A Distinct Flair for Words

by Linda Banche

  Mr. Norris scowled at the buttery delicacies. “Too many sweets are bad for you.”

  She only just stopped herself from bashing him with the plate, although that would be a waste of good biscuits. She shoved the platter onto the table, clinking the china against the teapot. Then she poured herself a cup of tea, mainly to keep herself from doing the dratted man injury.

  She resumed her place beside Mr. Norris and sipped her tea, her hands shaking.

  Frank hunched in on himself as if his entire world had collapsed.

  She gripped her teacup handle hard. If Mr. Norris had harmed Frank in any way, she would tear a strip off him.

  Mr. Norris turned to her. “Miss White, would you ride in the park with me tomorrow, weather permitting?”

  From behind him, Mama wagged her head, the motion an emphatic order to agree.

  Trapped. Felicity could do naught but obey. “Of course, sir.”

  Frank shot to his feet. “I must away.”

  Felicity’s throat closed up. Her Mr. Bingley was suffering! She must help him!

  Her world shattered into tiny pieces and then reformed. Frank was her Mr. Bingley, her ideal hero. While other ladies who read Pride and Prejudice sighed over Mr. Darcy, she had eyes only for Mr. Bingley. His kindness, his good humor, his generosity. She poured all her adoration into the Mr. Bingley in her book, never realizing she had written him in Frank’s image.

  Frank was her perfect man.

  She must find out what was wrong!

  Chapter 21

  “Farewell, ladies.” Frank bowed to Felicity and her mother. He bobbed a curt nod at Norris, whose self-satisfied smirk tempted Frank to hit him. A quarter hour of idle chit-chat had never stretched so long, especially since Felicity had been so attentive to Norris.

  Of course, Norris remained. As Frank departed, the villain’s gloating smile drilled into his back.

  Frank exited and walked, his foggy brain oblivious to his surroundings until he blinked up at White’s imperious façade. Fat raindrops beat an asymmetric refrain on his umbrella as he flipped open his pocket watch. At this time of day, Trant would probably be there.

  He spun on his heel, snapping the timepiece shut so hard the metal cover clanked. The last thing he needed right now was another chorus of Trant’s litany of complaints.

  He strode away, letting his steps take him where they would. The wan light of year’s end softened into a lingering dusk, muting the stark images of buildings and people alike. Carriages and carts rumbled over the wet cobblestones, fragments of conversations teased his ears, and the sharp sting of coal smoke nipped at his nose.

  The rain dissolved into drizzle, abandoning its quest to drown London. Despite the deepening hour, jostling, shoving and shouting pedestrians spilled around him like waves parting before the prow of a ship. The man in front of him stopped abruptly and Frank crashed into him. “Sorry.” The fellow flung a dagger look over his shoulder as he strode away.

  At Hyde Park Corner, a particularly dense knot of people stopped him dead. Ahead stretched the park, all frozen grass and mostly deserted paths. Here and there, amber swaths of lamplight broke the dimness, the pallid light accenting the dark and quiet, chill and hollowness of the winter-encased park.

  The Serpentine, shivering in the ghostly illumination, extended a dispirited invitation.

  Furling his umbrella, he wandered down Rotten Row, empty now except for the occasional carriage or horse and rider. The wind kicked up, driving freezing drizzle into his face, and he pulled his greatcoat collar higher. Desiccated rushes in the lake’s shallows rustled, and busy little waves lapped at the icy fingers thrusting out from shore. His aimless steps led him to the bench where he had almost kissed Felicity.

  After leaning his umbrella against the bench’s back, he lowered himself to the cold stone. He drew a deep inhalation and then emptied his lungs slowly. Why was he so blue-deviled? Norris was a blasted fool, but Frank always dismissed fools without a second thought. The man’s presumption rankled, though. He had no right to decide who courted Felicity.

  Still, he himself had just as little right. He shoved his hands into his greatcoat pockets. Felicity didn’t have much money, and her dream of publishing her book might never come true. Even if she did succeed, her earnings might be too small to live on. If so, her only choice was marriage.

