When a Rake Falls (19 page)

“Congratulations, old man,” Buxton said, clapping his hands.

To the amazement of everyone in the small room, Boyce rose to sing and dance a little jig, successively lifting and bending each leg at the knee. “Yes, yes, my man, good news, indeed. So off to London with Godspeed.”

Boyce canceled his reservation on the packet. Then he headed back to his family's London town house at a record pace. Once he and Charity had set off on the return journey, he fully approved of the sun's choice of brightness, a perfect sunny day.

Standing in the front parlor of Sutcliffe House almost a week later, Boyce saw his brother Richard jauntily hopping up the steps of the family's town house on Portland Place.

Within two ticks, the famous war hero shook his younger brother's hand before landing a punch on his arm. “Guess what I have here, Whip?” He pulled out the afternoon edition and held the newspaper in front of Boyce's nose. “I see congratulations are in order.”

On page four, under an advertisement for oil of rhubarb, was the announcement of the afternoon lecture at the Royal Institution of Great Britain.

For the edification of all, the courageous aeronaut, Lord Boyce Parker, will present his observations regarding his unusual atmospheric discovery of parhelia (sun dogs).

Boyce hoped the praise would continue, but the remainder of the announcement merely reminded all of their subscribers to arrive at the Albemarle Street entrance, with their horse's heads pointed toward Grafton Street, to avoid another tangle of carriages heading in two directions. He held the paper up to examine the size of the announcement, relative to the entire page, and found it satisfactory. A song bubbled up from his toes, but Richard stood next to him. Boyce had stifled the urge to sing so many times in front of his brothers, in order to avoid retribution, so he could easily do it now. Deep inside, however, he sang a merry tune.
Dream
within
my
reach, my father will hear my speech.
“I cannot wait for my presentation; then I'll gain father's respect.” He sat near the fire holding the newspaper high in the air to admire it again.

“What are you referring to?” Richard poured a brandy and sat in the opposite stuffed chair. “Of course he respects you. Don't be daft. What a notion.”

“No, he doesn't, not really. After the race, General Hansen called me Piglet—”

“You have to admit you deserved that, ol' man.”

“That is not the point. The point is, Father said
nothing
. He said nothing after the race and nothing after the publication of
The
Rake's Handbook: Including Field Guide
. He just scowled and walked away, on both occasions.”

“What did you expect him to do? He naturally blames Henry for egging you on, but father felt you should have known better. Publish and edit more respectable books, like that novel, or travel or adventure stories.” Richard finished his brandy in a single gulp. “I also think he imagines Mother's response to your unsuitable books, her likely disappointment.”

Boyce failed to swallow even a sip of brandy.

“Don't take it to heart,” Richard said. “It's all just flummery. Pater will come around. Give him grandchildren—pleases him no end.”

The mention of his mother's possible disappointment only pained Boyce more. “It's not flummery to me. After my speech, I know Father will be proud of me, and Mother…” He managed to swallow awkwardly. In a minute, he'd be in difficulties and a bothersome tear might fall. He jumped up, strode to the door, and on his way out said, “Mother would be proud too.”

* * *

The next day, London sparkled. Boyce glanced up at the gleaming gray-and-white Portland stone buildings of St. James Street. It had rained last night, so some of the coal soot had been temporarily washed away. Even the windows seemed to sparkle like cut crystal in the morning sun.

He needed a new waistcoat from his tailor in Cork Street, but he decided to forgo the direct route and take a westerly route through the park. Up ahead, two gentlemen turned the corner. One tall gentleman he immediately recognized as his father, while the other, stouter man was General Hansen, his father's boon companion. Boyce winced, but the general had seen him, so there was no escaping the duo now. He must go through the perfunctory greetings and hope his father saved his usual dressing-down for another time and not in front of the general.

“Hail, sirs, well met.” Boyce bowed to both men. “General, fine day.” He wondered if either man had seen the yesterday's newspaper with the announcement of his speech at the Royal Institute. Boyce kept the newspaper tucked away under his arm, fearful that if he presented it to the men, his father might level another charge of attention seeking. However, if required, he could produce the edition in a second.

