Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  And there, he recalled, he’d presented one to Oriana….

  Not only had she read it, she’d shown it to her illustrious neighbor. She was responsible for this highly flattering invitation. He wasn’t sure why she’d done it—but did it really matter? He was grateful, and he would definitely accept.

  Ned Crowe’s bow cut across the fiddle strings, producing a spirited coda to the lively ballad.

  Lowering his instrument, he suggested to Oriana, “Let’s try ‘Coontey Ghiare Jeh Elian Vannin.’ ”

  She searched among the sheaf of papers he’d brought with him. “It’s got so very many verses. You’re sure your arm is strong enough?” she asked, solicitous of his injury.

  “I’ve been playing for more’n a fortnight,” he informed her blithely. “During the voyage, I was sawing at this fiddle night and day, entertaining myself by day and the sailors at night.”

  When he had adjusted the tuning keys, he accompanied Oriana while she sang a lengthy ballad describing the isle’s geography and its many beauties.

  As soon as she finished, she collapsed on the nearest chair, saying, “The tune is simple, but the language is not!”

  “You could sing the English words.”

  “That would detract from the novelty. I shall persevere.”

  She had been practicing yesterday when Ned arrived, and on being admitted to her sanctuary he had begged her to perform for him. Seating herself at the pianoforte, she’d played a Haydn composition, then took up her mandoline to entertain him with an Italian song. He’d rushed back to Morland’s to fetch his fiddle, and they had spent the afternoon making music together. When she’d invited him to appear with her at Vauxhall, he agreed enthusiastically and helped her choose which pieces to insert into her repertoire. The famous Ana St. Albans, student of the finest music masters in the world, and a Manx miner with a remarkable talent—this collaboration might prove profitable for them both, financially as well as artistically.

  “When we feel ready,” she said, “I’ll inform Mr. Barrett and Mr. Simpson that you’ll be performing with me on Saturday night. If I say they should pay you three guineas a concert, they won’t blink.”

  Ned’s mouth dropped open. “Three gold pieces?”

  “I doubt I can get you more. Not yet.”

  “I’ve never earned more than a skillin at a time, playing at weddings and wakes. I shall make my fortune here!” His gleeful outburst was followed by a sober question. “Which of us will be telling Mainshtyr Dare what we intend to do?”

  “This was my idea. I’ll do it,” she said courageously. If he disliked her plan, she didn’t want his blunt censure to fall upon Ned.

  Rising, she returned to the music stand. “We should try the ‘Courting Song’ again.”

  ” Ta.” Ned raised his violin, played a few notes, and sang out in his fine tenor.

  “Lesh sooree ayns y geurey,

  An vennick beign ny lhie,

  Agh shooyll ayns y dorraghey,

  Scoanfakin yn raad thie.

  With courting in the winter,

  I’d seldom be in bed,

  But walking in the darkness,

  Scarce seeing the road home.”

  The pounding of the knocker drew Lumley to the hall. Oriana heard Dare’s deep tones, and smiled upon her accompanist, who had lowered his instrument. “Sing on,” she instructed.

  Dare entered the room just as the young man resumed his performance, and smiled at her. She held her finger to her lips, bidding him to keep silent.

  “Veign goll gys ny unniagyn

  As crankal shirrey entreil

  Yn fillaghey yealley orrym

  As my lleckanyn gaase gial.

  I would go to the windows,

  And rap seeking entrance,

  The rain pouring upon me,

  And my cheeks growing pale.”

  Remembering her criticisms of his untidiness—at his Ramsey home and the mining office—she regretted the disorder all around her. Music sheets were spread across the pianoforte, and instrument cases cluttered the floor. She mustn’t draw attention to the chaos by trying to remedy it. Perhaps Dare hadn’t noticed.

  “My employees have transferred their allegiance to you, Madame,” he complained. “Here is Ned, fiddling the day away. I suspect Wingate is belowstairs. He’s certainly not where he should be—at Morland’s, awaiting his master’s return.”

  “He’s with Lumley,” Oriana replied. “They updated my cellar-book, and now they’re bottling off claret from the pipe Berry Brothers delivered this morning.”

