by Nichole Van
Silence.
“What?”
His eyes snapped down to hers. “Surely you heard me correctly, Miss Fleury. Or are you just going to make me repeat myself a third time as a sort of penance?”
Surprised, Jasmine smiled. “Mmmm, that is tempting.”
He blinked, as if something startled him.
“What?” she asked again, cocking her head.
“Nothing.”
She added a questioning eyebrow to her head tilt.
“You have a beautiful smile,” he said after a moment. And then swallowed, as if uncomfortable. “It quite illuminates the room.”
She sucked in a gasp. Oh!
“Wh-what a lovely thing to say.” Jasmine turned her gaze away. “Apology accepted. Thank you.”
A pause.
“I am sorry for the things I said too.” She brought her eyes back to his. “It wasn’t kind of me. I know this situation has been hard for you.”
He nodded. “James told me I need to . . . ‘let it go.’”
“Let it go?”
“Yes.”
“Okay.”
“I . . . I am not entirely sure what that means.”
“Okay?”
“Let it go.”
“Oh—right. It means to stop worrying. Hakuna matata and all that.”
“Pardon?” He shot her a quizzical look.
“Never mind.” She shook her head. “Instead of focusing on your pride or worrying about things you can’t control, focus on becoming a more . . . open person.”
“More open?”
“Yes.
A pause.
He shuffled his feet. And then rubbed a hand against the back of his neck.
Both motions quite endearing. Looking so much like a little boy.
Aaaaaaand there went her mothering instincts again. She probably needed therapy.
Correction. More therapy.
He shrugged. “I anticipate that if I can learn how to ‘let it go,’ the portal will allow me to return home.”
Ah. She allowed herself another wide smile. “I’m glad this day has come.”
“Pardon?”
“Bargaining.”
“You do realize this entire conversation does not make much sense, correct?” He frowned.
Jasmine smiled wider. “I think you need to just . . . let it go. Stop trying to force everything to make sense.”
He opened his mouth, as if to speak. And then closed it again.
Clearly at a loss.
“My mind does not work well with abstracts, Miss Fleury.”
She cocked her head.
“You say, ‘Be more open,’ but I do not understand what behaviors that entails.” He gestured toward her. “I require specificity.”
“Specificity?”
“Yes. What specifically are the steps for ‘letting it go’? What are the rules?”
“Rules?”
“My life as a nineteenth century gentleman is governed by rules, handed down by generations of my forebears. What would be similar rules for a man in this century?”
She paused.
“Your life has rules?”
“Yes, yes, Miss Fleury, but what would the twenty-first century rules—”
“Like what kind of rules?”
“Pardon?”
“What kind of rules do you have in the nineteenth century? Are these like written rules or just suggestions? Do you check them off or something?”
“There is no need to write them down. My father insisted I memorize them entirely by the time I was twelve or so—”
“So there is an actual list?”
“Yes, yes. Are you not hearing a word I say?”
“So what are some of these rules?”
He shrugged. “They are merely the rules for a gentleman. Though many are specific to being a viscount and a bearer of the Linwood name—”
“Tell you what, Timothy. Why don’t I get you pen and paper and you can write down some of these rules. Just a couple, so I can get an idea of what you’re talking about. How does that sound?”
Three hours later, Jasmine looked up from her seat at the kitchen table as Timothy walked back into the kitchen, a stack of paper in hand.
“Here you are. One list.” He set the pile in front of her.
She sat back. Stared in awed silence. Her mouth formed into a permanent surprised ‘O.’
There were, like, fifteen pages of rules.
She reached for the stack, counting.
Make that eighteen.
“Impressive.” She lifted an eyebrow.
She had thought to call his bluff. No way had he memorized all these.
“My father was nothing if not thorough in my education. Linwood men have been memorizing and adding to these rules for several hundred years.” Timothy pulled out a chair and sat across from her.
Wow. Talk about an interesting (though highly dysfunctional) family legacy—
“And you recalled all of this from memory?”
He nodded.
She flipped through the papers. So many rules. One per line.
“So what’s rule . . . nineteen, for example?”
“Rule number nineteen?” He tilted his head, thinking. “A gentleman never loses his temper.”
She turned back to the second page.
Why, yes. He was correct.
She went forward a handful of pages.
“Rule number . . . one hundred and thirty-two?”
“A gentleman should never refer to another person by their first name in public.”
Yep. Right again.
Drat.
She lifted her head. They stared at each other for a moment.
“I am afraid to ask exactly how many rules we’re dealing with here—” She flipped to the end.
“Three hundred and thirteen.”
“Three hundred and thirteen?!”
She blinked. Yep. Mouth definitely going to be an ‘O’ for quite a while.
“Thorough. As I said. There were originally only three hundred. One rule for each of the three hundred Spartans who held off the Persian army during the Battle of Thermopylae. A rule for each warrior who preserved the noble Greek way of life. A fitting metaphor, I suppose, as The Rules are meant to be warriors preserving the Linwood heritage. But then my father was forced to tack on the other thirteen to combat my recalcitrance.”
