Authors: Lucinda Brant
She did not blame the Major for his lack of memory. For him the encounter was just one of many;
she
just a number in a long line of countless females whom he had trifled with over the years.
Trifled with
… What an inane expression! In her case, it was apt. But she was certain the Major had done a great deal more than
trifle with
other females. She had engaged in nothing more than a brief kiss. A brief kiss that was not worth his remembrance. But to her, not only was that kiss a moment to treasure, the entire evening had been so exciting she had committed it to memory. Such an encounter was never likely to happen again. Which just underscored her sheltered existence. She looked down at the book in her hand. In her day-to-day life she was a spinster whose prime interest was the nurturing and cultivation of the pineapple.
Distracted with her thoughts, she handed her walking stick to her maid without seeing her, and climbed up on the window seat with its view of the formal gardens. Bradley’s treatise on gardening she dropped on the rug, all the joy of her discovery overridden by her malaise. Her head ached and she felt hot, and yet strangely cold. Perhaps she was coming down with a fever? The studio had been without heat and she without her cloak… But in his arms she had not felt cold at all; quite the opposite…
She found her woolen shawl at her feet and went to put it about her shoulders, when her maid, Edith, did this for her.
“You look worn to threads! Too much time spent in the heat of that Pinery,” the older woman castigated her lovingly, fussing with the sit of the shawl. “And after the upset last night, I dare say it’s all added to the extra color in your cheeks. Now you sit there nice and quiet and I’ll have a cup of tea fetched. You have time for a cup before you change for the theater. But first let me remove your shoes…”
Rory nodded, hugging one of the tapestry cushions to her as she snuggled deeper into the pillows at her back. As she always did, Edith removed the shoe from Rory’s right foot first.
Just like the pretty shoes worn by countless young ladies, Rory’s were often covered in material that matched her gowns. But unlike most shoes, which had identical lasts, Rory’s were made to fit her left and her right foot individually. A master cordwainer, recommended by Professor Camper, had been making her shoes since she was a little girl. He took casts in plaster of Paris and made shoes that conformed to the twisted shape of her right foot; except for mules, she wore the latest fashionable footwear.
The shoes Edith held, as she covered Rory’s stockinged feet with her white muslin petticoats, were purple satin slippers with low heels of white leather. Rory stared at the shoes and swallowed back tears. She barely heard Edith tell her to have a little doze while she fetched the tea, and turned her face to the window as the heavy curtains were drawn across the window seat. Snug in her little corner, it was only then that she realized tears were spilling onto her flushed cheeks.
Foolish! Stupid! Ridiculous creature!
she castigated herself.
Stop feeling sorry for yourself this instant!
Crying for no good reason. If you must shed tears, then do so for not telling Grand the truth. So last night was the most exciting night of your uneventful life? Be thankful it happened at all. You now have a memory to keep, and it is yours alone to cherish…
“Rory? Rory? Are you there? May I come in?”
Rory dashed both hands over her wet cheeks just as the curtains parted and Grasby stuck his head between the hanging velvet. He looked sheepish, and was in undress, having shrugged a silk banyan over his white shirt and brown velvet breeches; a matching silk turban covered his short cropped blond hair. Rory nodded and gathered up her white muslin petticoats, sitting up against the cushions to give her brother space on the window seat’s tapestry cushion. He needed no further invitation and eagerly scrambled to join her, quickly closing the curtains again, as if hiding them away from the rest of the world. For Grasby, he couldn’t think of a more comforting place to lick his wounds.
“Remember when we’d hide in Grand’s book room?” he said with genuine affection, back up against the wooden paneling. Following his sister’s lead, he wrapped his arms about a tapestry cushion and hugged it to his chest. He was already starting to feel better. “We would giggle and whisper to each other to be quiet. Grand never said a word. He pretended he didn’t know we were there behind the curtains! Even when he had meetings with those long-nosed fellows from the Foreign Department who came and went with all those papers. I don’t think we ever fooled him, do you?”
Rory shook her head. “No. Not once.” She smiled at a memory. “There was that time you tumbled off the seat and onto the carpet in full view of Grand and his visitors. They did not break sentence, and continued on with their meeting as if nothing was untoward. Even when I had to show myself to help haul you back up behind the curtain, not one of them said
boo
.”