  “Finish your song,” said Dare, a smile breaking through. “I know there’s more.”

  Oriana glanced at Ned, who waited for her with poised bow. He played the introductory notes, and she picked up where he’d left off, singing the Manx girl’s reply to her suitor.

  “Fow royd voish yn unniag

  Fow royd ta mee dy graa,

  Son cha jean-ym lhiggey stlagh oo,

  Ta fys aym’s er ny shaare!

  Get away from the window,

  Get away I tell thee,

  For I will not let you in,

  I know better than that!

  Dy bragh, ny dy bragh, guilley,

  Cha bee ayms ayd son ben,

  Son cha vell mee goll dy phoosey,

  My taitnys hene vys aym.

  No never, no never, young man,

  Will I be thy woman,

  For I’m not going to marry,

  My own pleasure I will have.”

  Ned, resuming the man’s part, described how his love crept out of the house, shawl over her head.

  They ended in a duet, singing of the joys they found in each other’s arms.

  Afterward, Oriana explained, “Ned and I are determined to perform together at Vauxhall. He’ll be well compensated.”

  “But only if you permit it, Mainshtyr,” the young man said quickly.

  Dare’s grave face revealed his reservations. “You want to do this?” he asked Ned.

  ” Ta. But not just for the money. I’d play for Mrs. Julian—St. Albans—even if I wasn’t paid at all.”

  Evidently swayed by this assurance, Dare said, “Go to the tailor in Dean Street and have him measure you for a new suit of clothes—you should visit a hatter, too, and a wigmaker. Have all the bills sent to my bankers. The Vauxhall musicians dress very fine, and so must you.”

  Expressing profuse thanks, the youth tenderly laid his violin in its battered wooden case. He hurried away to procure the appropriate garments for his debut.

  After he departed, a grim Dare confronted Oriana. “You are indeed a siren, and I hope Ned won’t crash upon your rocks. He plays his fiddle for enjoyment, and to earn a few shillings now and again. He’s never been off the island till now, and it’s only his second day in London. He’s entirely ignorant of the theater and its ways—he wasn’t raised upon the stage, as you were.”

  “I know. But I never imagined there was harm in my suggestion.”

  “I’ll not stand in his way—clearly he wants to perform with you. But I shall intervene, if I feel the need.”

  Oriana nodded her understanding. Ned’s accident in the mine had proved how seriously Dare took his responsibility to the young Manxman. “Tell me about your visit to Deptford.”

  “I kept busy. The Dorrity will get new sails and rigging, a larger anchor, fresh caulk and paint—to the delight of her captain and the dismay of her owner. I’m dazed by the expense of this undertaking. The work can be done more cheaply here than in Ramsey, but even so, the estimates are higher than I expected.” He put his arms around her waist. “If my funds run out, and I must give up my rooms at Morland’s, would you take me in?”

  Saucily she replied, “Certainly not, sir. I’ll send you to the nearest poorhouse—all those sums I donate might as well benefit somebody I know.”

  “Have you no heart?”

  She did, and when he looked at her that way, it jumped. “If not, I wouldn’t be so lavish with my charita
ble contributions.”

  He shoved a letter at her. “Read this.”

  She unfolded it, laughing. “I never expected a billet-doux from a man whose pen produces scientific writings.”

  “I didn’t write it, your neighbor Sir Joseph did. You showed him my geological treatise, you meddling hussy.”

  His tone was affectionate—he wasn’t angry. “You got on so well with him, and he seemed interested in your work. An invitation to dine at his house—a high honor indeed! But Saturday is likely to be Ned’s first Vauxhall appearance. Perhaps we can put it off for a fortnight.”

  “For Ned’s sake, you’d better make the arrangements as speedily as possible. He’s so excited about being your accompanist, he’ll never notice I’m not there for his debut. There will be other performances, I’m sure.”

  Nodding, she replied, “I’ll send a message to the master of ceremonies straightaway.”

  He went with her to the parlor, hovering over the chair of her writing desk. She felt as fluttery as those trees in the square gardens, branches swaying in the warm summer breeze. His hand on her shoulder affected her concentration, and she struggled to complete the simple task of penning and sealing her note to Mr. Simpson. With fumbling fingers, she replaced her pen and silver inkpot in their compartments.

