The Rake's Handbook (8 page)

Mr. Thornbury chuckled. “I can think of many things I'd rather do with an hour.” He grinned at her. “For example…reading a good handbook.”

“Oh.” She coughed on purpose to mask the eruption of a spontaneous giggle.

“It's not a good idea to waste time on a knot,” Mr. Thornbury continued. “You're too young to remember Viscount N. One morning he took so long to tie his cravat—he missed his own duel. Reputation ruined, of course.”

“No,” she said, laughing freely. He really was a complete hand.

Berdy calmly continued, “Did you know m' favorite knot is—”

“Cease!” Dr. Potts exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and yanked on the bottom of his puce waistcoat. “If you continue to speak flummery, no one will heed you. A mature gentleman must be able to converse upon every subject, but that does not include neckcloths. Now, Mr. Thornbury, perhaps you can move your foundry south.”

“Dr. Potts, please stop.” She stood to face him. “Enough.”

“Stop? Why? After that behavior I witnessed on the lawn, do you have some understanding with this man?”

“No! Of course not. You are being offensive. Please stop.”

The doctor turned to Mr. Thornbury and continued. “If you change your transportation plans to include wagonways to send your engines to market, it will lessen the adverse effects on the river. Perhaps I should make our objections known to Lady Helen. She will support our suit, I'm sure.”

“I'm warning you. Leave Lady Helen out of this matter.” Mr. Thornbury seemed to dampen his rising temper and spoke evenly. “Let me repeat again: the site cannot be moved. Wagonways would be difficult, because we'd have to cut through the high rock on the east side of Blackwell.”

Her host's carefree smile vanished, so she tried to appease him. “That sounds expensive.”

“Yes,” Mr. Thornbury said. “The profits would quickly disappear in transportation costs.”

She could not bear him being put upon any longer. Maybe in her panic at the thought of Pinnacles' destruction, she had been unjust. Now that she had witnessed his kind behavior toward Berdy, he seemed like a reasonable gentleman. He even warned Berdy about the ease of losing one's reputation.

As for his previous kiss on her neck, he must have been surprised by her refusal. So she decided to forgive him. She still had doubts about the foundry, but at least she could show her gratitude by agreeing to his earlier request and join him to visit a working industrial chimney. Together they would observe the amount of smoke and then come to a mutual agreement whether the soot might damage her home. “In appreciation for your efforts on Berdy's behalf, I will agree to visit a working steam engine with a similar chimney to the one you plan—if your offer still stands. This is not a formal agreement of your lease, you understand. I merely want to view the situation for myself.”

Mr. Thornbury did not say anything at first. After scanning her expression, perhaps to determine if she was in earnest, his stunning smile appeared. “Thank you. I'll make the arrangements.”

“I'm sure you want me to escort you, of course,” the doctor said.

“No,” she said with a firm voice. “Thank you, but I'm old enough that an escort is not necessary, and I don't want to take you away from your patients.” Granted, she had a few doubts about whether she could resist Mr. Thornbury's charm on the journey, but if she remained steadfast, there should be no future loss of proprieties and certainly no opportunity for him to kiss her.

“Take my advice. You need an escort. Don't you understand this man wrote
The
Rake's Handbook
and cannot be trusted around women?”

Berdy brightened. “Did you write a handbook, Ross? I'd dearly love to read it if it is all about how to be a rake.”

“Deane, you are too young to read such a vulgar book,” the doctor snapped.

Berdy sat straight in excitement. “Have you read it, sir?”

The doctor cleared his throat. “Of course.” He glared at Berdy. “Well, let's just say I looked into the matter after I witnessed your aunt—”

“Now I question whether anyone in Cheshire has read it,” Elinor stated.

“Is it amusing, Dr. Potts? Tell me all about it.” Without a reply from the doctor, Berdy turned to Ross. “Do you have a copy of the handbook? I'd be immensely grateful if you let me borrow it.”

“No, I did not think of bringing a copy here to the countryside,” Mr. Thornbury stated. “I apologize.”

After an awkward silence, Dr. Potts held his hand out to her. “You know my concerns. I'll take my leave now, but we will speak of this later. May I escort you home?”

Mr. Thornbury rose from his chair, headed for the door, then turned to address Berdy. “After the doctor leaves, I'll return with more cravats, so you can teach this old dog a trick or two about the perfect knot.”

