I open the door and call down the passage, “Lydia—no, Charlotte—you shall not listen at the door. Go away.”
Lydia, for it is she, comes into the room. She carries a glass that she holds out to me.
“Is he still here?” I ask.
“Yes. They took his coat downstairs for the servants to clean. What shall you do, Philly?”
“I don’t know.” I sniff the contents of the glass. “What is this?”
“Brandy. We thought it might do you good. You look unwell.”
“Thank you.” Kindness from even one of my horrid younger sisters is welcome at this moment. I cannot get over the captain’s perfidy—as though I would elope with him! On the other hand, I cannot distinctly remember telling him the engagement is off, although I think throwing a chamberpot at the gentleman in question could be interpreted as such.
“I am so tired, Lyddie.” I take a sip of the brandy. It tastes quite unpleasant, and burns my mouth.
“Hen put valerian in to calm you,” Lydia says.
The serving of brandy is large and takes me some time to drink, and I feel bone weary by the time I have finished. “I can’t move,” I tell my sister. “Let me sleep a little.”
I have some very peculiar dreams after that. Mama and Hen come to see me, and help me dress. I am like a rag doll, and giggle as I flop around. We go outside the house briefly, and then ride in a carriage, and I find myself in a large, echoing place with high pillars, clinging to a gentleman’s arm.
A lot of familiar people are there, members of the ton, and it is rather like one of those dreams where you find yourself at Almack’s in your shift. But I do not wear my shift. I am wearing the gown I wore at the ball with hastily stitched-in long sleeves, and a gentleman in black asks me questions.
I can hear people rustling behind me, and I turn to see Papa, which of course is absurd, as he is in Lancashire where our house is falling down.
The kindly gentleman in the black robe asks me a very silly question—if I want to take this man as my husband—and I turn to see the captain beside me. His hand is under my arm and he frowns at me. He looks a little apprehensive—he is chewing his lip, and he gives me a shake.
Oh. I am supposed to answer the question. Do I want to take this man as my lawful wedded husband?
Well, of course not. How absurd. This is only a dream, so I can say whatever I want to.
Chapter 22
Mr. Inigo Linsley
I am so deeply in love that after seeing my sweet girl into a hackney, I fall asleep, although not immediately. I stay in the kitchen with Molly and Will and watch my son devour bread dipped in milk, take him upstairs and let him crawl around the floor for a little, and applaud him mightily when he belches. After a while he becomes fretful and yawns, and falls asleep in my arms. I take him upstairs to his mother, and then lie on the sofa. Only for a little, I promise myself. I shall not sleep. I couldn’t sleep a wink last night, or this morning, or whenever it was we retired, not after that delicious invitation to remove Miss Wellesley-Clegg’s stays. Nor after holding her while she snuggled against me, as trusting and sweet as a kitten, with her hair tickling my face.
And she has agreed to get rid of that pimp and marry me!
I am rudely awoken by someone shaking me.
“Wake up, Mr. Linsley. There’s trouble.”
“Trouble?” I open my eyes to see Tom Darrowby with one half of a familiar pair, a twin, that is. “Miss Charlotte or Miss Lydia? What are you doing here?” I struggle to my feet. “And which one are you?”
“Oh, sir, I have poisoned my sister!”
“What?”
She continues to stare at me while Darrowby, behind her, mouths something at me.
Trousers.
I grab my nether garments (as Miss Wellesley-Clegg refers to them) and put them on. “What the devil do you mean, Miss Charlotte or Miss Lydia?”
“I am Lydia. I gave her laudanum, sir, for she was much agitated. I decided to double the dose, so she would fall asleep, like Juliet in Romeo and Juliet, and then…”
“…And then I could visit the family tomb? You ninny, Miss Lydia. Where is she?”
“Gone to the church with the captain.”
I say a few words that I’m fairly sure Miss Lydia has not heard before while grabbing my coat and boots.