  He shifted on the bench. Norris wouldn’t harm her, and his wealth would make him a good provider. He would stifle her exuberant nature, though, and that would be a shame.

  Frank’s simmering blood boiled over. A subdued Felicity? One who didn’t laugh at a sunny day? Who didn’t run outside in all weathers simply to feel the change in air? Who didn’t write books that shared her happiness? His stomach roiled.

  He slumped against the bench’s back. What could he do about it? He slid deeper and deeper into an abyss so dark and dank he couldn’t see the sky overhead.

  His chin fell forward onto his chest. Was he also angry because Norris implied he was a poor marital catch? He snorted. He was nothing of the sort. As a vicar, he would have an income, and his father would settle a generous amount on him.

  The devil on his shoulder whispered in his ear: Perhaps the problem is not him but her. Perhaps Norris is right and she thinks of you only as a friend.

  Frank’s heart almost stopped. Did she?

  “QUACK!”

  He jumped. A large mallard drake stood before him, his head cocked to the side as if awaiting a reply.

  Frank subsided back onto the bench. “Good evening, Mr. Tail Feathers.” He held his empty hands out to his sides. “I am sorry, I have nothing for you, but, next time, I promise I will bring some bread.”

  The duck dipped his head as if in understanding, and then walked forward and rubbed his bill along Frank’s boot.

  “So, you can tell I am down-pinned? Thank you for your concern.”

  “Quack!”

  This quieter quack emanated from the darkness behind the drake. A brown mallard hen waddled into the wavering lamplight and then lowered herself to the ground beside the drake. The drake wagged his tail before he, too, sat.

  “Well, well. You have found your lady. My congratulations. May you be very happy together.” I would like a lady, too. Felicity?

  The timeless wind sloughed in the weeds at the lake shore, and set up a clacking in the leafless tree branches above. Ripples in the lake whispered in their never-ceasing campaign to breach the ice’s edge. The occasional bundled-up pedestrian scurried along the paths, but except for Frank and the ducks, the park stretched cold, lonely and empty.

  Like his heart.

  A particularly brisk wind gust whipped across the water and snatched his breath away. Time to return to warmth.

  He stood slowly, so as not to alarm the ducks. Light as down, they rose, too. The drake touched his bill to Frank’s boot once more before turning and marching away with his mate.

  Frank lifted a hand in farewell. “Thank you, my friends.”

  Mr. Tail Feathers looked over his shoulder and emitted a soft quack. Then the birds waddled across the ice to disappear into the water with a quiet splash.

  Frank retrieved his umbrella and then turned his steps toward his rooms on Duke Street. Though already midnight-black, the hour was still relatively young. Foot travelers and street traffic, only a little slower-moving than at noon, crowded the thoroughfares, but the energy of the largest city in the world, which had always crooned a siren’s call to Frank, now fell flat.

  He approached Hookham’s, dark and shuttered, business long since over. Halting, he set his fists on his hips. “See what you got me into? If not for you, I would never have met Felicity again.”

  And your life would be the poorer for it.

  He could never be sorry he had encountered Felicity. Until she burst onto the scene, his days, while pleasant, had been mostly grey and unvarying. Her glow infused brilliance into the most mundane of objects and events. Conversation, a stroll down the street, tea and a lemon bis
cuit—all sparkled and shone when she was with him. Even helping her with her book surrounded by husband-hunting ladies. His heart leaped up.

  But when she returned to Woodford, he would see her no longer. With a dull thud, his soaring heart thumped back into his chest, all the luster of the previous moment extinguished. But he had her for now. Make the most of it.

  He tipped his head back, the unblinking front of Hookham’s looming silent and innocent above. No sense blaming the book shop’s library for the dashing of his hopes. Despite Fellowes’s and Coffey’s happy experiences, Hookham’s library hardly possessed some quality that brought a man his lady. The book shop was simply that: a book shop.

  He flicked the establishment a two-fingered salute before he trod onward.