She smiled at him before giving her hand to the doctor in farewell. “Thank you. But I prefer to stay with Berdy while he is feeling poorly.”

“Very well,” the doctor said. “Deane, you and I must discuss your intentions later. Real intentions, none of this vulgar rake nonsense. Thornbury, I'll take my leave of you for the present. But unless you want to meet before the King's Bench, I suggest you stop your plans for a foundry.” He bowed slightly, and Mr. Thornbury followed him out of the room.

Berdy fussed with his neckcloth in preparation for his return.

Judging from Mr. Thornbury's ability to keep Berdy from fretting over his leg, she gained confidence that he would see to Berdy's eventual recovery and amusement while he remained at Blackwell.

Berdy held up his long white cravat. “The rain after the accident must have washed out the starch. Look at this—limp—dead. A fellow can never be caught in public with a neckcloth like this.”

She began to harbor guilt that the doctor's accusations had offended Mr. Thornbury. It was difficult to tell, because even after threats, his lighthearted banter remained. Mr. Thornbury's patience and charm were an admirable aspect of his manners, and she liked this side of his character. In the future she hoped they would become fast friends. The other side, the flirtatious rake side, she knew how to keep in check now—a simple, firm “no.”

Mr. Thornbury returned with his arms full of white neckcloths. “My current cravat inventory is scandalous. Will these do?” He laid the neckcloths at the foot of the bed, picked up the top one, and handed it to Berdy. “Show me how to tie
L'Americaine
.”

Berdy leaned forward to grab the tie. “Ow!” He crashed back onto the pillows, the cravat pile spilling across the floor.

Mr. Thornbury, without comment, picked up the spilled neckcloths. He folded them neatly into an orderly pile on the counterpane. Pulling up the ends of his collar, he took the tie from Berdy's clinched fist. “I hope
L'Americaine
doesn't require a whale bone. I don't wear cravats with stiffeners.”

Yes. She was glad she had agreed to visit a mine's chimney, a small token of thanks for his attentions to Berdy. She doubted she'd find the smoke acceptable, but that knowledge might be useful in persuading others against his foundry. He might even see the impossibility of chimneys near a residence and change his plans. The trip might also be to Berdy's advantage. The journey would give her the opportunity to appeal for his assistance in acquainting Berdy with the industrial gentlemen of the age. Gentlemen who earned livings as successful engineers, factory owners, and canal builders.

The subject of neckcloths lessened Berdy's distress, for he opened his eyes and started to speak without a grimace. “No stiffeners, lightly starched will do. Just bring the first pass around under your chin. Yes, like that. Now jut out your jaw and nod your head down to put a purposeful crease—not a vulgar crease—in the center.”

“How is this?” Wearing a sly grin, Mr. Thornbury faithfully executed the young man's instructions.

Berdy tilted his head to observe the side view of Mr. Thornbury's cravat. “You want the folds to look spontaneous. Like they just fell into place. A true spontaneous effect requires a great deal of practice.”

“Then why don't you tie a square knot and be done with it?” she said.

“Ladies don't know anything about neckcloths,” Berdy countered.

She exchanged smiles with Mr. Thornbury, thankful for his efforts to divert Berdy's mind from his foot. “I don't see the crime in having an eschewed cravat,” she said. “Sometimes a roomful of crooked cravats makes the company merrier.”

Mr. Thornbury winked.

Berdy's eyes widened. “You can't be serious. A fellow can have the shiniest boots and the finest coat, but it is all for naught if he exhibits a fatal cravat.”

“I agree,” Mr. Thornbury said with a sham-serious expression. “If I ever presented a fatal cravat in public, guilty conscience would force me to avoid society.” He pivoted to face her. A twinkle of glee shone in his blue eyes as he repeatedly lifted an eyebrow mockingly. “Even Polite Society.”

She burst into laughter and looked forward to his friendship very much.

“Don't move,” Berdy huffed. “You'll have to start all over again to tie
L'Americaine
properly.”

“My fault, young man. I promise to move only under your direction.” Unwinding the flawed cravat, Mr. Thornbury turned his back to her.

Her sight riveted on the contrast between his white shirt collar covered by the ends of his sable hair. The difference startled her, since it was so unlike William's light hair. She couldn't recall gazing upon her husband's hair resting over his collar, but she must have done so at some time.