“Miss Lydia came to our house to find me. The fact of the matter is, Philomena will agree to anything while she’s drunk as a lord on opiate,” Darrowby says as he hurries us downstairs and we scramble into a hackney. “Mr. and Mrs. Pullen attend a christening in the church, and I asked them to try and delay matters as long as they could. The captain has a special license and I’m afraid she’ll marry him before she knows what she does.”
I lean out of the window and shout to the driver, “A guinea for you if you can get us to St. George’s in ten minutes.” I turn to my companions. “Does either of you have a guinea?”
We careen through the streets, weaving in and out of traffic, and causing some horrible tangles at crossroads.
“I don’t want her to marry the captain,” Lydia says, as the driver of a cartful of wine casks enlarges her vocabulary a little more.
“Has your papa said something of him?”
“No. It is that the captain looks at our bosoms and not at our faces when he talks to us.”
Given the twins’ skinny frames, that must be decidedly unrewarding for him.
“Scoundrel,” growls Darrowby as we take a corner so fast we nearly overturn.
“How the devil did you know where to find me, Darrowby?”
He looks at me with great disapproval. “I was Fan—Mrs. Gibbons’s guest the night you…when you came to call somewhat the worse for drink. Since you were not with your family at the church, I thought Mrs. Gibbons’s house the best place to seek you out.”
It’s my turn to look at him with disapproval. I only just stop myself from asking him if his intentions toward Fanny are honorable, as if I were her brother and not her protector.
As we pull up in Hanover Square, I leap out, narrowly avoiding a nursemaid who carries a squalling bundle of antique lace down the steps. Once inside the church, I find the cream of the ton has lingered to see an impromptu wedding, my family among them. And I fear I’m too late.
Philomena, swaying slightly, stands with the captain before the minister. The captain, his fine profile presented to the assembled, glares at her.
“Oh, no,” she says. “I really don’t like the way he kisses.”
The minister, who appears nonplussed by an answer not covered by the prayerbook of the Church of England, recoils. He asks her, with a touch of panic in his voice, if she will take this man to be her lawful wedded husband.
She giggles. “Don’t be absurd.”
“She means she will,” says the captain. “Pray continue.”
“She may do so, sir, but she must say the words.”
Philomena smiles happily at us all. “You see, I don’t love him. I thought I did, but I don’t. I love someone else, and I went to bed with him last night, and it was so very pleasant I don’t think I want to go to bed with anyone else, ever. Particularly you, Horatio.” She lowers her gaze to a part of a gentleman a lady rarely looks at directly, and adds, “Twopence ha’penny.”
Terrant approaches me and grips my arm. “Good God, Inigo, what have you done? I presume it was you?”
Philomena meanwhile begins to weave drunkenly down the aisle, still talking. “Isn’t it strange how everyone is here? Lady Blundell, you really shouldn’t wear that color, it looks hideous on you, and Celia, you stole that way of trimming your bonnet from me, but I forgive you. Papa, aren’t you supposed to be in Lancashire? Oh, Aylesworth, that is a splendid waistcoat, and I am so glad you and the Mad Poet are such good friends, it is quite charming…”
Terrant grips my arm in a hold like iron. “Don’t go near her!”
“Let me go. I must rescue her—”
But Lady Rowbotham steps forward
and intercepts Philomena. “You come along with me, my dear, and you won’t have to deal with any of these unpleasant males.”
“Thank God,” Terrant says, still holding on to me as though he were press-ganging me. “I thought for one moment you were about to disgrace our family.”
“But she—I—”
“I forbid you to go near her.”
“You forbid me? Who the devil do you think you are, to talk to me so?”
He hisses in my ear, “I am the head of this family, something you have seem to forgotten, and I will not have you make an alliance with a woman who has spoken so, and in public. She is from Trade and nothing but a common—”
I struggle in his grip before kicking his shin and he releases me. At this point, still half-crazed with lack of sleep and horror at what Philomena has done, I think I go a little mad. I forget my brother is the Earl of Terrant. Instead, all the childish quarrels and fights (which I usually lost) of the past two decades crowd into my mind, and within seconds we are rolling on the church floor, trying to beat each other to a pulp.