Grasby smiled crookedly. “I didn’t fall, Rory. You pushed me out.”
Rory widened her blue eyes. “Did I?”
“Yes, you did! Don’t think you can pretend innocence. I know you better than that!”
They both laughed and then immediately fell into an awkward silence. Rory returned to gazing out the window, oblivious to the view of blue sky, green velvet lawns and a topiary garden that stretched to the river. Grasby anxiously watched her. He saw her cheeks were wet and knew she was upset. It wasn’t difficult to figure out why. Despite his own sad and sorry state of affairs pressing down upon him, it said much for his brotherly devotion that he pushed those aside, concern for his sister’s well-being overriding all else. Still, he avoided the topic uppermost in their minds for a little longer, enjoying just sitting with her, the world shut out.
“I thought I’d be turned away at your door; that you’d be dressing for the theater,” he said in a rallying tone. “Whenever Silla makes ready for an outing, particularly if she knows important people will be in attendance—whoever they are, but Silla knows ’em!—her dressing begins straight after nuncheon. I dare not interrupt. Not that I would. After nuncheon I prefer a nap. I still manage to dress in half the time. I daresay that’s because I don’t have to be laced and buckled into panniers…”
“Edith is fetching tea… Then I’ll dress…”
“Yes. I asked her to fetch me a cup, too. Have you decided on a gown? Didn’t I hear you tell Silla you were wearing a gown of purple silk brocade worked with multi-colored flowers—
“I know I’ve been boring you and Grand to frustration with my enthusiasm for Sheridan’s new play, and what I’d wear on the night.”
“You never bore us, Rory, and Silla’s been just as enthusiastic. Though… I suspect it was for the spectacle rather than the play itself. She still hadn’t made up her mind on what gown to wear as late as yesterday…” He looked suddenly embarrassed. “But that’s no longer a dilemma for her. She says she is too humiliated to attend Drury Lane; and never again in my company… Rory? Rory, did you hear me? Silla’s staying home…”
Rory reluctantly looked away from the view. She had just caught sight of her grandfather and Major Lord Fitzstuart. They had strolled out of the shadows into the sunshine on the terrace, drinking ale from silver tumblers. Ale consumed, a footman took away the tumblers and the two men stepped off the terrace onto the gravel path. They were side-by-side, but the Major being so much taller than her grandfather had respectfully dipped his right shoulder, hands clasped lightly behind his back, an ear to the old man’s conversation.
Such was the insistence in her brother’s voice, Rory suppressed the desire to continue watching her grandfather and his companion and looked at Grasby.
“What is it? What’s the matter, Harvel? You look so tired. Did you not sleep at all last night?”
“Not a wink,” he confessed. “The chaise in my dressing room is lumpy, and the fire was let to die, so I froze.” He shrugged. “Not the servants’ fault. How were they to know I’d be in there all night? Still… Any lackey with half a brain could see how matters stood. I only had to poke my head into Silla’s dressing room, and she threw a Meissen dog at my head. Can you believe that? She assaulted me,
her husband
, with porcelain!”
“Did it strike you?”
“No. Missed. Nice figurine, too. Gift for her birthday… She’s got a good arm on her, Silla. Comes from being a keen archer. Thank God she didn’t have her bow and quiver handy.”
“Oh, Harvel! You poor lamb. Silla
will
forgive you… But best not to show yourself at her rooms for the next little while… She’s had an upset.”
“
She’s
had an upset?” Grasby puffed out his cheeks, indignant. “Tell me one person who hasn’t! I don’t mind saying that my self-esteem is in shreds. Never more embarrassed in all my days as I was last night, being pounced on by the militia as if I were a common criminal! Damned cheek.”
Despite her brother looking miserable, Rory couldn’t help giggling. She put out her hand to him in sympathy. “But what were the soldiers to think when you ran across the studio without your clothes?”
“I was supposed to make for a door, but with Dair taking on the entire militia, and blows being exchanged left and right, I was disorientated. Turned in the wrong direction. An easy mistake to make—”
“Oh, yes. I agree.”
