Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  She squeezed her sister's hand beneath the table in a gesture of approval, allowing a warm smile to light her face with its charm. Her cheeks tingled as she realized that her action was observed by all present at the table. With downcast eyes, she returned to her dinner.

  After a brief silence, Roger spoke again. "I suppose we all wish–and endeavor–that our fortunes be used for greater charity than just pennies in the hand of a beggar. I have always hoped when I return to Donnelly Hall, that its resources might be shared more greatly with the community and its poor."

  "Your father was always a generous man," Sir Edward replied. "Perhaps as a child you did not realize it; but a sizeable portion of his profit from the flocks and fields was devoted to worthy causes of its parish."

  "Thank you," Roger said. "I have forgotten much about my father's work when he was the master of the estate. It has been so long now since I was home–truly home." The tone of his voice rang with gratitude.

  "If I could do even half as well as he, not only in my labors but in my choice of–" He broke off abruptly, then lapsed into silence. "Perhaps it would be better not to think about such things until these affairs abroad are settled," he finished. He returned to his dinner, leaving Flora curious about his words.

  Marianne insisted upon finishing her sketches of garden butterflies in the drawing room after dinner, a decision which Flora despaired of, but could not prevent. Her father was dozing slightly before the fire, incapable of checking his youngest daughter's impetuous nature for the moment; and no governess had yet been engaged for occupying Marianne's curious mind with lesson-books upstairs.

  Roger strolled about the room, his fingers falling on the curved wood of Flora's harp.

  "Will you play, Miss Stuart?" he asked, turning towards her suddenly.

  She could not prevent her blush. "I am but a poor player, sir," she answered. "My skill is not fit for your ears after such a performance as Lucy gave on the pianoforte." She had not practiced in more than a week–the possibility of a mistake was too great, even in an impromptu performance before the boy who once unstrung her instrument in mischief.

  His fingers wandered carelessly over the strings, playing an air she recognized from long ago. "Do you remember the Christmas Eve party my father once gave?" he asked. "You were nine or ten, I think; perhaps older. It was the only time I recall such a grand event being held in Donnelly Hall, at any rate."

  "I know the one you mean," she answered, smiling. "It was a Christmas Eve ball. Grand, but not formal, for I recall that many of your father's tenants and much of the parish were present. We spent most of the evening tucked behind the drapes in order to watch the dancers, for fear we'd be sent to bed before it was over."

  "Did we not dance?" he asked. "I thought we did. We had crept off to the library–its doors were quite close by and we could hear the music through them. Lucy was asleep on the sofa there, with a wreath of greenery about her hair–"

  "–made from the boughs along the mantelpiece and windows," finished Flora. "I seem to remember helping her weave it into a crown."

  "Do you remember nothing else?" he asked. After a moment's hesitation.

  Her fingers and eyes were occupied with her needlework again; which was just as well, for she felt the color vanish from her cheeks momentarily. A different memory was connected with that Christmas as well; but it was not one of which she would choose to remind Roger Easton.

  "Only that it was our best Christmas all together," she ventured. "And that I have never again spent such a happy holiday in the presence of friends."

  She could trust herself to look up again by thinking only of the barest reminders of the party, such as the lively music and the mutton served at supper. Lest something more from the past be visible in her eyes.

  He sighed. "I have missed English Christmases these past few years." Moving away from the harp, he seated himself in a chair near the fire. "I confess to being homesick the holiday I passed in France. And the times in the Indies as well."

  Sir Edward stirred and opened his eyes. "What are we talking of, sir?" he inquired. His voice mumbled slightly after several minutes' sleep.

  "We were talking of Christmas, Papa," Flora answered. "I believe it was Lord Easton's wish to spend Christmas at home again."

  "No doubt longing for a good stuffed goose or turkey," her father chuckled. "For I am sure that even the finest French cook cannot rival the smell of a Christmas pudding after a good meal."

  "I was speaking of that only a day ago to Miss Harwick," Roger laughed. "I was trying to persuade her that Christmas at home is better than anywhere else at all."

