Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  Maur Castle overlooked a scene of Highland splendor, which Sir Edward was in hopes would revive his ailing wife with its newfound charms when they accepted the invitation to Maur. A fortnight's visit was spent there by all but young Giles, who was with school friends for the fall.

  The stone walls of the castle echoed with romance for the sympathetic heart of young Flora. Dreamily, with a sentimental novel tucked beneath her shawl, she wandered the drafty hallways of the ancestral home.

  "You shall catch a draft, going about like that," Sir William chuckled. "You best confine your daydreaming to rooms with lighted fires, Miss Flora." His accent, touched with the gentle affect of Scottish dialect, persuaded her almost as much as his words.

  But wandering the outdoors could not be done without a little dampness suffered by a romantic young girl. With a tartan wrap about her shoulders, Flora made her way across the green fields in search of unexplored nooks and crannies.

  The sheep scattered lazily as her skirts flapped in the wind, a cool rain spattering against the braids wound around her head like a crown of red flowers, now that she was taking an interest in her general appearance. She kept the book of poetry pressed beneath her shawl, fearing it might be soaked by the pouring rain.

  Cold rain was hard enough to endure, even for the most romantic of minds; but a steady shower beyond a few minutes' time was far too much for even a thick tartan weave to stand. Shielding her eyes, she peered through the downpour for a tree or the ruins of a building in which to take shelter.

  Ahead was an old stone barn, its weathered walls protected by a thatch roof. Sprinting across the grass, Flora made her way towards it, assuming that it was possibly the property of her uncle, and therefore empty of all but a few of his livestock.

  The door was partly ajar when she reached it; she put forth her hand to push it open, revealing the dark interior made dusty by straw and grain. But the barn was not unoccupied.

  There, in the shadows, stood Hetta Harwick with a young man.

  Flora did not recognize her until the young girl's face turned towards the lighted crack with surprise. Her blond curls were misted with rain, the damp shoulders of her dress covered by the young man's jacket. A lean, brown face framed by black hair was bent close to hers, whispering. His knee breeches and knotted neckerchief betrayed him as one of the estate's laborers.

  Flora was frozen for a moment, her breath caught in her throat. She stepped away from the doorway and turned to leave, hurrying down the grassy knoll towards the castle.

  What had she seen? Her mind raced to put the pieces together, even in shock. The impropriety of a young girl, single and alone with a man, was shocking enough. But Hetta was not "out"–and her companion was not someone of whom Mr. Charles Harwick would approve.

  When she hurried through the doors of Maur Castle, she rushed upstairs to her own chamber, as if what she had seen was written across her features. Shutting herself in the room, she pulled off the rain-soaked tartan shawl and huddled before the fire in her damp dress.

  Should she forget the incident? Should she block it out of her mind? If they had recognized her, perhaps pushed open the door themselves and caught a glimpse of her retreating across the fields–what would they think? A thousand questions seemed to ask themselves all at once in the young girl's mind.

  One thing was certain to her. It was not her secret to know about. Since she could tell no one, it was best forgotten. Repeating this to herself silently seemed to help; and by teatime, she was composed enough to go downstairs and join her family without exciting the curiosity of anyone present.

  If that had been the end of the episode, there would have been nothing more than the occasional childish, petty squabble to mar the association between Flora and Hetta. But two nights later, Hetta Harwick was caught attempting to flee to Gretna Green. With her, a shepherd youth who was employed sometimes by the Harwick family's host, Admiral Dixon.

  Rumors spread, although the Harwicks did their best to contain the damage. No word was spoken on the subject by any of them, nor by the Admiral and his family. No word was spoken by Billy Fyvie, the young man caught eloping with her. No comments were shared by the Admiral's gamekeeper, who chanced upon the young couple near the public road.

  Despite that, others–servants who witnessed the passionate pleas and angry tears of Miss Hetta–shared bits and pieces of gossip with the community.

  "Crying and screaming an' fit to be tied, she was," averred the Admiral's laundress in deep conference with Maur Castle's upstairs maid. "And such a tone! I'd be surprised if any other hotheaded young miss would've spoken so to her father."

  While no one of any consequence would confirm the story, other events gave it an element of truth. Such as the dismissal of Billy Fyvie from the Admirals' service and his departure to another village.

  And the departure of Miss Harwick and her family for home some weeks earlier than originally planned.

  With mixed feelings, Flora heard the rumor from the Castle staff. "Surely, it isn't true?" she ventured. Yet she could think of nothing but that moment in the doorway of the stone barn.

  "Ah, but it is, miss," the maid said. "I've but heard it from the lips of one who saw them runnin' away together–the miss had her things in a bag and the young man had borrowed a pony and cart."

  "Really," Flora murmured, doing her best to appear uninterested. For some reason, she could not bear to hear it talked of. In her mind, she saw nothing but the moment in the barn again, Hetta's white face in the shadows.

  She did her best to forget the episode. The rumor was contained largely to the local gentry of Scotland, with few references made to it in England. Flora might have succeeded in forgetting it altogether in time, upon her return home.

