The Rake's Handbook (20 page)

Inside the small Elizabethan alehouse, under a low-timbered ceiling, forty or so men drank liberally. Ross suspected Drexel was faking eagerness to hear the Banbury story of a cock and a bull escaping Parker's lips, but he ignored them and called for more ale to banish the memory of yesterday's rout.

“Yes, yes,” Parker said. “The girls were overjoyed with their performance. Suddenly—suddenly you understand—the jaw of every lady in town dropped to the floor. You should have seen their faces.”

Drexel, seemingly desperate to hear Parker's words, leaned close to him across the long wooden table of the local establishment, the Sleeping Lion.

Ross glared at Parker. “I thought you were to remain at the posting house.”

“Would not have missed that performance for the world,” Parker said.

“Humph.” Ross stared at the water ring his glass left on the shiny dark table. He lowered the glass and made another circle close to the first. Then he repeated the process until the silvery rings resembled a watery chain. Parker's damn farce better have worked, and Elinor saved from grief. If he heard otherwise, he planned to wring his friend's neck.

At the table next to their party, several local farmers whispered. A few heads lifted to stare, sneers written across their red faces. Then—to a man—each spat upon the floor. Meanwhile, the landlord and six others standing at the bar kept their voices unnervingly low. Regardless, Ross heard an equal measure of the two words “handbook” and “foundry.”

Ross tried to ignore all of them. His steward informed him earlier that his reputation was being sullied all over town. As a result, several of the foundry's loans had been called in. Taking his glass, he swiped his carefully produced watery rings into oblivion. Now he must travel to London to arrange quick payment of these debts. While this did not worry him too much, his steward also recounted some mischief at the site, nothing major. One of the brick walls had been knocked over, and the hoist mechanism of the winch used to lift the foundation stones had been tampered with. He expected to stay in London until all of this nonsense faded, and the men returned to their herds or harvest.

“Tell me more,” Drexel requested, winking at Ross.

Parker leaned closer to Drexel, resulting in the two men appearing nose to nose. “A Smedley—won't tell you which one—developed a small
tendre
for ol' Two here.”

Drexel leaned back in his chair. “Don't bet on that leg-shackle anytime soon. Two's heart is taken by the widow, and I do believe it's true love.”

Ross froze, not daring to respond. If he did, he might start a brawl with every man in the room.

Parker gulped a mouthful of ale, foam lingering at the side of his mouth. “No, no, he can't be. He just burned his bridges with the widow.”

Drexel raised his glass. “I will take that wager.”

Parker held out his palm, ready to shake hands. “Right. What is the bet?”

“His heart,” Drexel said, batting away Parker's offered hand and snickering at his own wit.

“Fustian!” Ross exclaimed.
Damnation.
They were right. He did love Elinor. The realization hit him the moment he saw her in the town square. He would never reveal it to anyone though, since he truly believed romance was for younger men, gentlemen optimistic about their future. His past aged him to a point where he considered himself too old for romantic love. Old because he felt unworthy of regard, and old because he had squandered the advantages given to him in the past. In his future, Elinor would return to her home and marry one of her suitors. While he would gain much-needed humility and hold close the memory of his one love that arrived too late.

***

Berdy held out both palms, all ten fingers spread wide. “The foundry's steam engine is a full ten horse power. All that gobs of power is needed to run the steam hammers, drills, and cranes. You should have seen it, Elli. A single beam engine, the spinning regulator based upon centrifugal force—”

“Force?” Elinor smiled at the budding engineer sitting across from her in the study, now sipping Madeira. He had spent the day with Ross, visiting a distant working foundry, and tried to recount all of the technical wonders he witnessed as fast as he could. He sat forward in his big wing chair, legs wide, flinging both arms in all directions with each sentence. His glass of Madeira traveled in a dizzying arc that captured her attention. What would be the first victim to be baptized by Madeira: waistcoat, carpet, or chair? “Force is a technical term I don't understand. Tell me about Ross's business plans instead?”

