long noble noses like so many greyhounds.

  Philomena and Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg move forward to greet us.

  Julia turns her shoulder on them and walks away. It is devilish rude; I didn’t know she had it in her. Philomena blushes deep red and stares at her fan.

  The Dowager Countess and the tradesman’s wife look at each other like a couple of bulls across a meadow. My mama, I swear, paws the ground.

  The room seems extraordinarily quiet, when in fact it is no such thing—it is merely one of those rare moments when Mrs. Wellesley-Clegg does not speak.

  And then the two schoolgirls rush into each other’s arms, knocking each other’s headdresses askew, babbling that nothing shall ever come between them, and how all is forgiven and how unhappy they have been.

  Julia, at a distance, stamps her foot.

  “Good God. Women,” says my brother. “Let’s get a drink.”

  At that moment people gather for the next dance, and I lose sight of Philomena without having spoken a word to her, although I have no idea what I should say. As it’s a country dance, I can’t tell who her partner is, and she’s short enough that she often disappears from view.

  I make conversation with acquaintances and don’t have the heart to join in the banter about the vulgarity of the room. I want only to look at Philomena, my Philomena, whose gown is cut halfway to her chin instead of her knees, and who looks far too happy for my liking.

  And then I see him. He stands at the side of the room, and my first thought is that with all the gentlemen of the ton here tonight it must be a slow night at Mrs. Bright’s. He too watches Philomena, and I don’t like the expression on his face.

  “What the devil is he doing here?” The words burst out of my mouth.

  A gentleman nearby looks at me in astonishment. “Why, sir, that’s Captain Horatio Blackwater of the–th. His engagement to Miss Wellesley-Clegg was announced earlier tonight.”

  Captain Horatio Blackwater of the–th! More like Captain Horatio Blackwater of the mounted fillies of Covent Garden. This is my rival! A whoremaster! What on earth does Mr. Wellesley-Clegg think he is about?

  The dance ends, and I push my way through the crowd toward Philomena and the blackhearted Blackwater, but he whisks her away through a doorway—I grit my teeth at the thought of what he will do to her—and I become caught in a great crush of people.

  I enquire urgently as to the whereabouts of Mr. Wellesley-Clegg, but no one seems to know where he is. Then, with a burst of brilliance, I make my way to the ladies’ retiring room.

  “Hen!” I shout, battering on the door, “Let me in!”

  I am answered by a collection of female shrieks.

  “I’ll do no such thing, Mr. Linsley!”

  “I’ll break the door down if you don’t, Hen. Come on, open up.”

  The door opens a crack and I see a sliver of Hen’s face.

  “Haven’t you caused enough trouble, Mr. Linsley? What’s the matter?”

  “I need to speak to Mr. Wellesley-Clegg urgently.”

  “You can’t, sir,” she says through a mouthful of pins. “He left an hour ago.”

  “Left?”

  “Yes, sir, for Lancashire. The house is falling down again, it seems.”

  “Hen,” I say, “you must help me rescue Miss Wellesley-Clegg from that whoremonger.”

  “You mind your tongue, Mr. Linsley. She doesn’t want to be rescued, so you leave her alone, the poor young lady.”

  “Hen, I beg of you—” The door shuts with a sharp click.

  “Sir,” says a voice behind me, “sir, I must go in there, if you please.”

  I step back and allow a traffic of women in and out of the room, and wander away, full of dismay. I must write a letter immediately to Mr. Wellesley-Clegg—while I could chase after him, that would leave Philomena unprotected, and I dare not risk it.

  Even now that unspeakable false captain may be taking the sort of liberties with her with which I am only too familiar.

  I return to the center of the house, where the main staircase, now adorned with the statue of Diana we bought together, holds sway. Behind me, people are involved in arriving, dealing with cloaks and fans and servants, and ahead of me, on the stairs, Beauty descends.r />
  Alone, thank God.

  She sees me and looks alarmed. One hand disappears behind her back, as though to hide what she carries—some sort of small bag, I think.

  “Good evening, Mr. Linsley.”

  “What are you doing, Philomena?”

  “Pray let me pass, sir.”

  “Is it true? That you are engaged to that man?”

  “Yes.” Does her lip tremble? “Please leave me alone.”

  “Philomena, I must speak to you. It is a matter of life or death. I beg of you, give me five minutes of your time.”

  “I have nothing to say to you, sir. Now let me pass.”