  But that was before she discovered that Hetta had indeed seen her through the open door. And Hetta, she learned, believed she had discovered who was to blame for her thwarted love and family scolding.

  *****

  The London season is busy for anyone in town during Parliament's session: but for a young girl who is newly "out", it is at once a state of pleasure and pain. Debuts into society draw near, presentation at court becomes imminent, and the Season with all its charms beckons the daughters of gentry to enter the world of young ladies.

  The Scottish holiday was Flora's last moment of girlhood in a year that held a second rite of passage for her. She experienced her first "crush", a blushing sensation in the presence of the son of a London clergyman. His awkwardness and shyness was made all the worse by fumbling teacups and scarlet cheeks. Despite this, however, Flora found his company pleasant when his family attended a rare dinner party given by Sir Edward during the summer months.

  "I believe if Miss Flora were out, she would have an admirer in young Alan Lane," observed Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "It won't be long before many a young man may come to claim her hand once she makes her debut."

  Although Sir Edward laughed at her prediction, his daughter reflected for many a pleasant hour on the subject of being pursued. With only a few months until her first ball, she had begun to entertain ideas of romance and falling in love as more than a pursuit confined to those around her. Were not the young ladies whom her brother found charming but a year or two older than her?

  Her demure glances were now met with admiration or blushes on the part of young men. Too shy to speak to them, too confused to think about what would follow, she busied herself with picking wild roses along the fence and weaving fanciful crowns as she daydreamed. It was an enjoyable period for her, the first happiness she had felt since her mother's growing illness and her family's increasing grief. She delighted in hearing her first ball gown discussed with regards to ladies fashion; she studied the hairstyles of other young ladies circulating themselves in games of decorum and desired connections.

  She could not help the sweet satisfaction she felt despite the awkward moment when Mrs. Lane and her son encountered herself and Mrs. Fitzwilliam outside the shops on Bond Street. Young Alan ventur
ed a few words in Flora's direction, stammering upon the sight of her timid smile of response

  Shortly thereafter, young Alan was among several young men who ceased to glance in Flora's direction. Their manners conveying that they would prefer to avoid her rather than speak; several whispered to each other when they saw her pass by. She was helpless to know the cause.

  "I care little for association with those outside my family," Alan explained coldly, when she inquired kindly as to his activities. "I have spent much time lately with my tutor and books."

  "But have you had no sunshine, no pleasant walks?" she inquired. "I have often seen you strolling with your brother and sister in the past."

  "Forgive me, but you are quite mistaken," he answered. And as his mother had finished paying her addresses to young Giles Stuart, he bowed and walked away alongside her. Leaving a confused Flora to take her brother's arm and stroll on again.

  She was not to know what had been said or done to cause this until the first rumor reached her ears. That Miss Stuart was supposedly a "coquette" who flirted with young Alan Lane as a diversion before her debut. It had begun as a little note, tucked into a young lady's hand by another. While the story drew little attention except among a handful of young gossips, it did not matter. The damage was done as far as Flora's first ball was concerned.

  She received an invitation or two to dance from gentleman from her brother's circle, but many from her own acquaintance failed to request her hand for the evening. She forced herself to smile, even as she stood idly by for several dances as an observer, while eligible young men stood around her.

  It was then she observed Hetta's sly smile as she watched young Alan Lane pass Flora with only a cold glance of disdain.

  The memory of Hetta Harwick's smile of triumph had burned more than the brief unhappiness caused by her rumors. It was the smile that told Flora who she should blame for her first romantic pains. Such a girl, she suspected, would willingly blight her chance for happiness even now. Especially if she believed Flora was an obstacle to her intended conquest of another's heart.

  Chapter Eleven

  Flora parted the thorny tangle of rose limbs climbing the fence. The plants were in need of pruning to remove leaves and branches broken by a heavy rain the previous afternoon. Holding aside the damaged limbs, she snipped them with gardening shears. She could hear the clatter of carriages from the mews and the main street, the sound of one rolling to a stop before Evering house.

  "It can't be," she groaned. No doubt it was Mrs. Fitzwilliam, armed with the latest gossip. With a sigh, she tucked the shears into her basket of debris and moved towards the house before Marianne would begin calling her.

  Pulling the dirty apron from her shoulders, she made her way towards the library, where her father was probably forced to listen to her aunt's stream of conversation. If she hurried, she could rescue him by sweeping Mrs. Fitzwilliam off to the drawing room.

  "If you please, Papa, Aunt Charlotte–" she began as she entered. Then froze with shock.

  It was not Mrs. Fitzwilliam in the library, but Roger Easton.

  It was impossible for Flora to blush more deeply or feel more keenly the loss of her speech. Without looking, she knew the hem of her gown was mud-stained, her fingers patterned with brown like a common gardener's. Stray wisps of red hair drifted into her face now that she was motionless.

  "Miss Stuart," said Roger, with a bow of greeting.

  Forcing herself to recover, she smiled. "Lord Easton," she answered, returning his politeness. "This is a welcome surprise indeed." She longed to be away from here more than words could express.

  "You are looking well today," he ventured. "I believe you have had an active morning."