“Business plans? Plans are not important, unless they involve more machinery, of course. Ross showed me a strong steam engine like the ones he plans to build. These small engines will change the world, I'm certain. Then he demonstrated the action of sun and planet gears—”

“Gears. No more talk of gears or force. I must see them in action first, before I can give them due credit.”

After Berdy's return from London, he had remained silent for days. Gradually his free-flowing speech resumed, but it was unlike his conversation before. Gone were his eager speeches about cravats, men of style, or a successful marriage. He even decided his yellow-striped waistcoat might be too vulgar. Now, after this trip with Ross, his enthusiasm returned to its old levels, except his conversation focused upon rational subjects, not neckcloths. The future might contain one or two additional flare-ups of a Berdy Rash Scheme, but she expected them to fade with time. Elinor dropped her needlework. A simple motion, but for some reason it felt like she had shed a mantle of iron. “Why don't you go upstairs and have Wilson remove your boots so they can be cleaned? When you're finished, come back down, and we'll play a game of chess.”

“M' boots are fine,” he said, clearly unwilling to stop until whatever he had on his mind spilled out. “We also visited the site of Ross's foundry. Using his own crane, Ross demonstrated how the mechanical force—work—is transferred to the winch's gears. Steam power will eliminate the necessity for a large workforce. Elli, you won't believe this. Ross mentioned the equipment at his foundry was vandalized last week. And when we pulled up in the curricle, Ross's steward had just caught one of Mr. Burton's men tampering with the winch again.”

“Why would Mr. Burton's men do that?”

“To stop the foundry from ever being built, I imagine. The nerve.” The glass of Madeira completed its arc and landed on the arm of his chair with some force, baptizing everything within a foot, including his trousers.

She gasped. “Vandalize the site, on purpose, deliberate mischief? I doubt anyone could be so vile.”

Berdy ignored his wet trousers. “The ruffian also called Ross a villain—a villain. Unbelievable. I thought the opposition over the foundry ended long ago. You will sign his lease, right? I surely hope so. I cannot wait to see the construction start again. Anyhow, Burton's man said some very foul things, I can tell you. His words made m' blood boil. I almost stepped forward to plant the man a facer, but Ross seemed unconcerned and sent the man about his business.”

“Berdy—”

“Don't worry. We didn't come to blows.” He put down his empty glass and leaped from his seat. “Save me some cake at tea. I am quite famished. I will be upstairs reading the
Technical
Repository
. It has an article about strong steam—”

She held up her hand. “If you tell me about the
Technical
Repository
, I will have to read you
The
Mirror
of
Graces
—or better yet—
Fordyce's
Sermons
.”

“Gad, not that book.” He ran to the door. “Remember the cake.”

“I will. I suggest you clean your trousers,” she said before the door closed. She pulled the bell for a servant to help clean up the Madeira. Ross a villain?
How
unjust.
She fought an urge to stand in front of the congregation on Sunday and read them a sermon about judgment and tolerance. “Villain, indeed.” The man had given up his betrothed to save her reputation, and physically saved Berdy from who knows what—Newgate?

Her sense of injustice grew, so there was only one thing she could do now—clean. Whenever she started fretting and desired to compose sermons, she lost herself in housework. Now would be a good time to mop the flagstones or polish the bookshelves in William's study. Wax and rub every surface until she could see her reflection. She gave the bellpull another tug.

Mrs. Richards appeared hesitant to fetch the beeswax, as if she might protect her mistress from whatever trouble assailed her by failing to hand over the wax.

Elinor stood firm, polished for two hours, then collapsed onto William's chair. While she caught her breath, she touched William's mourning brooch.
William.
She unpinned the brooch and turned it over to reveal his hair under the glass. A simple gesture she had repeated daily. But the first thought that came to her mind—this time—was the discrepancy between the small plaits of hair, and the remembered softness of his locks when he lived. This was followed by a similar memory of caressing Ross's forelock as it fell over her shoulder. His hair too felt soft and sweet to the touch. She peered again at William's hair locked behind a wall of glass. It seemed so very wrong for a loved one to turn into mere gold, glass, and hair. William seemed to fade from her into an object, just an object. No lover to caress. For some unknown reason, today she realized that injustice even more.

