A Distinct Flair for Words

by Linda Banche

  Perfect for Felicity’s purposes. She bent closer to Frank, and lowered her voice. “I will tell you a great secret.” She had always confided in him when they were younger. He never failed to listen, although she suspected he had humored her.

  He leaned toward her, too, his smile brightening. “And what is your crime now? Still climbing trees to put baby birds back in their nests, much to your mother’s distress, or rescuing tadpoles from dried-up puddles?”

  “Oh, no, something much more important.” She slowly turned her head, darting her eyes from side to side and then up and down, as she and Frank had done when they played at escaping from pirates. From his chuckle, he recalled, too. “I have written a book!”

  “You have?”

  “Yes. I think Miss Austen paid too little attention to Mr. Bingley. So I have rewritten Pride and Prejudice to emphasize his role. And Miss Jane’s, of course.”

  “Interesting concept.”

  “And even better, I plan to have it published! I have already written to Mr. Blackmore of Blackmore Publishing to see if he will take it.”

  Frank gathered up another lemon biscuit. “An ambitious undertaking. I wish you well.”

  She blinked. “Thank you. Very few people wish me well.” And no men. His unquestioning acceptance was a fresh breeze after too many hours in a stuffy room.

  His forehead creased. “Why ever not?”

  “Ladies do not write books.”

  He snorted. “Gammon. Ladies write books all the time. Your Miss Austen did.”

  “But Miss Austen never married. Mama worries that a suitor will not like my scribbling.” Must she give up her dream in order to wed? Her heart tore into little pieces at the fear that a prospective husband would demand she stop writing.

  His lips compressed into a thin line. “Then he is not the man for you.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Thank you. I knew you would understand.”

  For a second, he stilled. Then, his usual smile returned. “I confess, I am curious how you rewrote the book from Bingley’s perspective. He is essentially a secondary character.”

  More on her favorite subject! How her spirits soared when Frank was near. “Miss Austen focused on Mr. Darcy and Miss Elizabeth. But when you look at the story through Mr. Bingley’s eyes, everything changes. The author also left much time blank, which I fill in.”

  “I would like to see how you ‘filled in’. May I?”

  Her heart, already full to bursting with Frank’s understanding, bubbled over. “Would you? Only the ladies in my literary society have read my novel. I would love to have you do so.”

  “Lend me your manuscript and I will read it tonight.”

  Chapter 5

  Frank sputtered out a laugh. Felicity’s novel was funny!

  Determined to keep his word, he had started on her book as soon as he returned home. And then…he glanced at the mantel clock. Over two hours had fled since he had settled into his chair, and he hadn’t even noticed.

  Truth to tell, he had dreaded reading her novel. How could a new writer produce something to rival Miss Austen’s prose? And already, he was halfway through the book.

  He read a few more lines and howled again.

  Pounding on the connecting wall cut short his laugh. Frank cast a withering glance at the wall. His neighbor again. What a blasted sobersides. Couldn’t let a man enjoy a book in his own room.

  He flipped to the next page. Well, let the killjoy pound on the walls, if doing so made him happy. He himself had a novel to read. And laugh he would, as much as he chose…

  ***

  Mr. Charles Bingley couldn’t believe his luck. Here he was, alone on a country lane with Miss Jane Bennet. Her sister, Elizabeth, and their mother had stopped to speak with someone whose name Charles hadn’t caught. He and Jane had continued around the bend in the road, out of sight and sound of their chaperones.

  Jane (he always thought of her as Jane) smiled as if he were the most splendid man in the world.

  His mind froze into such solidity that an ice pick probably wouldn’t penetrate.

  “Uh, fine day, is it not?” Hang it, was that all the lump of his brain could concoct?

  She smiled wider, as if she knew exactly his affliction but was too kind to make mention. “Indeed.” A lady of few, but pertinent words, Miss Jane Bennet. “But so rare in the autumn, do you not agree?”

  “Yes.” Talk about something else, you gudgeon! But what?

  “Meow!”

  They both stopped. More meows, squawks and hissing descended from the canopy of trees overhead.