Recalcitrance? Was that even a word?
He took pity on her. “My unruly behavior.”
She studied the man sitting across from her. So isolated and contained. Not a hair out of place.
The idea of him loosening up enough to misbehave seemed . . . unlikely.
Though, ya know, strangely attractive . . .
She shook her head.
And then turned to the last page:
Rule #303: A gentleman does not engage in trade.
Rule #304: Mathematics should remain in a theoretical sphere.
Rule #305: A gentleman does not toil with his hands like a common laborer.
Rule #306: A gentleman does not indulge in the vulgarity of practical mathematics.
Rule #307: A gentleman does not manufacture machines, either with his own hands or with the help of others.
Rule #308: A gentleman does not design or use machines to bring a good to market.
Machines? Mathematics?
Timothy shifted. “I think he deliberately left the number at three hundred and thirteen, just to emphasize his point.”
She looked up, questioning.
He gestured toward the papers. “It is a prime number—three hundred and thirteen. Not to mention all the negative luck associated with the number thirteen. My father could have a rather odd sense of humor.”
Jasmine struggled to form a response.
Just . . . no words.
The list said it all, didn’t it?
Well, it quite literally did . . . say it all, that is.
It described his world. Every move and emotion proscrib
ed for him from the cradle.
She continued to browse the pages.
He had insisted on using one of the fancy fountain calligraphy pens that James preferred. Obviously, both men were used to writing with slanted goose quills.
His handwriting was beautiful.
“That would be number one fifty-three.” He tapped the paper.
Ah, yes. Indeed it was.
Rule #153: A gentleman will have elegant penmanship.
She continued to look through the pages.
Bowing required—she did a quick accounting—nearly a full page. Apparently the differences between greeting a royal duke, a regular duke and a marquis were excruciatingly precise.
Seventeen different rules for how to use the eyes, glance, make eye contact, how to show disdain or give ‘the cut direct.’
A page on how to stand, how to sit, how to walk.
Nine rules for hats, when to remove them, how to use them in greeting. Seven rules for walking sticks.
Twelve different rules for gloves—
“Why specifically gray gloves when on a picnic? That seems improbably specific.” She pointed at rule number two hundred and four.
“But gray gloves make perfect sense.” He looked at her as if she were daft. “Black is too formal and white shows stains. You clearly have never picnicked during an English spring.”
Clearly.
She flipped through more pages. Rules for education. Latin, Greek, French, Italian, German, Spanish, all the ancient texts—
“Yes.” He glanced at her. “Rules two hundred and twenty through two seventy-five formed most of the basis for my childhood learning.”
Everything was outlined. A gentleman would know how to ride, to shoot, to fence, to box, to swim, to row and to dance . . .
And then one . . .
“Rule number two hundred and forty-three?” she asked.
He didn’t hesitate. “A gentleman never engages in undignified hilarity, specifically puns.”
How could she ever resist that one?
“Puns aren’t punny. Got it.” She smiled. Waiting expectantly. Hopefully.
He left her hanging.
All she got was a raised eyebrow.
“Do you ever smile?” she asked.
He didn’t answer. But merely flipped back several pages and tapped the paper.
Rule #29: A gentleman will refrain from all displays of levity.
Well, there you go.
Jasmine sat back, shuffling the papers together.
Man, Marmi would have had a field day with this. Talk about needing therapy.
He nodded toward her. “So, you have before you the list for a nineteenth century gentleman. I feel that I should ‘let go’ of this list and learn to adhere to the standards of a twenty-first century gentleman. Surely, if I did so, the portal would allow me to return.”
Bargaining at its best, right there.
“I’m not sure it’s that simple, Timothy.”
His look turned quizzical. He rolled his hand. Go on.
“First of all, I can’t even imagine that a twenty-first gentleman would have such a list in the first place. Seems kinda antithetical to the entire concept. I would argue that a gentleman is more an internal state of being than an external list of rules, but I digress. I highly doubt you will be able to bargain your way out of this.”
“Bargain? You used that word earlier, Miss Fleury. I am not trying to negotiate a treaty here.”
“Actually, you are, in a way. Look. There’s a thing called psychology—”
“The study of the mind. I am not entirely unfamiliar with the term.”
“Excellent. Based on studies of psychology, when someone experiences a tremendous loss, like a death or some enormous change—like, say, finding themselves two hundred years in the future—they go through five stages of grief. Mourning that which was lost. The phases are denial, anger, bargaining, depression and, finally, acceptance.”
He sat very still. Or, somehow, even stiller than usual.
Was stiller a word?
Where was she?
That’s right. Bargaining.
