The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton (14 page)

“I haven’t been here in years,” Blakeney said. “We weren’t supposed to, but I’d come with my friends in the summer to cool off. We were always in danger of being shut in and freezing to death. Added a little spice to the visit.”

“I doubt that,” Sebastian said. “It’s above freezing point up here. The ice doesn’t melt because it’s packed in tight and protected with straw. As it’s used up, the temperature rises and the melting rate increases.”

“You never were any fun, Owl,” Blakeney said, using Sebastian’s childhood nickname. “I always thought this would be a great place to keep a prisoner. No one outside would hear him scream and as a rule the servants only fetch ice in the early morning. You could hide someone for hours.”

Seeing Sebastian’s tolerance, never great when it came to Blakeney, stretched to breaking point, Tarquin put a halt to these boyish reminiscences and called them to the task at hand.

He couldn’t remember the last time he’d engaged in manual labor, the kind of task seen to by servants. Aside from his recent foray into the art of cookery, that is. He enjoyed climbing down into the pit with the others and scouting out a suitable block of ice in the meager light. “Does the ice come from the lake?” he asked.

“No, the springs flowing into it stop it freezing thickly,” Blakeney explained. “There’s a string of shallow ponds on the other side of the estate dug specially for the purpose.”

“When do you run out of ice?”

“Never, unless the winter is unusually warm. We bring the older ice up and use it first.”

Tarquin thought the icehouse at Revesby was usually empty by late summer. He should think about improvements so he could enjoy iced confections year-round. Then shook his head in bafflement at the idea he should spend any time on his estate at all, let alone live there permanently. He was still not himself.

Sebastian’s nerves wouldn’t permit any further discussion about the construction and use of icehouses. They stuffed three blocks, each the size of a couple of bricks, into a sack and raced their horses to Wallop Hall to get back before it melted. Taking the stairs two at a time, the prospective father carried one block up to the lying-in room. Tarquin followed directions to the kitchen to deliver the rest of the ice to the cook.

There must be something about a lying-in that raised the drama level in a household. The scene was reminiscent of the recent one in Mr. Montrose’s study, only with tea-drinking females instead of drunken men. Celia and Minerva, each clutching a cup, sat at the long deal kitchen table, on either side of a very large woman wearing a mob cap over gray curls and a red face. The two young women listened to her with round eyes.

“Three days, three days she was in labor, poor thing.” The woman, presumably the cook, appeared to be coming to the end of a long story. “And after all that time, the child was born with webbed feet and the head of a rabbit.” Tarquin sent up a silent prayer that Sebastian hadn’t come to the kitchen. He could only imagine what a tale like that would do to his friend’s tenuous sanity. “And that should be a warning to young ladies not to let gentlemen get too close.”

“Ahem,” he said. Three pairs of eyes looked at him with a certain hostility, as though he might be in the habit of impregnating women with coneys. He held up the sack. “I have ice. Where shall I put it? Lord Iverley has taken some upstairs but it won’t last long in this heat.”

The cook bustled over and bore it off to a pantry, taking Minerva with her. “One of the maids broke her wrist yesterday,” Celia explained, “and the other is visiting her dying mother. Minerva is helping the cook.”

“Let’s go outside,” Tarquin said. In this household he wouldn’t be surprised if the cook ordered him to peel vegetables or scrub pots. “The best we can do is keep out of the way. I’m distressed that Lady Iverley’s confinement slipped my mind.”

“They didn’t expect her to begin her labor for at least another two weeks. The doctor hasn’t even arrived yet. He was away from home last night. Luckily the midwife is in attendance and Minerva says Mrs. Montrose knows just what to do. But little wonder the household is in disorder.”

She appeared to have learned the layout of the house and led him down a passage to a back door. They were on their way out when Minerva caught them. “Here,” she said, handing Celia a basket. “Would you mind picking some peas for dinner? You’ll find the kitchen garden round the corner and to the left.”

“I suppose,” he said, when they were alone again, “there’s no point inquiring what happened to the gardener.”

“Probably suffering from the plague. I’m glad there’s something we can do to help.”

“I’m at my wits’ end to know what to do with you.”

“Minerva says we shouldn’t worry. I can sleep with her, and only one of the Montroses’ four sons is at home so there’s a room for you too. According to her, the family always welcomes guests and the only thing that ever bothers Mrs. Montrose is a sick dog.”

