Wilful Impropriety (31 page)

And Irene, at his word freely given, at the strange look in his dark eyes, at the thrilling tone of his voice, felt the dams of self-control that she had kept so well tended for two long years break, and the secret dream within rushed out as if borne upon a river in furious flood.

“I wish to learn magick, my lord!” she said. “I know I can do more than curl hair and mix skin-brightening potions. I want to study spell theory as Mr. Young does, and make the incantations as clear to casters as Mrs. Beeton has. I want to test variations of spells for ease and efficiency and I want to . . . I want to make my own spells, too!”

James smiled, and Irene thought she saw mockery in it. But the raging waters could not be so easily penned up again.

“In these enlightened days, ladies can learn medicine, and practice it, including those cures that magick only can accomplish. Miss Edmona Lewis is greatly admired as a sculptor. Mrs. Gaskell’s novels are adored. But the universities will not let women take degrees, even could I find the money for the fees, and private tutors are far beyond my grasp. I will never—I wish that I—” Irene snapped her mouth shut and stood, hands clenched at her side, shoulders heaving with her fervor.

James gazed upon her, and thought that the ways of the Almighty were wondrous indeed. So Irene wanted to learn the ways of deep magick?

“Then by my name,” he said softly, “you shall, my lady.”

Irene sighed. “I am not a lady, my lord.”

“Would you like to be?”

“My lord?”

“Irene, you have known me for nearly two years, during which time you have been constant companion to my sister. Do you think you could address me by my Christian name?”

“No, my lord.”

“Then, Miss Crawford, I shall not address you by yours. It is unseemly, you know, for a gentleman to do so without permission.”

“To a lady, my lord.”

“Yes, Miss Crawford.”

Irene bit her lip. “I really think it is too bad, my lord, for you to be making such sport of me.”

“I am not, Miss Crawford, I assure you, and I beg your forgiveness for having led you to believe that I was. The truth is that I am afraid. Can you guess why?”

Irene would not guess, though a wild hope had sprang up within her, like the fancies she could not now dismiss with all her strength of mind. Still, she could not believe their fulfillment, even when James sank to one knee on the library hearth rug.

“Miss Irene Crawford,” said the Viscount Northcliff, “will you marry me?”

•   •   •

The Earl of Rabton was horrified by the tale his children had to tell the next day, in which all the credit of the counterspell’s research went to Simon, and all the glory of its casting to James. Irene appeared nowhere in the story, at her own request. He pumped Simon’s hand twelve or thirteen times, and called him a good fellow, a very good fellow indeed, and offered him the best port in the cellar.

It was almost a pity Mr. Young was a mere scholar with no title nor property to speak of, for Lord Rabton intended still to look far higher for his daughter’s future happiness, but as a houseguest, he thought, Mr. Young was very handy indeed.

Not a week later, Irene Crawford dutifully reported that she had discovered Lady Flora’s bedroom empty, and the resulting fuss enveloped the great house. If anybody thought that Irene had gone in much later than the lady’s usual rising hour, none mentioned it in the uproar.

The turmoil was only increased when a stable boy confessed to having readied a carriage in the very early hours of the morning at the instructions of Mr. Simon Young, who had said he must make haste to catch the first train to London. No mention had been made of a passenger, yet Mr. Young had loaded a quantity of luggage, much more than the single trunk he had brought with him.

The butler, quailing in every part, ordered the Earl awoken. When that furious gentleman discovered the letter his daughter had left upon his desk, all doubt was gone, and all hope lost. Flora and Simon were eloped to France.

It was with the greatest of difficulty that the Viscount Northcliff made it clear to his father that any plans to chase the couple were doomed to failure, and, moreover, would only spread the scandal throughout the country.

“We will put it about that they were married here, very quietly, and that they journey on their honeymoon,” he said. “Simon will have the sense to make sure they travel as husband and wife in name, until it can be in fact. By the time the season begins they will be home, and the tabbies may chatter as they will.”

At first Lord Rabton raged with many threats of action both legal and violent, and then elected for more domestic punishment. With great ceremony he declared he would never receive his daughter again, casting her out utterly. “And you shan’t see her either, you pup!” he roared.

Here James grew autocratic, and informed his father that he would not obey any such injunction. “And truly, sir,” he added, becoming now beseeching, “you would not wish to never see Flora again. You know you would not.”

It was a masterly performance, the footmen agreed, but they listened, all agog, as the unheralded second act began.

“Sir,” said James. “I must tell you now of my own engagement.”

A more feeling son might have refrained from sharing this news at such a trying time, but a perceptive son could not fail to hope that, having exhausted himself already, hearing of the insalubrious connection of his son and heir to a lady’s maid could scarcely raise the old man to more anger.

This hope, alas, was too ambitious. The Earl declared that he should most
certainly
never see his son again, nor provide for him neither.

James was confident that his father’s anger would fade, and, moreover, had inherited a great deal of property from his mother. Nevertheless, he was saddened by this breach, however temporary it might prove to be. But, “As you wish, sir,” he said, and the old man was checked for a moment by his son’s dignity.

Still, he could not bring himself to relent so quickly. “And take that gel out of my house on the instant,” he added. “For I am master here!”

This order, at least, James was happy to obey.

Irene, with her bags neatly packed, waited in the courtyard, oblivious to the outrage of the cook, the excitement of the kitchen maids, and the confused goodwill of Mrs. Framble. She saw James hurry toward her in his greatcoat, and the corners of her wide mouth lifted in the smile that she wore, ever and always, for him.

•   •   •

The tabbies did gossip, of course, for in these impudent times, discretion is counted a sin, and tale-telling a virtue, one especially celebrated by the so-called gentlemen of the press. The family reconciled, after Lord Rabton felt enough time had passed that he might be magnanimous in forgiveness—and meet his grandchildren, among whom he was thereafter a great favorite.