  Jane squinted upward. “Oh, dear. I daresay Mrs. Gore’s cat has stranded itself again.”

  His congealed mind thawed a fraction. He would save the cat! The perfect opportunity for him to play the hero. “Bingley to the rescue.”

  Jane clasped her hands before her. “Oh, could you?”

  His chest swelled. Of course, he could. With her looking at him like that, he could fly up to the cat.

  Prying his feet loose from the ground—he would much rather stay with Jane—he strode to the huge white oak from which the meowing emanated. Setting a land on the trunk, he leaned in and looked up. Fortunately, the oak’s many thick branches marched upward in an almost ladder-like arrangement. Very easy to scale, not that Jane had to know that. She would think him courageous and strong.

  Amid a pitiful chorus of feline squeals and squawks, he shed his greatcoat, hat and gloves, and then unbuttoned his coat. After a glance at Jane, who still gazed at him as if he were really a hero, he grasped the lowest branch and swung himself up.

  Jane stepped closer. Good position, she could better see him in action. She smiled.

  He paused and grinned back. The blue pools of her eyes captured him, a most willing victim. The world contracted to Jane…

  Why was he in a tree?

  “Meow!”

  Oh, yes, the cat. With a shake of his head, he returned his attention to the stranded feline.

  The beast was only two branches higher. Catching it should be simple. “Here, kitty. I am here to help you.” Slowly, he climbed up onto the next limb, within easy reach of the animal.

  The cat jumped up to the next higher branch.

  Bingley gritted his teeth. Blasted cat. “Come now, kitty. Do not be coy.” He advanced to the next branch. This one was thinner than the others and wobbled. The angle of the limb to the trunk was also sharper than normal, and a jagged crack snaked a few inches along the join. Not too safe, but he wouldn’t stay here long.

  He reached for the cat…

  The cat hopped up to the next branch.

  “She is rather spry.” Jane’s words floated up.

  “Yes.” Too spry for his taste. Releasing a pent-up breath, he pulled himself up to the next limb and sat, not sorry to leave the cracked branch behind.

  The cat’s back arched.

  Must lull the cat into a sense of security. “Now, now, no need to be afraid. I will not harm you.” He held himself immobile.

  After a drawn-out, narrow-eyed stare, the cat stretched its length along the branch above, resting its head on its forepaws. Its tail flicked lazily from side to side.

  He lunged up and seized the cat.

  With a screeching snarl, the furious cat scored his coat with its claws and wrenched free. The animal dropped to the branch below and then to each of the next ones in turn before landing gracefully on the ground. With a howl that sounded suspiciously like glee at tricking its pursuer, the misbegotten beast loped into the underbrush.

  Bingley’s jaw sagged. “The cat did not need rescuing.”

  “But you did not know that.” Jane brushed away a leaf the cat had torn off in its plunge earthward. “Your intentions were good.”

  So much for being a hero. “I shall be down in a moment.” By thunder, what could he salvage from this disaster? He would take his time descending. That would afford her ample opportunity to admire his manly form.

  With one hand around the t
runk, he slid down to grasp the branch he stood on with the other. Then he lowered both feet to search out the next lower branch, the splintered one.

  An avian shriek rent the air. A magpie erupted through a cluster of leaves and hurtled straight at Bingley’s head.

  Throwing up an arm, he reared back and landed on the lower branch hard.

  Crack!

  The damaged branch gave way. His blood icing, he grabbed for the upper branch but missed. Arms flailing, he plummeted down, Jane’s scream tearing at his ears.

  With a springing thump, he landed on his back on something yielding. He panted, a thick band of iron constricting his chest.

  He couldn’t breathe! Was he dead? The sky—crystal blue with the occasional puffy white cloud—could certainly be described as heavenly. Birds chirped and chattered in a melodious chorus, among them most likely the benighted one that had sent him to his end.

  Time stretched to the remotest bounds of the universe. Then his lungs relaxed and he wheezed. Uttering a silent prayer of gratitude, he took a deep, grateful breath.