Though he should be relieved that the solecism of arriving uninvited at such a time was to be overlooked, he couldn’t feel comfortable. Not for the first time, he heartily wished he’d never left London. Celia seemed quite at home in a kitchen garden. Was he really going to marry this woman?

He shook his head at her appearance in the simple gown Mrs. Wardle had found her in Stonewick, a loosely constructed garment without the slightest pretension to fashion. The dull green suited her red hair, now improved by a good brushing and neatly confined by hairpins at the back of the head. The days outdoors had imparted a healthy glow to her eyes and complexion and he had to admit her lips were a good color. Nevertheless she looked exactly what she was, a governess.

Nothing could be further from the elegant woman he’d envisioned as his bride. Yet when he thought about the Countess Czerny, he couldn’t quite remember her face.

“The Montroses are very kind,” he said. “I’ll send my valet to an inn. I doubt there’s room here and he complained enough about the conditions at Revesby.”

Celia’s face lit up with an evil grin. “You should have him brush the straw off you before he leaves. Or is rustic adorent the new fashion for gentlemen?”

He hadn’t even noticed the wisps clinging to his coat after the exploration of the icehouse, eloquent proof of his disordered brain and the sorry state to which acquaintance with Celia had reduced him.

“Well,” he said, delicately removing a straw from his sleeve and trying to make the best of things. “A gentleman’s attire should always suit the occasion. We’d better pick those peas. Do you suppose we need to pod them too?”

Chapter 18

A thirst for knowledge is not always healthy in a young woman.

T
hey shelled peas and tried to keep Lord Iverley distracted. Mr. Montrose and his youngest son, Stephen, joined them on the shady terrace once all the piglets had been rounded up.

Celia loved the Montrose family. Every member seemed utterly unaffected, speaking fearlessly without thought of criticism or judgment, and accepted her in the same spirit. She had never, since leaving her father’s household, felt so much at home. More so, in fact. Not that Ghazala had ever treated her unkindly, but the gulf between Algernon Seaton’s native “bibi” and his daughter by his deceased English wife had been deep and unbridgeable. She might have shared her recollections of awaiting the birth of Ghazala’s sons, but experience had taught her to keep that time in her life buried. She did not believe the Montroses would condemn her for her past. Mr. Compton—Tarquin—was another matter entirely.

Her so-called betrothed did not, in her opinion, show to advantage compared to the lively Montroses. He kept stealing glances at her and she could feel the weight of his disapproval. Scorning her appearance, no doubt. She didn’t care. Her simple gown was entirely appropriate for her company and surroundings and he was overdressed, especially since he’d somehow disposed of all the straw.

She admitted, grudgingly, that Tarquin showed a certain skill in keeping his friend from becoming unhinged. When the doctor made his appearance, Lord Iverley had to be restrained from strangling the man for his tardiness.

The next time the bell rang, Minerva was elected to answer the door. Judging by Lord Iverley’s reaction to the caller, it was just as well. Celia couldn’t think what there was to inspire his comical look of loathing, unless it was the newcomer’s extreme beauty. Celia had never seen a better-looking man. Much of an age with Tarquin and Iverley, he possessed golden hair, blue eyes, and perfection of face and figure that said
Greek god
.

“What are
you
doing here?” asked Lord Iverley, who had been pacing around the seated group but now stopped and glared at the caller.

“I accompanied the ice cart over from Mandeville,” he replied. “Naturally I wanted to inquire after Diana in person. We are, after all, old friends.”

“There is no change in Lady Iverley’s condition,” her husband snarled.

“Sebastian,” Tarquin said, leaping to his feet. “Let’s go for a little walk. It’ll take your mind off things.”

“Just as well,” Minerva said once the two men were out of earshot. “You provoked him.”

“Me?” the god asked with an air of astonished innocence. “I just brought the ice.”

“Well, there was no need. It’s not as though you drove the cart yourself.”

Celia knew Minerva to be frank, but she hadn’t seen her rude. In fact she’d learned the girl burned with ambition to become an influential political hostess. The animosity between this pair was comical, especially since Minerva, tall and fair like her mother, almost matched the visitor in beauty.

“How gracious of you, Miss Minerva,” he said, “but you are always so charming.”

Minerva flushed at his sarcasm and remembered her manners. “I beg your pardon. You haven’t been presented to our other guest. Miss Seaton, this is our neighbor, Lord Blakeney.”

So in addition to resembling a deity, he was also heir to a dukedom. Celia felt quite out of her depth. Much to her relief he excused himself and Minerva escorted him back through the house.