But among those who cared not for forgiveness nor family feeling, much was made of the poor Earl of Rabton, who was so unfortunate in his children. Especially since those children, little caring of their father’s woe, shamefully persisted in showing every sign of being blissfully happy.

And little Elsie the scullery maid kept her self-imposed silence most loyally, but for the rest of her long and fruitful days, she treasured what she had found left for her on the library hearth rug the day Miss Crawford and the Viscount Northcliff had left Rabton Hall—a battered copy of
Mrs. Beeton’s Book of Magickal Management
.

“A leek? What sort of madman sends a bouquet of flowers containing a leek?” My older sister thrust the offending bouquet at me. “Take it away, Olivia. Do what you wish, but if you must sketch it, oblige me by throwing the leek away first.”

I was used to Iris’s high flights. “You haven’t even glanced at the card. You don’t know who sent it. Iris, consider. It might be from someone you admire.”

Iris turned up her nose. “I couldn’t admire someone who would do such a thing, and I don’t care in the least who sent it. Whoever he is, I shall not grant him a single dance.”

“If you don’t know who sent it, how will you know who not to dance with?” The leek was surrounded by pink and white carnations, signifying pure and deep love. I examined the card that accompanied the bouquet. “You might wish to reconsider. It’s from Lord Camborough.”

Iris sat before her dressing table and took up her hand mirror. “Lord Camborough has the soul of a turnip. He must, to send me something so grotesque.”

My older sister was in the middle of her first season. Her debut had gone well, and scarcely a day went by without an invitation to Lord Someone-or-Other’s ball. Iris has dark hair, a radiant complexion, and a neat figure. Add dress sense—Iris has that to a high degree—and a keen awareness of what other people think of her. If anything, Iris’s mastery of that mystery surpasses her genius for what suits her—and the result is a perfect recipe for social success.

I loved hearing my sister’s tales of high society, but I was well content to be a spectator at the social whirl. I had my watercolors. The studies I painted of the floral tributes Iris had received had already filled two of my sketchbooks. Since Iris’s debut in society, I’d become expert in interpreting the language of flowers. It was fascinating to see which gentlemen were quick to express their affections with the cliche of red roses, and which displayed more discretion and imagination. I liked what I’d seen of Lord Camborough very much, but I have to admit I found the leek alarming. My judgment rested solely upon his few afternoon calls upon Iris and Mama, and what I had seen of him among the other guests during the ball held at our house. Appearances could definitely deceive.

At the age of seventeen, I was still in the schoolroom under the care of our governess, Miss Amberly. My much younger brothers, Charles and William, had recently graduated from Miss Amberly’s lessons to a tutor of their own, Mr. Louis Hugo. I often sat with Charles and William for their Latin lessons. Mr. Hugo didn’t mind teaching me, and Mama and Papa thought it would do me no harm to learn a little Latin to go with my new interest in botany. It was better than letting me kick my heels idly while I waited for my own turn to come out into society.

I did my best to conceal from everyone how much I was dreading my debut. Iris had taken society by storm. I knew I would be a sad disappointment when my turn finally came. I have my sister’s coloring, but there the likeness ends. I am proud to resemble my father in my disposition and temperament, but I also inherited his long nose, his wide mouth, and his decided chin. I take comfort in the knowledge that I have also inherited his common sense. Looks aren’t everything. Even Iris admits she needs a bit of good advice now and then.

“A leek symbolizes domesticity,” I explained. “I think we are to understand that Lord Camborough perceives the domestic genius within you. Optimistic of him, you must admit.”

“Domestic genius? Why would anyone want to congratulate me on my domestic genius? That’s what servants are for, aren’t they?” Iris studied her face in the mirror and frowned. “The man thinks he knows me better than I know myself. I must teach him a lesson. I shall not grant Lord Camborough a single dance, not even a reel.”

“Lord Camborough is wealthy enough to satisfy Mama, and kind enough to satisfy Papa. His entire family is sensible and well behaved.” I pointed out. “Not many titled gentlemen can make that claim. The leek was a mistake, I admit. But he may have been trying to be original. Everyone tells you you’re beautiful. No one else expresses admiration for your domestic side.”

“Very well. I’ll forgive him the leek.” Iris smiled at her reflection. “I put so much store in your opinion of him that I shall relent and dance with him after all. A reel won’t hurt me.”

I could not help a most unladylike snort of amusement. “If you are pretending to take my advice in the matter of Lord Camborough, I know you have some other motive. Be honest.”

Idly Iris tilted the mirror this way and that. “I will be more civil to Lord Camborough than he deserves, but only to make you happy. In truth, my heart is already half spoken for, and not by a gentleman who does his courting with leeks.”

I suppressed a sigh. “Who, then? Who is it this time?”

“Oh, you know who it is I mean.” Iris put the mirror aside for a moment to gaze at me with her heart in her eyes. “Have I put myself to the trouble of learning new dance steps for anyone else?”

My heart gave a little lurch of dismay as I took her meaning. The madera, a traditional European dance, had taken London by storm early that season. It required lively music in three-four time and dancers with sufficient stamina for its flashy spins and reverses. The craze to dance the madera originated with a mysterious young man named Mr. Michael Smith. New to society, rumored to be a foreigner, he had set a new fashion for the dance, which he performed with great dash and style. As soon as the madera was fixed as the height of fashion, Iris had begged for dancing lessons. She was determined to dance the madera with the fascinating Mr. Smith.

Dancing masters who knew the fine points of the madera were hard to find. By a stroke of luck, a tutor had been found within our very walls, for Mr. Louis Hugo admitted he knew how to dance the madera. He told us he’d learned the dance when he was on a walking tour through Falconberg back in his student days.