  "Miss Harwick?" repeated Flora. A slightly cooler tone had crept into her voice. "I suppose she, too, has missed the celebrations of home this past year or so."

  "She has," Roger answered. "A particular longing for the carols, she confessed. But she, too, appreciated a glimpse into France's merry celebrations." He offered a smile, not to Flora, but to Marianne, who was frowning with concentration over her drawing of a moth.

  "Harwick must be pleased to have his family around him again," said Sir Edward. "Although I must confess that any man's patience may be tried by the presence of headstrong young ladies." With a harrumph, he opened his paper and perused its columns.

  "Miss Harwick is a welcome presence in his house, I have no doubt," answered Roger. "She is a remarkably accomplished young woman. Did you know that she had a voice teacher in France? Supposedly he instructed its finest operatic singers, but tutored the daughters of local gentry for his income." He stirred the fire's coals with the poker, sending a cloud of sparks flying upwards in the grate.

  "I'm sure she possesses a very pretty voice," Flora said. "I believe Miss Harwick has always claimed to have great musical talent."

  "The pianoforte, you mean," said Roger. "I have heard her play. It is quite charming."

  "As good as Lucy, I daresay," said Flora. Whose cheeks were beginning to burn with an emotion other than feminine demureness.

  Roger smiled. "No one is, or ever shall be, as good as Lucy to me," he answered. "There shall be only one person whose skill I shall ever like better and they shall have another claim on my ear and heart as well."

  He was interrupted by Marianne, eager for a critic to assess one of her sketches. Flora rose from the sofa and stepped towards the windows, turning her face away from Roger's view.

  Was it her dislike of Hetta that made these compliments hard to bear? For surely she was not so uncharitable as to begrudge another person of rightful praise. Even she would admit to Hetta's ear for music, her long and slender fingers suited perfectly for the keys of the instrument.

  Was she afraid that Roger found an undeserving young woman's charms too attractive? Or did she feel resentment for quite a different reason? Biting her lip, she pushed the thought away. There was no possibility of that, of course. It was merely an unpleasant reaction to Roger's unwitting praise for someone as shallow as Hetta.

  "Should a moth have long antenna or short ones, Flora?" Marianne asked.

  "Short ones, dear," Flora replied. She turned away from the drapes and joined them in consultation on the insect's appearance.

  *****

  Roger was talkative enough for the rest of the evening, although I wish he had not talked quite so much about Mr. Harwick and their plans to hunt pheasants on Donnelly Hall's grounds. While I do not object to the invitation or the kindness behind it, somehow the conversation always WILL mention the attractions of Miss Harwick in some way, shape, or form.

  I have no doubt that he is attracted to her, as are half the young gentleman in London of her acquaintance. She is accomplished, charming, lovely, and makes a striking appearance wherever she goes, after such a long absence from London's society and such acquirements as a wardrobe of Paris fashions.

  I know all of this is true; so why am I quite envious of this attention? I, who have never begrudged Miss Harwick her suitors or her romance (despite what she may think), am now jealous t
hat she receives a few kind compliments and the admiration of a young gentleman whose mother invited her to tea.

  Should I not be ashamed of myself? For I know what her life has been, what mistakes must haunt her beneath that indifferent smile.

  Perhaps this feeling is only connected to my promise that I would do everything in power to keep him from forming a regrettable attachment to her. In essence, this makes us rivals, even though I have no intention of making Roger Easton fall in love with me in any sense of the word.

  But I cannot help but wonder, dear journal, if it is another heart that is in danger as a result of this experiment–my own.

  Chapter Twelve

  "What a gloomy day it is; upon my word, I never saw so few familiar faces in the shops of London than I did this morning," complained Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  Seated in Evering's morning room, she was fiddling impatiently with the fringe on her shawl. Today was not her day for paying calls, but since the streets were far too damp for comfortable travel, she had chosen to visit her nieces instead.