By the time she returned, Tarquin and Iverley had rejoined her on the terrace. “We’ve got so much that Cook has decided to make raspberry ices,” she said happily.

“Why did
he
come asking after Diana?” Iverley demanded, straightening his spectacles which had fallen halfway down his nose. “None of his business.”

“Calm down, Sebastian,” Tarquin said. “He brought ice and he meant well.”

“I wouldn’t go that far, “Minerva said. “Blakeney is selfish to the bone. But I honestly don’t think he’s interested in Diana anymore. He was more curious about Mr. Compton, surprised he’d deigned to appear in the rural fastness of Shropshire.”

“That doesn’t sound like Blakeney,” Tarquin objected.

“I paraphrased. I told him you’d escorted Celia here for a visit.”

“D . . . dash it. We told him earlier I’d come to support Sebastian. I wouldn’t want to harm Miss Seaton’s reputation by having it known she was traveling the countryside in my company.” He looked his formidable haughtiest but Minerva was unquailed, if apologetic.

“I do beg your pardon. I didn’t realize it was a secret.” She grinned. “Don’t worry. Blakeney never takes much interest in other people’s affairs. He’ll have forgotten by the time he gets home.”

“Isn’t his father a powerful politician?” Celia inquired. “I would think he’d be a good connection for you.”

“The duke and duchess have been very gracious to me since Sebastian married Diana and we became relations. But Blakeney is a complete idiot. I used to be bored to death listening to him drone on about hunting. I am so thankful Diana didn’t marry him.”

Celia grew curious to meet the elder Montrose sister, who had turned down the heir to a dukedom to marry the bespectacled and understated figure of Lord Iverley. True, the viscount was not perhaps seen to advantage with the wild hair and disordered garments of a man driven to the brink of madness. She thought his anxiety for the health of his wife, whom clearly he adored, spoke well of him.

She’d like to drive a man to madness. It was quite impossible to imagine Tarquin so deranged. Terence Fish receded further into her memory.

S
ometime after ten o’clock Mrs. Montrose brought the news that Lord Iverley had a son. Leaving the family to celebrate, Celia retired to the room she was to share with Minerva. Too agitated to sleep after the day’s anxious vigil, she looked for something to read. Minerva’s taste in literature was astonishingly dull: historical memoirs, political treatises, and
The Reformist
magazine. Luckily she’d retrieved
The Genuine Amours
and tossed it into the small valise Tarquin had provided.

Francis Featherbrain continued his adventures; Celia continued her education and enlarged her vocabulary. She felt a certain sympathy for the boy when his father lost his fortune and his studies came to an end. She did, however, find it hard to credit the way he claimed to be heartbroken by his separation from Nancy, the girl he’d forcibly seduced. His protestations of love would have impressed her more had he not continued to enjoy himself with several other women in a fascinating variety of postures.

When Minerva joined her she stuffed the book under a pillow. Chattering away while she undressed and prepared for bed, Minerva sang the praises of her as yet unnamed nephew, the first Montrose of a new generation.

“I’m much too excited to sleep,” the girl said, jumping onto the bed and hugging her knees. “Tell me about your engagement. I would never have expected Mr. Compton to fall in love with someone like you.”

“What kind of woman would you have expected?”

“Please don’t be offended. I meant that you seem quite sensible. I’d think he’d require someone much more
tonnish
. Someone like himself.”

“Someone like your sister. I haven’t met her, of course, but from the way he speaks of her she sounds excessively elegant.”

“That’s only her clothes. Underneath she’s ordinary, like the rest of our family.” Minerva thought about it. “Well, not ordinary. I wouldn’t call the Montroses precisely ordinary.” Celia nodded her emphatic agreement. “But sensible compared to most people I’ve met. That’s why Sebastian is perfect for her. He doesn’t conform to the world’s expectations, either. Lord Blakeney would never have done.”

“Would you say Mr. Compton—Tarquin—conforms to those expectations?”

“He doesn’t just conform to them, he creates them! And according to Diana he can be quite rude to those of whom he disapproves.”

“Yes, he can.”

“Celia! Has he been unkind to you? Why then did you accept his offer? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my affair.”

The temptation to confide to a sympathetic ear was too much. Sitting cross-legged opposite, Celia found herself relating the whole story, omitting only the degree of her intimacy with Terence Fish. While shocked at the gravity of Celia’s plight, Minerva found much of the story highly amusing and Celia enjoyed dramatizing her tale. This must be what it was like to have a sister, she thought. Never in her life had she stayed up at night, sitting on a bed in her nightclothes, confiding in another girl.