  "Yes," she said. Sir Edward's glance had wandered towards her shoes, which were caked once again with mud. "I hope your mother and sisters are well today?"

  "They are quite well. Much better than I, who have been engaged in rather fruitless labors with my solicitor. That's why I've come to see your father," he said. She noticed his eyes avoided noticing her earth-stained clothes and shoes.

  So it was his father's estate that brought him here. She reminded herself of that repeatedly after making her excuses and making her way upstairs. Of all the days to be pruning roses! Could she not have foreseen this event and chosen her needlework for this afternoon?

  Her blue dress would have to do, so she dressed herself in it after washing her face and hands. A quick glance in the mirror revealed windswept hair and pale features–hardly a flattering portrait. Tucking a small brooch on her gown, she hoped that it was enough to follow the little book's rules in spirit sometimes, if not in principle.

  Her father and Roger were still conferring in the library, although she heard the sound of her father's good-humored laughter from inside. She went alone to the drawing room and searched through her workbasket for a piece of fancy work with the fewest mistakes.

  For some reason, her heart was hammering in her chest. Her nervousness she couldn't explain; nor the flutter of spirits at every sound on the stairs, which caused her once to pierce her finger instead of the fabric. She longed for some company to distract her, the presence of Marianne to give her something else to think about. But Marianne was hiding somewhere upstairs, pretending to be a an explorer trapped in a snowstorm.

  The sound of Madge's entrance startled Flora into an eager look and smile that were wasted entirely. Switching to a more polite smile, she lowered her needlework.

  "Excuse me, Miss, but there was a question about the fish for dinner. Did or did not Sir Edward want it served today?"

  Flora racked her brain for a memory on this subject, but it was far too crowded with other matters. Such as the choice of jewelry and the shyness of her smile.

  Rule number eight: Be a little reserved, a trifle mysterious, that he may desire to know more of you. A book whose cover reveals only a hint of what lies within may attract curious readers...

  "The fish? I'm sure he would prefer it served today," Flora answered, "for it would not be as fresh tomorrow, would it?"

  "As you say, Miss," Madge answered. "Otherwise, I suppose it would have to go for soup." Her departure was simultaneous with other steps on the threshold, a jovial Sir Edward in the company of their guest.

  "Ah, Madge, is there a fresh fish in the house still?" he inquired. The housekeeper nodded.

  "Good! Then it is settled," he said, laying a hand on Roger's shoulder. "You must dine with us tonight."

  Flora's smile was not as well-timed as she had hoped. For instead of appearing at their entrance, it waited until the invitation to dinner was issued. She reproached herself; it would make her appear too eager for his company to smile like that.

  "I would be honored, sir," Roger replied. His own grin seemed genuine as he spoke. "I have no engagements to prevent it." His eye wandered in the direction of Flora, as if to see if she shared in this request.

  Having scolded herself into composure, she replied in polite tones. "Then you will stay, no?" A charming smile accompanied these words.

  Rule number thirteen: Always modulate your voice to be soft and sweet; a mere hint of the rest of your charms.

  *****

  An excellent dinner was served, since Sir Edward believed that his limited means should never be preserved at the expense of guests. Fish and a joint of meat, a splendid plum cake which his cook labored over only a few times a year. These were the occasions in which Sir Edward felt most at ease with guests and felt most at home among London's class of poor gentry.

  Flora enjoyed herself, largely forgetting about following the rules in the little book of advice. For what need had she to remember, when there was no threat present to Roger's heart? Roger was the master of conversation at dinner, telling them stories of the sights in the West Indies, then his brief sojourn in France while serving his family's estate interests there.

  His description of Paris made Flora long for travel, as if she was a little girl again and turning the atla
s pages in Colonel Miles's library.

  "What of the gardens?" she asked. "I have always heard of the elegant gardens of the French cities; a different beauty from the pastoral scenes and vineyard rows of the countryside."

  "You would ask about them, wouldn't you?" Roger answered. "I suspect you are an enthusiast for things of the earth, Miss Stuart."

  The movement of his eyes convinced her that he was inspecting her fingernails for traces of dirt. With a sense of guilt, she drew her hand beneath the table in a smooth motion.

  "I merely inquire as to the great beauties of the country," she answered.

  His playful gaze remained fixed on her for a moment before he answered. "It was everything you would hope for. Except for the sadness I felt that so many of France's people have no true means of enjoying the sight."

  "They are poor, you mean," volunteered Marianne. "Like the woman who sells ribbons on the corner sometimes. My governess–the one I used to have, I mean–would never let me give her a penny."

  "Then your governess was wrong, indeed," Roger answered. "For we should give coins and kind words to those who may have nothing else that day."

  "Then I was not wrong to give her the penny," said Marianne. "It was Miss Trumble who was wrong; I always suspected so!" In her eagerness, Marianne appeared ready to spring from the table in search of coins, had not Flora grabbed her arm beneath the tablecloth.

  "And you may do so again in the future," Flora assured her. "For our faith tells us to care for the least of these. Charity should be a gesture of love, not propriety or good manners. Even the meanest miser or vulgar shopkeeper is made beautiful when he finds it in his heart to do a good deed on behalf of those less fortunate."