  "I suppose with only the same items to tempt them as always, more patrons would prefer to find themselves at home," Flora answered. Her seat was at her mother's desk, where it was her weekly chore to ferret out the housekeeping expenses based upon necessity and economy.

  In the grate was a dull fire, more ashes than fuel. The necessities of economy rendered this a practical decision, if an uncomfortable one, for the female inhabitants of the house who sat there after breakfast.

  "I don't know why everyone is so afraid of a little rain. I think puddles are great fun for splashing when one is in the proper shoes," said Marianne. Her needlework was forgotten in the interest of a set of toy soldiers she had made from bits of painted paper.

  "Turn your attention to the subject of embroidery, if you please," Flora said. "I do not think the battle campaigns of Cromwell versus the Crown will have any future reference for you."

  With a sigh, Marianne swept the soldiers into a box of "treasures" she kept hidden beneath the sofa and carried them out of the room.

  "Well, upon my soul; here is Lady Easton's carriage!" declared Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She was poised at the window, having drawn aside the drapes.

  Flora's pen fumbled and fell onto her pages. "It cannot be, surely," she answered. "She would not call so soon after Roger dined here." She rose and joined her aunt at the window. The Easton's carriage had stopped before their house, where two passengers alighted under the shelter of the footman's umbrella.

  It was not Lady Easton and her daughter, however; it was Mrs. Harwick and Hetta.

  "Now, what on earth could they be doing, escorted by the Easton's carriage?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. "You don't suppose the Harwicks have found favor with them–especially the pretty Miss Harwick?" Gleeful speculation was evident in Mrs. Fitzwilliam's voice.

  "Never mind that, since they are almost upon us," Flora answered, making haste to remove her household apron and dispose of the notes on household economy. She reached for a needle and hoop just as the servant announced the Harwicks.

  "Miss Stuart–and Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Your being here shall save us another call this morning," declared Mrs. Harwick, with a genteel bow.

  "Mrs. Harwick, Miss Harwick–what a pleasant surprise," said Flora. Her guest's manner of greeting was slightly more cordial and considerably more cheerful than the last time.

  "I hope you are all well?" asked Mrs. Harwick. "We have not seen you, nor your father recently. Not even at the concert last Wednesday."

  "I'm afraid my father has been much engaged with his solicitor," Flora answered. As for herself, she had called and left her card for the Harwicks on a day in which the family was apparently absent due to a sudden engagement. "Even the society of London's season cannot keep him from the affairs with which he is involved presently."

  "Of course," said Mrs. Harwick. Now that she was seated, Flora could better see the expense of her gown's fabric, the elaborate feathers trimming her bonnet. "But you have been in public often, I'm sure? We have merely missed meeting you in some crowd or other."

  Hetta had seated herself on the sofa beside Flora. Her position placed her across from Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who was studying her with interest.

  "I suppose that this is a busy season for you, Miss Harwick," she declared. "No doubt you have carried off the hearts of half of London with your pretty face."

  A smile of malice spread briefly across Hetta's face. "Hardly, I assure you," she answered. "For there are so many pretty girls–like Miss Stuart here–that it is impossible for any young lady to stand out in public."

  Flora forced herself to be silent, even as she felt the condescension in the young lady's remark. Hetta, who obviously considered her less than worthy of being her rival in London society. "I must thank you for the compliment," she ventured to say, "although I confess I cannot believe it true."

  "Lady Easton sends her compliments." Mrs. Harwick changed the subject abruptly. "I'm sure you saw us alighting from her carriage. Delightful, charming woman; she met us in Bond Street and we spent quite a morning examining the new shawls and parasols."

  "She offered us a ride in her carriage, as we were paying morning calls here," said Hetta. "Was that not kind of her? It was quite out of her way, I feel, since an engagement with her friends carries her near the Park."

  "What a kind offer indeed," said Flora. "Especially given the heavy rain which seems to afflict our fair city today." She pulled her needle too hard, causing its threads to tangle.