  When he leaned near, she saw the heat of desire glowing in his dark, black-lashed eyes. His curving mouth drifted ever closer, and gently collided with hers. His hand moved to her cheek, where the blood pulsed feverishly. Their kiss, which began as a soft brush of lips, turned into an incendiary exploration.

  She welcomed the invasion of his darting tongue, the slide of it across her teeth. Her body was heavy with longing. She could gladly shed her garments there and then, and let him take her—if not for their complete lack of privacy.

  Belatedly recalling that that they were in full view of the window, she murmured a protest. He ignored it. Dragging her out of her chair, he pulled her into an intoxicatingly intimate embrace. His hands pressed against her arched back and his long legs, hidden by her voluminous skirts, imprisoned her. His mouth swept down, claiming and smothering her.

  “No more,” she pleaded, gasping for air.

  “With you, Oriana, I always need more.”

  She glanced toward the hall to reassure herself that no servant had witnessed Dare’s intimate assault upon her person. Reassured, she turned to the parlor window—and her erratic pulse stilled.

  A pedestrian had paused to spy on them. Tapping on the pane, he glowered at her.

  Matthew Powell.

  Dare spun around. Oriana, horrified by this disaster in the making, rushed to the front door to admit the visitor herself.

  “You’re supposed to be in Cheshire,” she said severely, taking him to the parlor. “Rushton told me so.”

  “He was mistaken,” Matthew Powell replied curtly, laying his hat and gloves on a chair. He gave Dare a long, assessing look. “I must inform you, sir, that Ana never permitted me to do what I just saw you doing.” Turning back to Oriana, he intoned, “As for you, Madame—” His shoulders sagged, and he buried his face in his hands. “I cannot reproach you. You did not love me, or pretend that you could. Oh, the agonies I’ve suffered! Just when I believe I’m recovering from my rejection comes the torture of finding you in the arms of another. After all I’ve endured, the blow is too much to bear!” He drew a ragged sigh. “But bear it I must, else you will despise me.”

  Oriana returned to her desk. “I’ve not yet put away my writing paper—most fortunate. I’ll inform Mr.

  Sheridan of your return, for he may well require fresh talent at Drury Lane in the coming season. The choice is yours, Matthew—matrimony or a stage career. You cannot have both. Rushton is too stuffy to have a son-in-law treading the boards.”

  The young man marched across the room and snatched the quill from her hand. “You’re spoiling all my fun!”

  “As you told me at our last meeting, my cruelty knows no bounds.”

  Said Dare, “Sir, I find myself in sympathy with you. I’m well acquainted with those agonies and tortures you mentioned.”

  The visitor grinned at Dare. “I’m Matthew Powell. May I know your name?”

  “Sir Darius Corlett. Call me Dare.”

  Oriana, blushing to the roots of her hair, watched the two men shake hands.

  “I’m curious to know how you managed to overcome her prudery.”

  “Persistence,” said Dare, flashing a smile.

  “Not that I ever tried to kiss her,” he said. “She wouldn’t have let me, and I wasn’t brave enough to attempt it—with so many other chaps ogling her, I lived in fear of being challenged to a duel. I’ve got a healthy dislike of bullets and bloodshed, and my taste for melodrama does not extend to getting myself killed over Ana St. Albans.”

  Dare turned to Oriana. “Is he ever serious?”

  “Rarely. When he asked me to marry him, he was laughing. And he continued to laugh when I refused him.”

  “Because I was so damned tipsy. Too much brandy that night. I was addled, yes, and my memory is hazy at best. But you can’t deny that you were laughing, too. I thought you very unfeeling, for it’s no easy task, wooing the most renowned singer in London. Have a care how you treat Sir Dare, Ana. Be kinder to him than you were to me.”

  “Ingrate,” she accused him, “I did you a great kindness. My prudence saved your betrothal. When is the wedding to be?”

  “Soon, I hope. Only, there’s a snag, so tiresome-which is why I’m here. I’ve got a damned pesky problem, and to solve it I require the feminine perspective.”