  “Please.” I grasp her wrist.

  She sighs and gives a quick look around. “Very well.” She leads the way, not into the water-closet, to my relief, but into a small room that holds a few chairs and some cloaks.

  “You cannot marry him, Philomena.”

  “Oh, well, if that is all…” She attempts to push past me.

  “He is not what he seems. He is a fraud.”

  “How dare you!”

  “The only thing he’s captain of is Mrs. Bright’s establishment. I met him there that night.”

  “You are despicable! Will you stoop to nothing to destroy my happiness?” She glares at me like a small, pretty terrier facing a rat. “He is a good and decent man. He is not rich, but he is noble and selfless. Why, do you know he spends his income on the unfortunate members of his regiment who have no pension? He—”

  “Indeed. You believe he is out performing good works every night, I suppose? Love makes a fool of you. I’ll wager he presses for an early marriage so he can lay his hands on your fortune the quicker—”

  “Stop it, Inigo!”

  “Please don’t tell me you are giving him money.” I reach behind her, momentarily distracted by her soft curves, and coins jingle as she attempts to evade me.

  “I am. There is a dreadful case of a soldier with only one leg and six children to feed, and of course I said I should help. Now go away, Inigo. I never want to see you again.”

  “I’ll tell your father. I intend to write to him directly. Are you stealing from your own family for this man?”

  “Certainly not. Papa left it for me to do with as I wished.” She wriggles against me with distracting results. “If you don’t let go of me I shall scream.”

  I release her. “Where is Blackwater?”

  “I shall not tell you.” She breaks away and runs out into the foyer, then beckons to a couple of footmen. They are large, serious-looking men, obviously hired for the occasion. They advance on me, with an obvious air of menace, despite the ridiculous Chinese costumes they wear.

  “Now, sir,” one says to me, “we hear you’ve had a bit too much to drink. Don’t you think you’d best go home and leave the young ladies alone?”

  They easily outweigh me together by ten stone at least. They thrust my cloak into my arms and me down the steps of the house with polite insistence.

  I catch a hackney home to send an urgent letter to Mr. Wellesley-Clegg in Lancashire, and pray I am not too late. I swear to him that I will do anything to protect his daughter and that I love her beyond reason.

  But I fear she is lost to me.

  Chapter 20

  Miss Philomena Wellesley-Clegg

  I did not expect to be bored when I became an engaged woman, and I am ashamed to admit it.

  Horatio is too busy with his poor soldiers to spend much time in society. I do wish he would let me accompany him, but when I asked, he took my hands and told me with great sweetness that he had to go into very low parts of London and did not wish me to be shocked. He calls every afternoon, and we have tête-à-têtes that, regretfully, my sisters never interrupt and I am almost used to his kisses now.

  He does not dance because of a wound in his left leg. I believe it is his left leg. I thought I saw him limp on the right side one time, and he became a little annoyed at my concern and finally admitted that, yes, indeed, he had suffered a slight wound there also. He is too modest to talk much of his military exploits, and rarely wears his uniform, although he looks excessively handsome in it.

  I miss Julia. I miss Papa. I miss—no, I do not miss Inigo. How could I? Certainly not.

  I am tired of all my bonnets and, since I gave Horatio’s soldiers Papa’s fifty guineas, cannot in good conscience buy another on account. I spend fretful, lonely hours waiting for him to call each day. And it is only Tuesday, three days after my ball!

  The Dowager Duchess called on Sunday, and again today, and she and Mama spend hours giggling together in her bedchamber, where she receives only her most favored friends. The twins report that they talk quite obscenely about female subjects, and I forbid them to listen at the keyhole anymore. This most recent time, however, they say, the Dowager Countess wept, and I cannot believe that. How absurd! Unless they were tears of joy at their reconciliation.

  Oh, I am dreadfully out of sorts.

  And Horatio has shown me a special license he carries, and begged me to make him the happiest of men. Why, my own papa almost suggested we should steal away and marry. Maybe I should. Occasionally, Hen nudges me and says I’ve been a maiden too long, and why don’t I just take the captain and have done with it? I remind her we must wait until Papa has returned, for I am sure he would like to be present at my nuptials.

  I look through the newspaper, hoping to improve myself, and see a report of the previous night’s entertainment at Drury Lane. I wish I had been there, for it was a benefit performance for its star, Mrs. Frances Gibbons, and that probably implies it was her last appearance. But as I read on, I find that Mrs. Gibbons did not appear, the management claiming her indisposed, and the audience near rioted.