  Why had they called here today? Was it to triumph over her, the daughter of a gentleman whose means forced her to spend more time directing servants and stitches than shopping for expensive ornaments? They surely considered her beneath them, given their fashions and manner of speaking.

  "You must take care, Flora," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "You are quite pale this morning. With such faded color I would suspect a young man had a hand in it if I did not know better."

  It was all Flora could do to hide any trace of blush in her cheeks. "I do not know what you mean," she laughed. "I have spent all yesterday afternoon walking in the garden. Surely that would give health to my appearance if nothing else."

  Digging in the dirt was a more accurate description of yesterday's activity, but Flora knew better than to let her gardening habits be known to the Harwicks.

  "Such paleness is always the sign of love in young people," Mrs. Fitzwilliam observed. "Unless it be a broken attachment, in which case the pining of the heart pales the cheek."

  Such careless comments should be more uncomfortable for Hetta than anyone else present. But she seemed unaffected, her gloved fingers busy opening a small package beside her.

  "I have made a purchase today which might interest Miss Stuart," she said. "Whom, I believe, is quite an admirer of its powers." In her hand was a new volume of Advice for Young Ladies.

  "The shop was full of them," Mrs. Harwick said. "I could not half-move for the young ladies requesting a copy. I thought it quite ill-bred of them to be so eager."

  "I hope you will enjoy it," Flora said. Despite Mrs. Harwick's complaints, it stirred her imagination, the thought of a crowd of eager readers clamoring for the little volume.

  Hetta laughed. "It isn't for me," she said. "I have no need of such aid. I am sending it to a cousin of mine. A rather plain, awkward girl who spends most of her time with her stitchwork."

  There was a moment of silence before Flora found the power to reply. "What a kind thought," she murmured. "I hope it brings her good fortune in her pursuit."

  Insufferable conceit! What rudeness and petty revenge to take upon someone in their own home! Flora's mind burned with these feelings, even as she knew them to be equally inappropriate.

  "I am afraid the book shall only succeed as far as amusement," said Hetta, tucking it away again. "For both you and I know it is quite out of the question, procuring a gentleman's interest from some very silly rules."

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed loudly. "Ah, t
he confidence of youth! Many a lovely young lady has declared such a thing before now, Miss Harwick." Hetta's lips curved slowly into a smile as she listened.

  "We really must be going, my dear," said Mrs. Harwick. "Shall we see you both at Lady Easton's party on the twenty-fifth?"

  She offered a pitying smile as Flora did not respond. "Well, then, I am sure we shall meet again soon," she concluded. "Come, Hetta." With that, they were gone.

  "I see Mrs. Harwick has developed no manners since the last time we met," observed Mrs. Fitzwilliam, twitching her bonnet strings angrily. "Upon my word, to mention a fixed engagement to another–is the woman without any sense of propriety?"

  "She meant to be rude." Flora moved to the window, watching as the Harwicks made their way across the street, sheltered from the cool drizzle by their umbrella. "It was her best means of snubbing us. She wishes me to think that Lady Easton cares less for me as a friend than she does their own family."

  "Nonsense," Mrs. Fitzwilliam replied. "Why should she care so much what Lady Easton thinks of you? Or whether she thinks of you at all, for that matter."

  After a moment's reflection, she added, "Unless Mrs. Harwick considers you a rival for her daughter's chances with young Lord Easton?" She cast a curious glance in her niece's direction.

  "It is not that, Aunt," Flora replied. Half-fearing her aunt might guess the truth if she pondered it any longer. "It is because of something between me and Miss Harwick from a very long time ago."

  She moved away from the window and returned to the desk, hoping her aunt would allow the subject to drop. That was not the case, however.

  "Surely this is not about that hint of scandal from her youth," Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. "How could she blame you? It was not from your lips that the story spread through the village. She should blame her family's servants for implying there was something amiss in the household." Mrs. Fitzwilliam herself had the whole story from an upstairs maid the Harwicks employed that fall, now married to a cobbler.