“Well met, Son,” the marquess said. “Yes, it is quite a fine day.” The two older gentlemen stopped on the pavement in front of him.

At the priory, Boyce had noticed his father appeared aged, his temples sported gray hair, and his shoulders bowed slightly forward. Today he looked younger, more lighthearted. The gray temples still revealed his years, but his broad smile, straight carriage, and green eyes expressing a rare twinkle—only observed when he was delighted with someone—reminded him of his father's appearance a decade ago.

“General, you are acquainted with my youngest. This is the son who will give a speech at the Royal Institution.”

Boyce felt giddy, like the earth had started spinning faster, so he widened his stance so as not to fall on his nose in front of his father and the general.

The general was a short, rotund man, wearing somber mourning clothes, but even his severe dress failed to dampen his natural effervescence. The general tapped the marquess's upper arm with his silver-headed walking stick. “Congratulations are in order once again, Sutcliffe. Needless to say, the whole club is proud of the boy. Congratulations to you too, Piglet, quite an achievement.”

The word
piglet
caused Boyce's spirits to flag, and the old feeling of failure returned. He couldn't slight both men by walking swiftly away. Instead, his mind started the infinite calculations of the appropriate excuses to do just that.

The general tapped his cane hard on Boyce's chest. “Ha, ha, can't call you Piglet any longer, can I, you young dog? The fact is, when Donkins showed us the announcement in the newspaper, your old nickname became obsolete. It didn't take very long for the fellows in our club to come up with a new nickname, and it quickly became fixed. Goes without saying that every gentleman in the club then enthusiastically discussed your discovery. The result is you are now called ‘Parhelion Parker.' Quite the encomium, I can tell you. I suppose all of London”—he leaned close—“even the ladies, will call you that soon enough.”

Boyce's spirit leaped so high that, if he were a bird, he'd have been in the treetops by now.

The general turned to the marquess. “It's the
helion
part of
parhelion
, you know. Sounds like hellion, hellfire, so the word makes Lord Boyce sound dangerous in the manner all ladies admire. So, Sutcliffe, gather up your best. You might find this young cub leg-shackled any day now.”

His father winked—winked!—a gesture Boyce had never seen directed toward him. “So your letter earned you a chance to speak. Well done, Son. Both the general and I will attend your speech. We look forward to hearing your presentation. Right, sir?”

“Oh, yes,” the general said, followed by a short huff. “Wouldn't miss it for the world.”

Meanwhile, he noticed his father studying him. “We'll be on our way, then. I'm sure you will want to practice your speech. Do you understand me?”

“Yes, sir.” He understood his father did not want the repetition of his failure at the priory.

A broad grin crossed his father's face. “Very well. Looks like the next we meet will be at your presentation. So, we both wish you well now. Come, let's continue on to the park. The boy has plenty to do.”

“Oh, yes,” the general said, tapping his cane on the pavement. “Farewell, Parhelion Parker. Best of luck.” The two men walked past him down the flagstone pathway.

Lightning hit him. Boyce knew that was the only reason every nerve tingled, and he appeared to be glued to the spot. He wished Eve had heard the “well done” compliment. There was no cut. His father hadn't slapped his friend on the back in silent agreement when the general had called him “Piglet.”

Boyce longed to give his speech now, since he couldn't wait to regain his father's goodwill and forever impress the world. But then he remembered his father's admonition at the recital. Worried about the family's reputation, he had forbidden Boyce to speak until he acquired more practice. Even now, he had stressed the word
practice
. Simple enough to do; Boyce would return to his room and practice.

Boyce strolled on, a new skip to his gait. He hoped Eve had seen the announcement in the newspaper. Perhaps she would be in the audience. Besides his father, he couldn't think of a single person he wanted to witness his victory more. When he returned home, he vowed to send her an invitation.

At his first practice session that afternoon, he stood before his mirror and collected his thoughts. When he revised his speech, he must be ruthless and use only logic. Write all the details down on paper and then practice his speech over and over and over. He would stop only when he could recite it in his sleep.