Examining the tips of Mr. Thornbury's hair, she felt an overwhelming urge to press his dark locks against his snowy collar. What would his hair feel like if she raised her hand to the top of his head and stroked the glossy brown waves down to the ends? Coarse? Silky? She gulped loudly. What movement would his hair make if she ran her forefinger through the bottom of his short locks and watched them separate and join? Her palms dampened from the desire to touch. What would his hair smell like if she buried her nose in the depths of his midnight locks and inhaled? Soap? Cigar? A restless energy settled in her nerves, and she knew whatever perfume his hair possessed, she would recognize it.

Suddenly she became aware of Mr. Thornbury facing her, wearing a devilish smile.
Heavens.
The knowing fire in his eyes jolted her out of her fantasies. How long had he been staring at her?

He stepped toward her and whispered, “Reading my handbook, dear lady?”

Caught in nothing more than an innocent daydream, she felt her treasonous cheeks burn.

His wonderful smile broke across his face. “You must have really enjoyed those earlier chapters of my handbook, since you seem to be reading them a second time. Hurry up. It's time to read chapter three.”

Elinor grabbed her gloves before stepping outside to wait for Mr. Thornbury's arrival. A chill wind circled under her bonnet and sent it askew, causing her to remonstrate to the dark cloud directly above her. “Make up your mind. Rain or don't rain.” The evil cloud teased her by aiming a solitary drop on her forehead before it scooted away. Leaving the overbright sun to shine upon Mr. Thornbury's carriage as it breezed up to her front door.

Yes, she was grumpy.
She had been grumpy all morning, for that matter. Why did Mr. Thornbury insist they visit the mine today? She had asked Henry to join them, but this morning he had called off, citing an urgent need to consult with a client in Hale. Since she owed Mr. Thornbury for Berdy's care, she must keep the appointment. Somehow she suspected this journey, to view the smoke from a steam engine on the east side of Macclesfield, would not alleviate her grumps.

Mr. Thornbury bounded up to greet her, handed her into the landau, and joined her on the seat facing the horses. His tall frame seemed to fill more than his share of the carriage's interior.

She wouldn't feel so close if his shoulders were narrower—she peeked over and examined him—by at least a half a foot. William had perfect shoulders, at least four inches less, and would have moved to the opposite seat before imposing upon a lady of such short acquaintance. Then one minute later, she remembered Mr. Thornbury's speaking voice was a warm baritone. Lower than William's clear tone by at least five notes. She supposed her life would be like this now. Whenever she was in the company of another man, she couldn't help but compare him to the wonderful man she had lost.

She grabbed the carriage's handle, and the scenery outside soon blurred as the coachman drove, if not to the inch, at least to the foot.

The reckless speed seemed to have no detrimental effect upon Mr. Thornbury's spirits, as he whistled a lively tune.

“You are very happy this morning,” she said.

“How can I not be? You are here, and in a few minutes we'll reach the coal mine. There you will see a working ten-horsepower steam engine in situ. A machine similar to the one purchased for our foundry. You'll then discover the truth about how much smoke is actually produced. It's only just that you witness this for yourself and not depend upon hearsay.” He winked at her.

Elinor focused on his bright gilt-colored waistcoat and tried to capture some of his enthusiasm but failed. Like every person suffering from the grumps, she was quick to anger after witnessing the happiness of others. “Why is this lease so important to you?”

He examined her face, possibly because he couldn't believe anyone could ask something so foolish. “Many reasons. Foremost, Mother will be pleased. The profits from the foundry will allow her to furnish Blackwell to her taste and…don't ask me to explain, but it's essential for her happiness.”

Even though it did not seem possible a minute ago, her grumpiness increased. If she rejected his lease now, it would cause his mother grief. She would never willingly cause sorrow in another human being, but she still had her reasons to be skeptical about the foundry. So in case the day ended in disagreement, she resolved to plead on Berdy's behalf before they reached the mine. “I have a favor to ask of you. I'd be grateful if you would introduce Berdy to your business interests, since I'd dearly love for him to find a respectable occupation that will keep him in Cheshire.”

He inhaled deeply and scanned her face. “Perhaps, although this month I'm busy. My business partner, his daughters, and several of my friends will be visiting Blackwell for a house party. I want to introduce one of the daughters to my mother. There will be many parties and amusements to entertain everyone. I'll invite the whole neighborhood, so I hope both you and Deane will join us.”