  He wasn’t dead. At last, he didn’t think he was. He moved and winced. The tines of a multitude of pitchforks jabbed every inch of his body.

  Maybe he wasn’t in heaven. Perhaps he had gone to the other place.

  “Mr. Bingley!” Jane’s ashen face surged into view over him.

  He froze, and then grinned. He couldn’t be dead. Jane was here.

  Her eyebrows lowered into a frown. “Oh, no, you are smiling! You must be hurt more badly than I thought.”

  Lie through your teeth, man! “No, I am in fine fettle. I just have to get up…”

  “Do not move!” She sank to her knees beside him. “You landed in a thorn bush. A very nasty thorn bush, and the spines are close to your eyes. Stay still until I push them away.” She tore off her gloves and tossed them aside. “Shut your eyes.”

  He nodded and immediately regretted the motion. Holding rigid, he lowered his eyelids.

  Jane worked the thorns loose from around his face. The pitchforks’ knife thrusts eased with each brush of her soft fingers.

  Mayhap he had gone to heaven. Jane’s touch was ecstasy.

  “Lift your head.”

  He opened his eyes and raised his head. Slowly.

  She set his hat on his head. “Lean back. The hat will protect your head from further damage.” She smoothed a hand over his exposed hair. “Oh, dear, there is blood in your hair. Just another moment while I release the thorns from your arms, and then we both can pull out the others.”

  Her touch was as gentle as before. Little by little, the thorns’ stabbing decreased until she tugged hard at a particularly resistant one.

  “Ow!” Blast, how many thorns could one bush hold? The infernal things still dug into his flesh, even through his clothes.

  She halted for a second. “Sorry.”

  He clenched his teeth. “Think nothing on it. There is no way thorns cannot hurt.” He winced as she pulled at another large one. “Gads, they must have grown extra foot or two when they saw me heading their way.”

  Her gaze never left her task, but her lips curved up. How he loved her smile. “The bush is very old. The cat may have climbed this tree apurpose, expecting the thorns to deter pursuers.”

  “Or mayhap the vexatious beast enjoys making its deluded rescuers suffer.”

  “Mayhap.” She worked a little more before leaning back. “There. Now, raise your arms and sit up, if you can.”

  He pushed upward and grunted.

  Jane released a sigh. “Good.”

  Good? All his weight now thrust the thorns more deeply into his nether regions. Truly a foretaste of Hades.

  Jane moved behind him. “I will work on your back, and you do the rest.”

  From that position she couldn’t see his grimace. He ripped at the thorns, only succeeding in scratching himself further. But the sooner he was out, the less time in this misery.

  With his and Jane’s every move, the web of lacerations burned deeper into his skin, but, at last, he was free.

  Dragging in a chest full of air, he pushed to his feet. “I am most grateful for your help, Miss Bennet.” Thank the powers above, he no longer sat on the thorns.

  Then again, his sitting days might be over.

  He twisted his lips. The plan to impress her with his heroism had descended into disaster. He scooped up her gloves and returned them to her. Red lines scored her delicate fingers. “You are bleeding.”

  “Only a little.”

  He pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped her dear, scratched hands in the soft linen. “I am sorry you suffered for my sake.” He would rather the thorns had sent him aloft than cause Jane any harm.

  “One cannot battle with thorns and remain unscathed.”

  The punctures over his entire body testified to that, but his injuries didn’t matter. If he had any say, nothing would ever hurt Jane. He raised her fingers to his lips and kissed them. “My thanks.”

  Her breath hitched. “You are most welcome, sir.” She lifted an eyebrow. “But I would have been much happier if you had not fallen.”

  His nether regions throbbed. “So would I.” Despite the pain, he was the happiest man on earth.

  “But you are still very brave.” She lifted her face toward his.

  He bent toward her…

  “Jane, where are you?” Miss Elizabeth’s voice rang out from around the bend.

  Jane pulled away and returned his handkerchief. She hadn’t bled much, so she couldn’t be too hurt, fortune be praised. She pulled on her gloves.