A deluge of cold water brings us to our senses before either of us can do too much damage to the other.
Our mother stands over us, the silver jug used in baptisms in her hand. “I have never been so ashamed in my life!”
We stand and shuffle our feet like the stupid schoolboys we seem to have become again.
“I am only glad your father was not alive to see this. We shall go home now, where you may both reflect on your behavior. Terrant, you shall call a family meeting.”
“Yes, Mama,” we chorus, damp and dispirited, the devils cast out of us by the holy water and our mother’s disapproval. We slink out of the church, while a chorus of spiteful gossip arises behind us.
After an unhappy, silent ride home, we gather in Pudgebum’s study and glower at each other. Julia cries. I suppose it is her condition. My mother, to my surprise, holds her hand.
“It’s your choice,” Pudgebum says. “Marry her if you must, but you’ll not see any of us again. I can’t take Weaselcopse from you, but it should provide an adequate, if modest, income. However, there is also this matter, which I think may make you consider your situation rather carefully.”
He produces a piece of paper.
“By God, you opened a letter to me!”
I make a grab for it, but he whisks it away. For one moment, I think it might be a letter from Philomena, and he intends to read it aloud, but when he does so, it is far worse, and far more shameful.
“It is not a letter, Inigo. It is a bill. Item: Services of a lady of the house, two hundred guineas, with additional surcharge of fifty guineas per person, total three hundred and fifty guineas.”
Good God.
“Inigo,” Julia says, “tell him—”
I assume a frosty demeanor similar to my brother’s and frown at her. “This is none of your business, madam. Women have no right to involve themselves in gentlemen’s affairs. It is most indelicate, and frankly, madam, I am surprised you put yourself forward so.” I am damned if Julia will implicate herself and be subjected to Terrant’s bullying.
He continues, “Item: Supper for five at ten guineas per person, fifty guineas.”
I open my mouth to protest that only one of our party actually ate anything—and lost it again shortly after—before realizing I will only get myself and others into deeper water by speaking.
“Item: Damage to carpet, ten guineas.”
I’m not even aware what this is for, so can only guess it had something to do with the unfortunate lobster episode.
“Item: Five bottles champagne at five guineas apiece, twenty-five guineas.” Terrant glares at me. “Less a deposit of thirty-two guineas, with a balance of three hundred and thirty-three guineas remaining. And exactly how do you intend to pay for this, brother? Even if you marry Miss Wellesley-Clegg I doubt her family will allow her that extravagant dowry after her exposure today. If they have any decency at all they will cut her off without a shilling.”
I open my mouth to mention my next quarter’s allowance, until I realize there will be no allowance, only my very modest rents from Weaselcopse. I am heavily in Queer Street now, no mistake. So I say nothing.
“So, I think that concludes the matter.” He looks extremely pleased with himself. “However, there is one more item to discuss.”
He means this could be worse? I brace myself.
But to my surprise, Pudgebum addresses our mother. “I see that other military gentleman who so recently graced us with his presence, Admiral Riley, has not visited our house recently.”
“Indeed.” My mother glares back at him.
“There has been some talk, madam.”
My mother sets Julia aside with a gentle pat on her shoulder and stands to face her oldest son, the head of our family. I stand also, but to my horror, Pudgebum remains seated. My mother notices it too, and flushes at his blatant insult.
He continues, “You are his mistress.”
What? My mother?
She shrugs, and looks down her nose at him. “Indeed, sir.”
Pudgebum stands then, realizing she looks down on him, and it gives him little advantage. “You dishonor the family, madam.”
She says nothing.
He leans forward, hands spread on his desk. “I must request you leave for the country immediately. I cannot have our family name dragged further into the mud. I have written to request the dower house at Inchcombe be made ready for you.”