“Mr. Compton is behaving quite honorably to insist on guarding your reputation,” Minerva said at the end of the tale.

“I know,” Celia said. “I’m very grateful, truly I am.”

“I can’t imagine anything worse. Gratitude is so fatiguing. Think of having to suffer it for the rest of your life.”

“I am thinking about it.”

“Yet I’ve always liked Mr. Compton. And he’s Sebastian’s friend. I trust my brother-in-law’s judgment better than that of anyone I know.”

“They seem a mismatched pair. But I assumed Lord Iverley wasn’t himself today.”

“Poor Sebastian. Since the beginning he’s been far more concerned about Diana’s condition than she ever was. Childbearing seems to be a very unpleasant business. I think it’s a good thing a man should feel some compunction.”

“I quite agree.”

“It doesn’t seem fair that the woman has to do all the suffering while the man enjoys himself.”

Celia wondered if Minerva understood how and how much the man enjoyed himself. And the woman, too, at the beginning. “Er, Minerva. How much do you know about marital relations?”

“Not as much as I would like. I’ve seen dogs and horses. And you?”

“A little.”

Minerva bounced on the mattress. “Tell me! Please! I’ve begged Diana but she says I must wait until I’m betrothed. How did you find out?”

“I probably don’t know much more than you,” Celia said hastily. “Do you think Tarquin would be a solicitous husband?”

“I should think he would find a woman far gone in pregnancy quite lacking in grace.”

“I think so too.”

“Even Diana wasn’t elegant the last few weeks. She reminded me of our old pony who’s too old to be ridden and fat as butter.”

“I don’t think Tarquin would have much use for a pony. He’s much too tall to ride one.”

Minerva found this exquisitely funny. “His legs would touch the ground on either side,” she shrieked, and rolled over and hid her head in the pillows. “Oh, what’s this book?”

Celia lunged for it. “Give me that! It’s nothing.”

“Nothing? Really?” Minerva held it out of reach. “It looks like a book to me.”

Celia saw that having a younger sister might have its annoying moments. “You shouldn’t open it. It’s not suitable for young girls.”

“In that case I’m most definitely going to open it.”

Minerva slid down from the bed, carried
The Genuine Amours
off in triumph to the far side of the room and settled on the stool next to her dressing table. Celia waited in dread as the girl opened the book to the bookmark and began to read aloud.

“ ‘A man who seeks pleasure in casual f . . .’ Oh my goodness. I can’t say that word!”

“Then don’t. Stop now.”

“Never! This is fascinating. ‘He can never find it but in the senses, while he who has love on his side, is stretched on the rack of delight, by those able ministers of pleasure, passion and imagination.’ ” She looked up. “That seems a proper sentiment. The author advocates the act of you-know-what only when love is present.”

“Believe me,” Celia said. “He does
not
practice what he preaches.”

Minerva read quickly down the page. “No, I can see that. Now he is engaging his master’s daughter. How very interesting. They are doing it outside on a downward slope. Listen to this. ‘This posture greatly enhances the pleasure, as it admits of the most perfect entrance that possibly can be conceived of every inch of a prick.’ ”

“Truly?” Celia asked, torn between interest and the conviction that Minerva should not be using words like
prick
. Not at least in that particular meaning of the word. “I didn’t get to that bit.”

“
Where
did you get this book?”

Celia felt her face heat up. “I believe it belongs to Tarquin.” She explained how she found it.

“I knew he collected books, but not this kind. I didn’t even know this kind of book existed. How fortunate that you found it. Finally I can learn something useful.” She flipped a page. “What do you suppose this means? ‘A deluge of spermy rapture.’ ”

Celia gave up trying to argue Minerva out of further reading and the pair of them laughed a good deal over phrases like “hills of delight” for breasts. The younger girl, exclaiming with almost academic interest over a description of a sexual position where the man held the woman as he would a wheelbarrow, was principally impressed by the educational value of the book. Celia, on the other hand, found herself growing warmer with every warm paragraph. Her private parts—or the “arched cloister of Cupid” as Mr. Featherbrain would put it—grew wet and achy and offered the best argument yet for accepting Tarquin’s offer. She had a notion, hastily suppressed, of joining him in his room. Even if she could do it without Minerva’s knowledge, he would likely not welcome her.