By the first light of the next morning, she rose with the same determination to find a compromise with Ross about the lease, as she had while polishing William's desk. Of course, she needed to thank him again for Berdy's rescue. Then perhaps subtly inquire about his friends at the bazaar. She did not exactly understand what had happened at the bazaar that day, or if it had been planned. But she did recognize the results from his efforts, the restoration of her friends.

A true compromise was the only tangible way to thank him properly. She expected they would have a serious discourse in regard to her concerns about the smoke and then reach a mutual agreement. If this strategy failed, she would appeal to his generous nature to keep his friendship with Berdy. A reasonable request, surely.

Upon her arrival at Blackwell, Rowbottom indicated Mr. Thornbury was not, at present, in the house. He pointed south and suggested she try the pinery.

It was general knowledge the previous owner had built a modern pinery to grow pineapple, but she had never seen it. Once she passed the planting beds of the home farm and took several wrong turns, ending in storage sheds, she glimpsed an all-glass roof just behind the old cruck barn and headed in that direction.

Standing before the pinery, she was surprised to see how long it was, probably twice the length of a normal glasshouse. The early morning sun played off the panes in a shimmering light that frolicked on the wall of the neighboring barn. Once she stepped inside, she inhaled warm, wet air smelling faintly of slate. Before her, long empty rows of raised iron shelves stretched the length of the room. She walked to the other end and passed through the door leading to the pinery's interior room, a glasshouse within a glasshouse. Here, under the shelves of ornate iron framework, large evaporating pans were visible, and she could feel the wet heat. Next to the door, a large pile of black potting soil, covered by a brown oilcloth, gave the room an earthy smell. Like the outer chamber, most of the rows were empty, but in the center row grew two large pineapple plants.

Ross was on his knees, inspecting an evaporating pan directly under the plants, but straightened upon her approach. Presumably because of the heat, he wore only a lawn shirt, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. She noticed the dark hair on his lower forearm laying against his light skin, and the room grew warmer.

“Good morning.” He pointed to the largest plant. “Come see Mother's joy. There is still one fruit left. Look here.”

She peered at a plant resembling an unfriendly fern. Nestled in the center, a pineapple was recognizable. For such a visibly unimpressive fruit, she wondered what all the fuss was about. She had never tasted pineapple, mainly because she doubted whether something that ugly could have a pleasant taste.

Ross seemed surprised by her lack of enthusiasm. “Well?”

“Lovely.”

He chuckled. “Keeping this little weed happy is a financial strain, but Mother won't let me sell the plants off. I don't understand why they make her happy, but they do, so there's an end to it.”

Heavens, she was delighted to see him.
Her heartbeat escalated like every time she had been in his company. “I… Um…I would…I don't know how to say this, but…”

His eyes focused steadily on her now.

She smothered an unbearable desire to walk right up to him and stroke his hair.
How
embarrassing.
Growing increasingly befuddled, she gave up trying to assemble words together and smiled instead. For the moment, this was the best she could do.

“I take it you are pleased with Deane's return. Is that the reason for your visit?”

“Oh. Yes. I'd like to thank you for all you've done for Berdy's sake—”

“I've done nothing.” He grabbed one of the pointed leaves and began to stroke it.

She bit her lower lip and tried to recall the purpose for her visit. “I…you must have intended to shock everyone at the bazaar.”

“You have no proof. I suggest, for all parties concerned, the less said the better.” He tilted his head to peer at her with a serious expression; however, he couldn't hide the frolic dancing in his sapphire eyes.

She exhaled her held breath in a soft whoosh. For some unknown reason, she wanted her suspicions confirmed that the performance at the bazaar had been planned for her benefit. Then, if he put forward any other information, she would welcome it, although she would never directly solicit an explanation. “Did you know I would attend the bazaar?”