“—so there was nothing for it but to high-tail it to the open window,” Grasby continued, relief at being able to finally tell his side of the story, and to such a sympathetic ear, outweighing his consideration for the fact his conversation was wholly unacceptable for the ears of his younger sister. “I had almost made it to freedom, too, when the constabulary was alerted to my escape, and two of ’em threw me to the ground! Bones could have been broken! Mine! As if it wasn’t galling enough to try and hide my-my
vulnerabilities
with one hand while making a dash across open space, a big brute sits on m’chest, leaving me no opportunity to cover anything at all! I tell you, Rory, if not for that brute, and me making a turnip of myself, Silla wouldn’t have recognized me at all!”
“Oh?” Rory was all ears and wide-eyed attention. “I thought wives could easily distinguish their husbands without their clothes?”
“Much you know! Wives don’t
look
. But I have this blasted birthmark, and when she saw it she fainted dead to the floor! I—”
Suddenly, Grasby swallowed his words, realizing that not only were they discussing a topic grossly unsuitable for the fairer sex, his audience was his little sister. He was so used to confiding in her, and she had always listened to his troubles, that no topic, until that moment, had been off-limits between them.
He had come to her rooms to apologize for his gauche conduct, and instead had merely confirmed that he was no gentleman. He was in every sense what Silla had branded him: An unmitigated, unfeeling ass! Yet, before he could construct a sentence of apology that would convey how deeply remorseful he was for his behavior, Rory further tied his tongue in knots with an acute observation that also set his ears aflame.
“Do you mean wives don’t look because they choose not to and wish to be kept in ignorance? Or do you mean a wife merely
pretends
not to look at her husband unclothed because it is considered ill-mannered of her to do so? Because I cannot believe a wife would choose to be kept in ignorance, but as it is ill-mannered to stare in any social situation, I can readily believe the latter.” She wrinkled her nose in thought. “That would explain why, when this topic is raised in conversation by wives at social gatherings, the gentlemen present are well out of earshot. There is a good deal of giggling behind open fans, about dimensions and estimates. And Lady Hibbert-Baker keeps a little betting book.”
Grasby sat bolt upright. His face reflected his feelings. He was appalled and flabbergasted in equal measure. His voice pitched higher than usual. “Estimates? Dimensions? A
betting
book? I don’t believe you! You’re fibbing!”
“What reason have I to fib?” Rory argued, indignant. “Besides, I don’t understand the half of what they are giggling about.”
“No. No, you wouldn’t,” Grasby readily agreed with a grumble.
“I thought gentlemen were constantly making wagers about females?”
“But not about one’s
wife
. Never about one’s wife, or sister, or mother, for that fact. A man is not a gentleman if he did. It’s bad form and not tolerated at the club to mention—”
“—but perfectly acceptable to mention one’s mistress?”
“That’s a different matter entirely!”
“How so? They are females, too. And whatever Society cares to brand them, they remain females with hearts and minds, desires and dreams…”
Grasby puffed out his cheeks, unable to construct an intelligent rebuttal to his sister’s acute observation, so burst out with frustration,
“One visit to Romney’s studio and you’re suddenly an expert on fallen women!”
Rory smiled, blue eyes full of mischief. “Oh? But I thought they were Opera dancers…”
“They are Opera dancers but—”
“Silly. Of course they are not only dancers. Particularly Signora Baccelli. Everyone knows she is the Duke of Dorset’s mistress, even gilded caged birds such as myself. I just never thought I would meet a nobleman’s mistress. It was such an enlivening experience… By the bye, when referring to females as “wagtails and canary birds,” are such ornithological terms euphemisms for
whore
?”
“Hells bells, Rory! Silla is right. I am not only the most damnably bad husband, I am a wretchedly poor brother. You shouldn’t know about such things as wagtails and canary birds, or be listening to those hen-witted wives and their-their—
tripe
.”
“Easier said than done when they loudly discuss a particular wager as if I am not there at all.”
“Here was I, thinking you were safe at these tea parties. Silla has the gall to accuse me of being the worse sort of brother, and she’s taking my sister to dens of iniquity. I’ll have a word to her—”