  I lay the newspaper down and think about this. It is not like Mrs. Gibbons to turn down a performance, and I wonder if she is truly unwell. At any rate, the news means she may have left for the country already, and I am sorry I did not say good-bye to her, for I liked her very much.

  I go in search of Hen, who is in the drawing room listening to Lydia and Charlotte play the piano as hideously as ever while she mends stockings.

  “Hen, I have decided to pay a call on Miss Celia Blundell.”

  “I thought she was cutting you, miss, same as the Countess of Terrant.”

  “Well, no. I don’t think so.”

  “Take her half a dozen cakes, miss, and you’ll have her eating out of your hand.” She looks with longing at the cosy fireplace. She has her shoes off and skirts rolled up and wears a faded, comfortable old gown.

  “You don’t have to come, Hen. You’ve been so busy with the ball and everything else, I think you should stay home and rest.”

  “I don’t know what your mama would say.” She jabs her needle into the stocking. “You be careful, now, miss.”

  I leave her droning on about sinners roiling in eternal flames in discordant counterpoint to Clementi, and the footman summons me a hackney to take me to the Blundells’ house. Naturally, as soon as we have left I tell the driver to go instead to Soho, and soon we pull up at Mrs. Gibbons’s little house. It is small and crooked, stuck in between two bigger ones like an afterthought, and I am glad to see the chimney smokes, so someone must be home.

  I pay the driver and he pulls away. It strikes me then I should have asked him to wait, in case Mrs. Gibbons has decided to cut me too, but it is too late, and I ring the doorbell.

  The door flies open almost immediately.

  Inigo stands there.

  My first thought is how very debauched he looks—he is unshaven, is in his shirt-sleeves, and his feet are bare. I have never seen a man’s bare feet before, a gentleman’s, that is, and he has very long, elegant toes with black hair on them. And his shirt placket is unbuttoned, as though he has just pulled it over his head, and I can see a smudge of similar hair there too.

  And then I am horrified and hurt. He has gone back to Mrs. Gibbons’s bed, and has just risen from it, by his looks.

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p; He leans against the doorframe, with no pretence at a bow. “Go away, Philomena.”

  From inside the house comes a high, continuous wail.

  Fanny appears. She looks little better than Inigo, wearing a loose wrapper, with her hair uncombed, eyes red and swollen, and she clutches a large bundle against her chest. It is this bundle that makes the wretched wailing sound.

  “Inigo, is it—oh. Miss Wellesley-Clegg, it’s kind of you to call, but I cannot receive visitors. I’m sorry. Please go.”

  “What’s happened?” I ask. I push past Inigo and Fanny turns back the shawl around Will.

  What I see shocks me. The plump, laughing baby I remember has wasted away, his skin waxen, and I can see the shape of his skull beneath his face. He opens his mouth and cries feebly. When I touch his skin it is hot and dry.

  “I thought you were the doctor,” Inigo says, stepping back inside the house. “You must go. This is no place for you.”

  “What happened?” I whisper again, horrified.

  “He’s been ill for two days. He…” Inigo rests his head against the wall, and raises one hand to his face. His shoulders shake. He’s crying, and this horrifies me even more.

  I look at the two exhausted people, and the poor child they are trying to keep alive, and shut the door. “Let me help you.”

  Tears run down Fanny’s face. She shakes her head and murmurs something about how it would not be proper, but leads the way into the house. It is a dreadful mess, belongings packed into wooden crates, and then half-unpacked, and sawdust from them spilling onto the floor.

  I’ve said I will help them, but in truth I don’t know what I can do. I don’t know what anyone can do with a child as sick as this.

  “I sent Molly to make tea a half hour ago,” Fanny says. She sinks onto a sofa half-covered with gowns.

  Will wails again.

  “Let me take him.” Inigo, his face smeared, takes his son. He begins to shamble up and down the room, in a way that suggests he has spent many hours so.

  I go to find the kitchen, down a narrow flight of stairs. A girl of about thirteen slumps over the kitchen table, fast asleep, while a kettle boils dry on the fire. I don’t have the heart to wake her. I find a shawl that I spread over her and turn to deal with the kettle. I almost burn myself before bringing my petticoat into use, and take the kettle to the stone sink, where I pump more water into it.