“The phases don’t have to happen in a complete linear fashion, but it’s a bit of a progression. So, you have already dabbled a bit in denial. And the anger phase, though fun with all the yelling and insults and stuff, was a bit of a pain. So now we’re on to bargaining. Or, you’re at least to the point where you’re willing to talk about things. Which is an improvement, I have to say.”
Timothy sat rigidly across from her. Face utterly impassive. Hands pressed flat against the tabletop. Nothing moving.
Just so completely . . . contained.
Every natural, normal impulse so thoroughly restrained, there almost wasn’t a human being inside.
She met his eyes. The swelling had gone down on his injured eye, allowing her to see the deadness in his gaze. He looked . . . weary. Like he was just so tired of fighting.
“And judging by your . . . fatigue, I’m going to guess that there is some depression mixed in with everything too.”
His jaw twitched. But that was all.
“By depression, you mean melancholy?”
She nodded.
“I have never suffered from melancholy.” He moved to flick a bit of fluff off his sleeve.
“I get that. I do. But feeling melancholy from time to time over events isn’t abnormal. And it will pass.”
He was still focused on picking at imperceptible bits of lint on his sleeve. His flicking became a little more pronounced. Like he was trying to contain himself.
That needed to stop.
The containment. Not the picking.
He drew in several prolonged streams of air. Like a yoga student centering his breathing.
His hands stilled and he turned back to her.
Wow. Such amazing self-control. So determined to never break a rule. Never let anything show. Remembering three hundred and thirteen rules and adhering to them at all times must be a strain of almost unimaginable proportions.
In that moment, he seemed . . . too old. His soul weighed down through years of tireless self-vigilance, adhering to an enormous set of rules designed to protect his family and preserve an archaic way of life . . .
It was no wonder he was pissy all the time. How else could one manage under so much stress?
Who worried about him? Who looked after his welfare?
His eyes instantly flashed to hers. A sharp hiss echoing.
“Pardon? What did you just say?”
She swallowed. And then reached across the table, placing a hand on his.
“Who looks after your welfare? And I’m not talking physical here. We’ve established the whole cook slash valet thing. No. Who looks after your emotional state? Who cares if you are happy?”
He blinked. And then looked down to her smaller hand resting on top of his, his head shaking back and forth so subtly she almost missed it.
“I cannot . . . remember a time when anyone even asked me such a question. Is happiness in this life even . . . attainable? Is it even something that should be sought?”
Oh!
“Timothy, look at me. Happiness is possible. In fact, I would argue it is imperative. We live to find peace and happiness, to help others to do the same. It’s probably the only rule we, as human beings, should have.”
He made a harrumphing sound and sat back, pulling his hand out of her grasp, folded his arms across his chest and then focused on a point beyond her head, reeling all emotion back inside.
Utterly retreating back into that empty, hollow place he went.
Yeah. The whole I-am-an-island shtick needed to stop. Talk about unhealthy.
“This information is intellectually interesting, Miss Fleury. But as I said several hours ago, I require specificity. How precisely does my behavior need to change? What are the rules? What do I need to change in order to return and resume my responsibilities?”
And there it was.
In a blinding
flash, Jasmine saw him so clearly.
He seemed impossibly selfish on the surface. Demanding. Condescending. Arrogant.
But underneath it all, he was actually . . . selfless. He had sacrificed everything for his family, forcing himself to become the ideal gentleman, the perfect aristocrat. Behaving as he had been coached to behave. Squeezing himself into a box of his forefathers’ creation, all in the name of the greater good.
But who was he really? Deep down? He had no understanding of how to live for himself. How to be the person he was inside, rather than the person he had been trained to become.
What if all that selflessness could be channeled into behavior that was more . . . warm? More . . . overt?
How terribly ironic.
Here was a man who knew his place in the world down to the smallest fraction of an inch. He knew his family, his people. Where he came from. What was expected of him. What life held for him.
And yet . . . Timothy Linwood was utterly lost. Not knowing himself.
Compare that to her.
She didn’t even know her own name. Where she was born. Who her family really was. She had no idea where her place was in the world. What life expected of her.
Even before finding out she wasn’t related to her family, she had always felt on the outside. Not belonging. Lacking a home.
But in a certain sense, not having a clearly defined place had freed her. It had allowed her to just be herself. She knew what she liked and what she didn’t. She was comfortable in her own skin.
But Timothy had never had that.
He didn’t need more rules. Or even a replacement set.
He needed freedom. Freedom from expectation. From societal mores. From outside judgment.
He needed room to just . . . be.
A safe space in which to be a little selfish. Explore who he was and what he wanted.
Wait. Had she said any of this out loud?
“Is my question that difficult to answer then, Miss Fleury?”
Whew. Internal monologue that stayed internal. Nice for a change.
He was still leaning back in his chair, arms crossed, face an absolute blank.
“Is that mask of yours a rule too?” It had to be.
An elegant eyebrow went up. “Pardon?”
“The way your face never shows emotion. Is that a rule?”
He reached for the stack of papers, flipped through several pages and then tapped.