Elinor nodded and repeated his vague reply. “Perhaps.” The news of his obvious sweetheart did little to alleviate her grumpiness. If he married and brought a wife to Blackwell, she should be pleased that a new female friend would reside within such an easy distance, especially if Berdy left Cheshire permanently. Except all she could do this moment was stare at him. Was he a man in love, and would he spend the journey talking about his sweetheart? Now she discovered a mood below grumpy, called “unjustified anger,” and could not determine its exact cause. After all, Mr. Thornbury meant nothing to her other than a future friend.

Seconds later, he acknowledged her brazen stare with a lifted brow. She had no desire to turn away or blush, so she examined him closely for any betrayal of affection concerning his sweetheart, and he made no move to stop her perusal.

Without warning, the carriage stopped, throwing her forward toward the opposite seat. She stretched out her hands to brace herself, but a strong arm wrapped around her waist and pulled her back. She found herself sitting on his knee, and he failed to let her go. Holding her breath, she waited for him to release her.

Still holding her fast, he lowered the window with one hand and called to his coachman. “George, why did we stop?”

Snorting noises from outside the carriage indicated George was having trouble with the horses. “Sorry, sir, a rabbit,” replied a booming voice from the direction of the coachman's seat. “Hercules is mighty afeared o' rabbits when they hop.”

Mr. Thornbury raised the window and lifted her to sit fully upon his lap. “Mighty Hercules, indeed.” The carriage jerked forward on its journey.

Aware of her scandalous situation—his warm body underneath her—she began to pant.

He readily observed this. “You're not like other clergymen's widows, who would immediately take a seat on the opposite side. Since we are alone, and you have not moved, shall I read you chapter three? The title is: ‘A Witty Lady Becomes Witless.'”

“You just mentioned a sweetheart. So your rake's handbook is obsolete.” Elinor smiled at his startled expression. “You will be writing a new handbook, of course.” She relaxed, her lack of response to his handbook and swift change of subject worked well. Yet, for some inexplicable reason, her grumpiness vanished, and she found herself quite happy sitting where she was. They were alone in a carriage, so she saw no immediate reason to change.

He rolled his eyes. “And that handbook would be?”

“Why,
The
Handbook
of
Marital
Happiness
.”

“
That
book, madam, will never sell.”

“You are right. As the author, you must think of a more appealing title. I'm sure the handbook will prove very popular and published more than three times too. Let's see, the titles of chapters one through four will describe the courtship: ‘Gifts of Roses,' ‘Whispered Promises,' ‘Alluring Blushes,' and ‘Stolen Kisses.'”

He lifted her over to sit on the opposing bench facing him. “Is this road too rough? I fear it is making me ill.”

She laughed, even though she regretted the loss of his warm lap. “The titles of five and six will describe the thrill of being presented to society as a couple: ‘The Tender Betrothal,' ‘Private Winks and Giggles.'”

“Humph, a mile longer on this road and we will both be ill.”

“Chapter three—”

“
Hell's fire.
How many chapters does this handbook have?”

She fanned her face and batted her eyelids. “Ten.”

“Ten!” He frowned at the repetition of his own words spoken at the lake. “No, like you, I plan to stop reading after the table of contents. Unless the pages
v
and
i
stimulate further reading.” Now he sported a wily grin—a mocking challenge.

Time
to
teach
him
a
lesson.
She leaned forward and traced the vee forming the edge of his gold waistcoat. She made sure the pressure of her finger was hard enough for him to feel. “Your favorite page is not a
vulgar
one, is it?”

With one swift motion he grabbed her wrist and pulled her toward him.

She found herself on his lap again, her face within inches of his. She held her breath.

“No, the vulgar pages are the main text of the handbook and always come after the table of contents,” he said, focusing on her mouth, then inhaling once before engaging in an unyielding kiss.

Desire instantly claimed her from the movement of his lips. She recognized her urgent need for what it was—a disarming effect created by a masterful rake. She took courage in that thought, but—to her chagrin—found she was not offended. Surprisingly, she rather enjoyed the sudden excitement. A full minute passed before she lifted her lips. She needed to gulp air, stop her racing blushes. Heavens, if he still didn't wear that victorious grin.