  With the imminent arrival of Mrs. Bennet and Miss Elizabeth, the time of reckoning was near. He pulled on his greatcoat to hide the evidence of his folly, and followed with his hat and gloves.

  Jane laced her arm through his and they stepped away from the thorn bush. “Elizabeth and Mama will love to hear about your adventure with the cat.” Her smile was luminous. “But no one shall know of the thorn bush except us.”

  ***

  Frank slapped his knee and roared. By Jove, but Felicity had talent. This passage was one of the funniest he had read. If the rest of the book lived up to the first part, the publishers would fight each other to acquire it.

  Pounding on the connecting wall had him muffling his guffaws yet again. He pressed his lips together to keep the mirth in, but it was no use. He snorted out another laugh.

  More pounding followed.

  He jumped up and ran to the wall. He pounded back.

  Some people had no sense of humor.

  Chapter 6

  Frank lifted his gaze to the entry of Lady Gavin’s drawing room.

  Again. For at least the tenth time since he had settled into this partially secluded alcove. Still no Felicity. When would she arrive?

  Keeping the doorway in view, he leaned one shoulder against the wall and sipped his punch. Due to the chilly weather, the windows were closed, and the air pulsed with trapped heat. Resisting the urge to run his finger under his collar, he nodded at a passing gentleman, and then bowed to a lady.

  His eyelids fluttered down. He jerked upright just in time to prevent himself from spilling his drink. By Jove, if he had to wait much longer, he would slide down the wall in a dead faint. Most ton events would bore anyone into stupefaction, but the added heat made this one a study in survival. Even worse, with town relatively deserted at this time of year, the company was thin. He never thought he would welcome a squeeze, but the scarcity of guests resulted in more ladies than gentleman attending.

  Which made him a target.

  Farther along the wall, a young lady, her bodice cut too low for her youthful age, batted her lashes at him. He half-turned away and pretended he hadn’t seen her.

  Rude, but the ton’s husband-hunting misses had soured him. Although they all aspired to a nobleman or a rich man, a prospective vicar holding a prosperous and secure living owned by his father looked good to many.

  He tapped his foot on the polished parquet flo
or. Where was Felicity? He had arrived earlier than was his wont, a remarkable occurrence, and one which he still didn’t quite understand.

  He pulled out his pocket watch. As on the numerous other occasions he had checked the timepiece, only a few moments had passed. The slowness of the minutes’ passage would drive him mad.

  Yesterday, when Felicity asked if he would attend this function, words of agreement had bypassed his brain to tumble from his mouth unbidden. Then he rushed home to check the post. Letter after letter flew from his hands as he dug through the ignored missives, until, at last, he found the desired invitation. He would have begged, borrowed or stolen one, if necessary. Although, with the dearth of male faces in evidence, the hostess probably would have admitted him, no questions asked.

  As for Felicity...he grinned down at his drink. The intervening years had transformed her appearance. Although she had never been a caterpillar, now she was definitely a butterfly. But, thankfully, her personality remained the same.

  Her name meant “Happiness” and, true to her appellation, she had scattered sunshine all over their youth. He had liked her ten years ago, in a liking-the-annoying-child-but-not-letting-her-know-it way. Although, like any thirteen-year-old boy, he hadn’t wanted an eleven-year-old, especially not a girl, tagging after him, he had never really minded. Their long-ago years together had lent a special something to his existence.

  And still did. He rolled the glass between his palms. When she squeezed his hand in her drawing room, little sparks had raced all along his arm. No other lady’s touch had evoked such a response. Had the library magic finally worked? There was no reason the lady of his dreams couldn’t be someone he already knew.

  Before him, the throng shifted, opening up a better view of the entrance. The air caught in his throat. There she was. With her mother and a gentleman Frank didn’t know.

  She wore a deep green dress embroidered with a leaf design. The gown outlined her slim form without being overly snug, as too many of the overeager misses’ were. Her shawl matched her dress, as did her silk slippers and the bandeau that held her curls in place. The cheery hue set off her reddish hair as if flames crowned her head. She had always liked wearing green. Said the color allowed her to carry spring with her all year.