  The traffic’s rumblings and the crowd’s shouts had faded to distant whispers as he turned onto Duke Street and then strode to his rooms. He didn’t employ a valet, but the house servants had set his chambers to rights and stoked up the fire. Orange and yellow flames glowed and snapped in the grate, the heat most welcome after the biting temperatures outside. The white-washed walls reflected the glow, painting the interior with the reddish-gold hue of a summer sunset. He had always considered these rooms cheerful. But tonight, the heaviness dragging at his heels shaded them to the blackness of the deepest chasm.

  He tossed off his greatcoat, hat and gloves and took up the chair by the grate. On the table at his side lay Opposites Attract. Fellowes had returned the copy today, with an enthusiastic note about how much he and Clara had enjoyed the story.

  He set the manuscript on his lap and riffled through the pages. Felicity put so much of herself into this novel, and he had enjoyed helping her seek its publication.

  He idly flipped more pages until the book fell open to the section where Darcy apprises Bingley that Miss Jane doesn’t have a warm enough regard for him. Although Bingley had not taken his friend to task, his fury at Darcy’s effrontery leaped from the page.

  Jane not love him? Just because she didn’t fling herself into his arms as her sister, Lydia, was wont to do with a man, didn’t signal her disinterest.

  And who was Darcy to tell him how to conduct his affairs of the heart? Why, he made sheep’s eyes at Miss Elizabeth, but he didn’t throw himself into the ring for her hand. No, all he did was watch and wait, and while he dithered, someone else might secure the lady’s affections.

  What Darcy expressed was his opinion only. If Jane didn’t care for him, he would know. And if he was unsure, he would make her tell him herself, not wait for some high- and-mighty gentleman to take him to task as if he were a greenling.

  Frank snapped the book shut. What had he been thinking? Norris had seen his attraction to Felicity before he himself had, and had tried to warn him off. And he had almost let him! At least Darcy, however wrongheaded, had good intentions. Not so Norris.

  He was positive now. Felicity was the lady for him. He jumped up and ran for his greatcoat. He would talk to her and they would iron out their differences. If she wasn’t interested in him as a suitor, she would tell him. And if she did care for him in that way, he wouldn’t give her up without a fight.

  He was halfway out the door when the mantel clock chimed eleven times. His shoulders sagged. Much too late for a call. But he would arrive at her doorstep as early as possible tomorrow morning.

  Chapter 22

  “Mr. Norris, thank you so much for taking me to the park.” Felicity sighed as she settled the carriage robe around her legs. Such were the lies ladies must utter in the name of politeness.

  Mr. Norris, beside her in the driver’s seat of his curricle, gathered up the reins.

  Eyes thin slits, he slowly urged the matched pair of blacks into the street before setting them to a quick trot, although the traffic didn’t demand such strict attention. Few vehicles impeded their progress at this morning hour. Not for Mr. Norris the fashionable time of late afternoon.

  Which was rather curious. The haut ton didn’t normally stir until after midday, yet he was up and about with the hoi polloi he despised.

  She shivered and pulled the carriage rug closer around her knees.

  The sun had risen luminous and radiant, but steadily advancing clouds had snuffed out the brightness, leaving the sky a murky grey veil buffeted by a cold wind.

  As cold as her heart after witnessing Frank so down in the dismals. Please, let him come over today, so I can find out what is amiss.

  She bit her lip. If he didn’t visit, she would write him a letter. Unmarried ladies were forbidden to correspond with single gentlemen, but this was an emergency. She had to find out what so disturbed her Mr. Bingley.

  Even more important, she had to tell him how important he was to her. Some of the sky’s grey filtered into her thoughts. Mayhap he didn’t return her feelings. But she must find out.

  Mr. Norris swung onto Piccadilly, and Hyde Park soon emerged into view. Her frigid heart warmed a bit. Whether light and sunny, dismal and rainy, hot or cold, the park always cheered her. “Shall we get a better look at the Serpentine?”

  “As you wish.” He tooled the horses down the path on the north side of the lake. “Although we can repair back whenever you like.” He squinted at the sky, his forehead creasing in an expression that always made him look angry. “Rain threatens and we would not want to get wet.”

  Although the blackening clouds thickened by the moment, they didn’t necessarily portend a storm. But then, Mr. Norris tended to focus on the grim side of things. “I am certain none will fall while we are out.”