  “I’ve caused more problems than I’ve ever cured,” she said frankly. “And I can’t imagine why you’d travel all the way from Cheshire to consult me, unless—” Narrowing her eyes, she asked suspiciously, “Have you quarreled with Lady Liza again?”

  “No. I’m being good as gold.”

  “With Rushton?”

  He shook his fair head. “The only time we had uncivil words, you were the cause.”

  She summoned Lumley with a tug on the bellpull, and requested a bottle of the good French brandy for her guests, and a glass of sherry for herself. “I want Sam to deliver this note to Mr. Simpson of Vauxhall,” she instructed her butler.

  While Oriana and Matthew chatted about the problem, Dare retreated to the desk to compose his acceptance of Sir Joseph’s invitation.

  “No more histrionics,” he heard Oriana say impatiently.

  “Trust me, my alarm is warranted. If you were in debt, you’d understand.”

  In explaining her fondness for Matthew Powell, Oriana had likened him to her late husband. Henry Julian, Dare deduced, must have been a merry fellow with bright hair and laughing eyes. She’d loved one enough to wed him, but not the other. That was a consolation and also a cause for concern. Never, never, young man, she’d sung a little while ago to Ned, will I be your woman—for I won’t marry, my own pleasure I will have. She must have said something very similar when turning down Powell’s offer of matrimony, doubtless substituting “pleasure” with “profession.” Her unwavering dedication to her art formed her decisions and ruled her actions.

  Dare wasn’t entirely sure why this young fellow’s drunken proposal had sent her flying off to Liverpool-and eventually to the Isle of Man—but he was glad of it.

  Regretting that he lacked the power to transfer this cozy domestic scene to Skyhill House—without the young Englishman and his financial problems—he returned to his letter.

  His dinner at Sir Joseph’s house would, he hoped, resemble the ones he’d enjoyed so much in Edinburgh. During these two years since Dr. Hutton’s death, he’d missed the opportunity to make scientific speculations and discuss intriguing observations with gentlemen who could appreciate them. His restricted social life on the island had grown wearisome, and though he greatly enjoyed the company of his cousin Tom and George Quayle and Buck Whaley, he couldn’t engage them in discussions of geology.

  A famili
ar carriage had halted before the door, and the butler soon announced the Earl of Rushton. As the nobleman entered Oriana’s parlor, Mr. Powell’s face sobered, and he bounded to his feet.

  Rushton cast wrathful eyes upon the young man. “You, sir, are not permitted to visit this house. Have you forgotten?”

  Matthew clenched his jaw, then said, “I answer only to Liza. She knew I meant to come.”

  In a sorrowful voice, Oriana said, “I’m accustomed to other people making the worst assumptions about my character, Rushton, but not you. Do you really think I’d carry on an intrigue with a gentleman in my front parlor, in broad daylight?”

  Matthew tugged at a trailing lock of her hair, and murmured, “Not your best defense, Ana. I was standing at your window long enough to know.”

  With less harshness, the earl said to Oriana, “Again and again I’ve warned you about the danger of this friendship with Matthew.” He directed a stony glance at Dare before adding, “You should be wary of forming any attachments that might do you harm.”

  “It’s far too late to remedy my lack of respectability. I hardly had any to lose. No effort of mine—or yours—can confer it upon me.”

  “I sincerely hope that time will prove you wrong,” the earl replied.

  Oriana cast desperate eyes upon Dare, wordlessly beseeching him to come to her aid.

  Calmly he declared, “Mr. Powell has been telling Madame St. Albans of his wish to wed your daughter as soon as possible.”

  “That’s right,” Matthew confirmed. “In fact, I assured him that Ana never once tried to undermine my morals. I’m not his rival.”

  Rushton didn’t appear to take comfort from this revelation. He turned to Oriana. “I trust you haven’t yet done something you will later regret. Need I remind you of your shame and distress after—”

  “I remember,” she interrupted him. “But I prefer to forget. Can we not discuss Parliament, or the progress of the war, or anything else?”

  Rushton softened his tone even more, and his expression. “I know how little you care for politics or war. I’ve come to speak on a topic of abiding interest to you: the theater.”