“I enjoy our handbook discussions.” His grin expanded into a broad smile. “Let's talk about books some more.” He enclosed her within a tight embrace. “Binding.” He kissed her once again.

Smiling, she shoved him back. “
End
papers.”

He softly stroked her lips with the back of his forefinger. “Rubbed.”

She shoved his hand away and pointed to her forehead. “Unbound.”

He leaned forward in an attempt to kiss her again. “Broadside.”

“Spine.” She giggled and pulled away. “Your endpapers are definitely cut. Berdy was right. You
are
a complete hand.” She composed herself, ignored her blushes, and felt no guilt about the kisses whatsoever. All this flummery meant nothing more than a professional rake playing females like a fiddle to get whatever he desired. In this case, a fun exercise, like six-year-olds holding hands, but not any action of significance. She wondered if he would cease his teasing games once he was wed. “The number of chapters in the book of marriage are endless,” she said, stopping any further action by sitting as far from him as the landau would allow. “Don't you agree? My love for William will never die.” The carriage turned a corner behind a row of cottages, and a busy colliery loomed ahead. She took a deep breath to compose herself. “We've arrived.”

“Just in time too,” he said in a wry tone. Glancing out the window, he pointed. “Look.”

In front of them rose a spinning flywheel at least ten feet in diameter. Next she caught sight of the steam engine's rocking beams, all moving together in a choreographed cotillion of iron. Lastly, probably because it didn't move, a brick chimney belching smoke riveted her gaze. The soot-tinged smoke rose in a powerful plume before the wind proved stronger and pushed it to the south. The entire colliery emitted a symphony of clangs, whistles, and hissing steam.

“The chimney is smaller than I expected,” she said, “but the smell—”

“The flue is a standard height, so you will smell the smoke only close to the mine.”

***

After a brief tour of the workings, they walked to a small hill overlooking the colliery. Even at a hundred yards from the flue, the smoke made the sun look like a disk without rays. This and the smell of sour steam convinced her of the impossibility of a similar chimney close to Pinnacles. If she asked him now, would he end his plans to build a foundry?

Mr. Thornbury pointed to the brick chimney, directing her attention back to the colliery. “I trust you observed the smoke. This Watt engine is similar to the steam engine I expect to purchase, so you can see that with a machine of this size, the smoke clears rapidly. The best part of our plan is that we expect to generate profits approaching ten thousand per year.” He chuckled. “I cannot wait to give Mother carte blanche with the house.” The boyish expression now crossing his features might be as fatal to some ladies as his remarkable smile. “You should be pleased. My foundry will have little impact on the surrounding area.”

Once again she glanced at the gray plume spewing from the colliery's chimney, and the acrid smell somehow grew worse. She remained silent and unmoving until a piece of soot blew into her eye, forcing her to remove it with her finger. “How many chimneys do you need? Will your chimneys be this size or smaller?”

“One of this size. We are closer to the smoke here than your house would be. But even at this distance, the air is fresh, and the smoke is barely noticeable.”

She decided her ears were defective, either that or his nose. She stared in disbelief, unable to formulate a coherent sentence. Without a word in response, she started back to the carriage.

Nearing the landau, she found a small boy of eight or nine years petting the horses. He carried a sack, tin cup, and inky soot clung to every inch of his person. She bent to face the child at eye level and struck up a conversation.

Within minutes she learned the child rose at two in the morning and worked twelve hours standing still in the dark. The bright lad explained that the mine was built like a ladder, with two long pits representing the ladder's frame. Cool air went down one pit, while hot air rose in the other after being heated by a fire. To get air all the way down to the miners at the bottom, doors were closed at each rung. His job as a trapper was to keep his door shut, so air flowed to the lowest depths. The closed door he tended also stopped the spread of firedamp, the major cause of lethal explosions. He opened his door only to let the coal wagons pass on the burrow-ways. For six days a week, the boy stood in his small alcove. He was one of many boys doing the same job. In the blackness. Alone.

Her heart sank, and she became close to tears. She had no idea the type of jobs the children undertook. Like others of her acquaintance, she assumed they worked close to their father or attended the pit ponies. What kind of future would England have if a large number of her children engaged in labor? Reaching into her reticule, she gave the boy two shillings. “Here's a shilling for you,” she said, captivated by his wide white eyes shining from his soot-covered face. “And another shilling for your mother, because of her son's fine answers to my questions.”