  Mr. Norris slowed the curricle. He cleared his throat.

  Oh, no, the warning signal!

  “Miss White, I have wanted to speak with you for a long time.” He cleared his throat again. “I have become fond of you, and we rub along together well. I would like…”

  Her blood froze. She had to keep him from proposing!

  Loud quacking pierced the air. “Look, ducks! I love ducks. Let us stop and see them.” Thank you, ducks.

  The darkness in Mr. Norris’s face rivaled the clouds’ hue, but he pulled over to the verge. “As you will. We can stop for a few minutes, but not too long. Cannot allow the horses to become chilled.” He helped her down and then his tiger led the team along the path to keep them warm.

  “How fortunate for us that so many ducks remain this late in the season.” She nattered away, anything to keep him from continuing his declaration. Then she ran ahead, leaving him to follow in her wake.

  A tightly packed raft of green-and-brown mallards floated in the sparse open water at the lake’s center. The continual cold iced more of the patch each day, jamming the ducks closer and closer together. Soon, they would have no choice but to fly south. She would miss them.

  At her approach, more noisy quacking broke out. Webs splashing up the water, the birds paddled her way.

  Mr. Norris, his arms folded behind his back, slowed to a stop at her side.

  She pulled her always-present bag of bread out of her reticule. “They know me. I come here most days and feed them.”

  Mr. Norris’s forehead wrinkled. “You should not give them food. Park ducks are vermin, dirtying the water and the bank with their leavings. Unhealthy and unsightly.”

  Felicity firmed her lips. Did he disapprove of everything? “Fustian. All animals are dirty to some extent. But the ducks’ feathers are so pretty and I love their quacking, so I can forgive them much.”

  She tossed out a fistful of bread. The boisterous quacking notched up, and the ducks churned the water into foam in their haste to reach the food. Some hopped up on the ice rimming the shore and waddled onto the bank, including her favorite.

  “Good day, Mr. Tail Feathers. And how are you?” She dropped a piece of bread before him, which he immediately gobbled up.

  Mr. Norris thrust his arm in front of her. “Be careful. That duck is extremely large. He may bite you.”

  “Not Mr. Tail Feathers. He likes me. Or, rather, he likes my bread.”


  “Still…”

  She deposited another morsel before the drake. “I picked out Mr. Tail Feathers the first time I came here. Although, sometimes I think he picked me. He marched right up and waited for a serving of bread.” I am babbling again. But if it keeps Mr. Norris busy… “He is an unusual duck. Of all the mallard drakes with their two curly tail feathers, he is the only one with three.”

  Mr. Norris snorted. “Probably has three because he is so fat.”

  The duck jerked his head up and glared at Mr. Norris, almost as if he understood the insult.

  “Nonsense. He is just large. Some ducks are bigger or smaller than others. See that hen?” A hen walked up beside Mr. Tail Feathers. “She is of regular size.”

  Mr. Tail Feathers pushed a small piece of bread toward the hen, which she ate.

  Felicity clasped her hands at her breast. “Oh, Mr. Tail Feathers, you have found a mate. How wonderful for you.” Will I ever find a mate, especially one I want? My Mr. Bingley? She threw out some more scraps. The ducks, quacking, squawking, and shoving, closed in once more.

  Mr. Norris made a shooing motion with his hands. “You should not allow them so near.”

  “They will not hurt me.” She tossed out the last of her bread and then dusted off her palms. “That is all for today, my friends. More next time.”

  With more quacking and jostling, the ducks attacked the final offering. Felicity smiled at their antics, but Mr. Norris scowled.

  After the birds had cleaned up the last crumbs, Mr. and Mrs. Tail Feathers approached. The drake tapped Felicity’s shoe with his bill.

  Mr. Norris jumped forward. “Watch out!”

  A tangled flurry of quacks, squawks and wings erupted. The startled mass of ducks leaped for the sky and streaked away.

  Mr. Norris swung his foot straight at Mrs. Tail Feathers.

  “No!” Felicity caught his arm to haul him back.

  Her quick action pulled him up short, so his foot only grazed Mrs. Tail Feathers’s wing. With a surprised quack, she jumped back.