“Inchcombe?” I am outraged. It’s the furthest property from London and our other lands in Buckinghamshire, little more than a farmhouse surrounded by desolate grazing grounds, and the dower house is damp and gloomy. “Terrant, that is not just. Our mother—”
“I am head of the family, Inigo, and I make the decisions. You will stay there until I see fit, madam. I regret I can allow you no contact with the family.”
She knows what this means—we all do. She will be denied the pleasure of welcoming her next grandchild into the world until Terrant relents. My mother curtsies, and sweeps from the room, head held high, and for a brief moment, Terrant looks uncomfortable.
I break the uneasy silence that falls after she has gone. “You swine,” I say to my brother. “You appalling, dishonorable, unkind swine.”
And I follow my mother out of the room.
Chapter 23
Mr. Inigo Linsley
My mother sits at her writing desk, picking through a box of jewels and letters as I enter her bedchamber. Normally I would not dare invade her privacy in such a way, but I am too incensed to care.
She says nothing as I enter the room but raises one eyebrow in a way calculated to strike fear into lesser beings.
“It’s abominable,” I bluster. “That he should insult you so. To suggest such a thing, that you…that you…”
The look in her eyes, ironic and cynical, makes me blunder to a stop.
Not my mother. Surely not.
With Sev. With anyone.
My good intentions flee, and I bellow, in a pale imitation of my brother, “Good God, have you no shame? At your age?”
“Oh, for God’s sake, not you too! It’s bad enough that Terrant lectures me as though he were a mealy-mouthed parson!” She stands and fairly shouts at me. “I am seven-and-forty, Inigo. I have been alone for six years. I know you think I am a monster, but I was once beautiful and am still considered handsome, and I have, how many more years to live? A good forty, if my family are anything to go by.”
This is true. I have a vast collection of troublesome great-aunts and uncles, and my great-grandfather and great-grandmother on her side of the family still live.
She continues, “I have always done my duty. Always. I was a virtuous wife. I turned a blind eye to your father’s infidelities because I loved him, and…”
I wish I had not heard that. It is little more than I always suspected, for we are of the ton, and this is how things so often are.
“…And now, when
I find I wanted something more in my life than being the respectable Dowager Countess—”
“And you’ve certainly achieved that, madam. I don’t think anyone could call you respectable, now.”
She growls and deals me a box on the ear that nearly fells me.
“Yes, with a whoremonger for a son, and a pompous fool for another!” She considers for a moment, and then adds, “And I think George’s sermons are dreadful.”
That undoes me. I collapse onto her bed and sit there rubbing my ear, helpless with laughter.
She glares at me. “I don’t believe I gave you permission to sit.”
“I beg your pardon.” Well trained as ever by her, I leap to my feet. “I—I suppose there is no chance of marriage between you?”
“He asked for my hand.”
Oh, thank God.
She continues, “And I told him I liked going to bed with him, but I didn’t want to marry him. And I have not seen him since.”
“Well, for God’s sake, why won’t you marry him? It will get you out from under Terrant’s thumb, at least. I’ll pay a call on Sev and—”
“Absolutely not! I will not be demeaned so.” And then to my horror she bursts into tears and weeps without restraint, sinking back down into her chair with her elbows among her scattered jewels.
I’m horrified. I believe she wept when my sister died—at least, she locked herself into her bedchamber and emerged fierce and red-eyed a week later. And I remember the dreadful stillness that descended on her at my father’s death—but I have never seen her like this before.
“Ma?” I haven’t called her that in years. I touch her shoulder, fully expecting her to turn and snap at me.
She does. “Pray do not address me as though I were a housemaid and you my son!”
“I beg your pardon.”
She buries her face in her hands. “Please leave me.”
“No, Ma, I won’t.” I push a handkerchief against her fingers, and to my relief she takes it, but continues to cry.
I really don’t understand women. She thinks it would be demeaning to marry the man she loves, purely because a third party intervenes on her behalf and gives him the answer she should have given in the first place? And this, after her humiliation at my brother’s hands?
The Rules of Gentility Page 18