His first matter of business was to eliminate his previous observations that were subjective in nature. In other words, communicate the sun dog discovery as if Eve were giving the presentation. Hmm, he would have to mention her at some point, since she was a beautiful aeronaut. He wondered what nonsubjective word he should use. Scientifically, should he refer to her as “the female” or “the woman”? Those terms sounded heartless, but he soon recalled his purpose. His heart was not needed now.

Right, ruthless it is.

The memory of his failure at the recital returned, so “inky” vault and “fleecy” clouds were out. Instead, he'd replace those inappropriate words with the ones Eve used. The heavens… No, he must use the scientific term
sky
. The sky would only be referred to as “blue” or “black,” and he'd call the stars “white.” For the real sun, he'd dangerously wax lyrical and call it “bright.” Nothing like an inside jest to spur a fellow on to his best and provide a bit of excitement. He then practiced every day, all day.

When the morning of his speech arrived, Boyce checked his coat and cravat in the vestibule's looking glass. Pleased with his appearance, he contemplated a stiff bumper of brandy before he strolled over to the Royal Institute. Overwhelming memories of his first attempt at this speech kept him from finishing the entire bottle. With the first taste of the fiery brew, the thought of failure assailed him, so he put down his glass. He needed to be perfect today; he
must
be perfect today. He headed outside and turned south.

Once in front of the tall pillars of the Royal Institute, he took a deep breath and entered. A footman directed him to the offices of Mr. Harrison and several other members of the institution, for a preliminary interview and tour of the impressive facilities. After an hour or two of pleasant conversation, the members led him to the lecture room to ready himself for his speech. A wooden semicircle table marked the spot where he would stand, and he quickly visualized himself wearing victory's laurel crown. Surrounding the table were over a hundred tiered wooden seats. The commoners sat in the gallery, and the aristocrats in front. A small stove behind him kept the room warm and cozy.

As two o'clock approached, a crush of men and women milled about in conversation. In the front row, he observed the Royal Institute's secretary and several men of science he easily recognized. He greeted the officials he had not met before and then moved to welcome his father. “Good afternoon, sir.”

The marquess smiled broadly, seemingly unable to respond.

Boyce was at a loss for words too.

The two of them stood in reverent silence, focused solely on each other, surrounded by a racket caused by eager subscribers greeting each other. His father reached out—and for the first time, shook Boyce's hand. “Son, with your speech today, you honor the name Parker.”

His spirits soared; he longed to sing. Unable to utter a suitable reply, because he'd embarrass himself, Boyce nodded. But his heart sang and laughed and sang and laughed again. The oldest Parker and the youngest Parker stood there like tongue-tied idiots, so he excused himself and took his place at the lecture table. He pulled his well-practiced notes from his pocket and reviewed them. At two o'clock sharp, the lights were raised and everyone took a seat.

Mr. Harrison spoke first. He presented the general announcements, including several new books added to the institute's library and the names of twenty new subscribers.

During this prelude, Boyce examined the audience. Two-thirds were gentlemen, about a dozen of his acquaintance. The other third were ladies, many of whom he knew. He saw Mr. and Mrs. Buxton, several of his brothers and sisters-in-law, and two friends from Oxford. Drexel arrived late and climbed up the stairs to his seat during Mr. Harrison's introduction.

The secretary came to an end of the list of business, leaving Boyce to eagerly anticipate his introduction.

Then he saw Eve.

She sat with her father and Mr. Henry in the second row at the far end, the most beautiful woman in the entire room.

His heartbeat escalated from fast to pell-mell full gallop.

Their gazes met.

The pained, wistful expression in her eyes robbed him of breath. Speaking before a learned institution was her dream. He stood in front of her, his very presence mocking her life's ambition.

His thoughts raced. Glancing toward his father, who wore a smirk of extreme gratification, he became confused. His heart stopped; his throat closed. But unlike the butterfly, he could change the outcome. He could give her life, the chance to fly.