Improper Advances

by Margaret Evans Porter

  Dare didn’t like the way Oriana smiled back at the earl. “Really? They do say there’s a first time for everything.”

  “Has Matthew informed you of our plan to stage a play at Rushton Hall?”

  “He was just beginning to when you came in.”

  “The popularity of amateur theatricals continues unabated, and the young people of Cheshire are not immune. Soon I shall hold my annual shooting party, and Matthew and Liza are determined to entertain the guests with dramatics.”

  “We’ll use the orangery for our theater,” Matthew told Oriana. “And we want you to help us choose a suitable piece, and manage the actors.”

  “I’m not able to leave London until after the Vauxhall grand gala.”

  “We can promise you excellent dinners,” said Rushton. “Grouse shooting begins on twelfth August, and we’ll be out every day with our guns. Matthew speaks highly of your ability to manage a group of dilettanti.”

  “That’s how we met,” the young man informed Dare.

  “I used to perform with a group of amateur players, and she assisted us. I say, Ana, wouldn’t it be fun to attempt Pizarro? I picked up a copy at the bookseller’s.”

  “You could’ve had mine, and saved yourself two shillings and sixpence.”

  “We’ve small hope of success without you,” Matthew persisted.

  “My friend Harriot Mellon will soon be at liberty,” Oriana informed him. “And she’s in Liverpool, just half a day’s journey from Rushton Hall. As a member of the Drury Lane company, she’s familiar with Sheridan’s works and their staging.”

  The earl responded, “We could welcome her assistance. But only you can provide the music. We are content to delay our gathering until such time as you are able to join us.”

  After the nobleman and Mr. Powell departed, Oriana moved about the room in agitation. Pausing at the looking glass, she repositioned her St. Albans lion brooch.

  Dare went to help her. When pinning the gold disk to her bodice, his fingers curled under the edge of the fabric to brush her warm, bare skin.

  “In all the years I’ve known Rushton,” she said, “he’s never once suggested that I visit his estate. I can’t imagine why he’s so adamant about it now.”

  He didn’t want her thinking about the earl when his hand was inside her dress. Masking his displeasure, and his dread that she might desert him yet again, Dare asked, “Will you go?”

  “Not without you,” she promised before kissing him.

  Chapter 23

  The sight of his host’s galleried library, with its skylight overhead, made Dare long for the day when his bookshelves and display cabinets would be as full. His collections, however, were not yet so vast that they required a librarian to catalog them. Mr. Dryander, a scholarly Swede, diligently sorted through a stack of scientific volumes. He resumed his duties as soon as his employer led Dare out of the narrow room.

  Sir Joseph Banks took him to a private study, decorated with portraits and busts of brilliant men and crowded with cabinets and bookcases. A broad window overlooked a courtyard. Picking up Dare’s treatise from a baize-covered desk, he settled in an armchair.

  “I’m curious about this document of yours,” he said, his finger tapping the cover page. “What prompted its creation?”

  “A lifelong fascination with my native island’s landscape—and my curiosity about its origins. Since boyhood I’ve rambled over the mountains and through the glens, or sailed the coastline, trying to avoid the cliffs and rocks. Years later I recognized that their substance and layering and compaction matched what I’d seen when touring Scotland with Dr. Hutton and his associates.”

  Dare prowled the room while speaking about the mentor who had inspired and encouraged him.

  “His illness prevented him from visiting Man—he suggested that I conduct the geological investigation myself. After collecting facts and refining my speculations, I paid a printer in Douglas to make up a few copies for my friends. My project is by no means complete—someday I shall make additions to the text, and include illustrations that clarify my observations.”

  “I hope your enthusiasm for your project didn’t die with Hutton.”

  “No. I did, however, set it aside to design and construct a villa. That, and other matters, temporarily distracted me from geological writing.” His love affair with an alluring Englishwoman was his current distraction.

  “Your contribution to scientific literature will provoke controversy,” Sir Joseph warned.

  “I welcome it. I based my conclusions on direct observation—the evidence is there for anyone to see.

  My island may be compact—thirty-two miles from top to bottom, thirteen miles wide—but it’s a splendid proving ground for Hutton’s theories. He found his answers along Scotland’s coast. Mine were waiting at Maughold Head and Langness and the Stack of Scarlett, where wind and sea have worn away the surface of the rocks and cliffs, exposing their inner structure.”

  His listener’s keen eyes followed his movements attentively. “You subscribe to the prevailing theory that all rocks derive from the floor of a primeval ocean?”

  “I do.”

  Returning Dare’s treatise, Sir Joseph commented, “You are at odds with the vast majority of geological scientists, who declare that granite is the original and thus the oldest type of stone.”

  “I concur with Hutton. Granite is igneous.” Dare searched the pages for the section he wanted, then read, “The Manx granites have undergone immense and various changes over time, judging from the number and types of crystals contained therein. There is clear evidence of igneous intrusion where the flow of molten granite penetrates the edges of the neighboring rock and remains there in clearly identifiable veins, differently colored. This granite, therefore, is of a later age than the rocks it has disrupted.’”

  His technical description of the phenomenon was also, he realized, an accurate description of his relationship with Oriana. She was the vulnerable slate, jostled and broken from cataclysmic events. He was molten granite, spreading into her cracks, and filling them to the greatest possible extent. But as he knew, even the most outwardly solid and substantial rocks were in a state of change. Stasis was impossible in the natural world—equally true for human relations.

  Looking up, he said, “Any granite samples in your collection will affirm the validity of my conclusion.”

  The baronet left his chair and went to a cabinet. From one of its many drawers he took a fist-sized brown rock. “Will this serve?”

  Dare inspected it carefully. On the underside, he found a narrow and jagged seam of white quartz.

  Tracing its path with his finger, he declared, “The granite existed when these crystals formed inside the crevice. This small specimen refutes the theory that crystalline rocks are older than all the rest.”

  Banks returned the rock to its case.

  “As Hutton pointed out,” Dare went on, “from the mountains to the seashore, everything is in a constant, though gradual, state of flux.” Unable to keep still, he gestured with his hands, pounding and pushing the air with his fist to accent his steady flow of words. “We do not notice the action as it occurs, only the results. Rocks break down and dissolve to become soil, the rains and rivers carry that soil to the sea, and the agitation of the waves wears away the coastline. As it has been, so it is now, and ever shall be.” After a pause for breath, he added, “Hutton explains it much better in Theory of the Earth, with Proofs and Illustrations.”

  “With so energetic a disciple,” Banks commented, “his legacy is assured. But still I wonder whether these interesting assumptions can ever gain prominence.”

  The doubt in the older gentleman’s tone compelled Dare to say, “Physical proofs of radical geological theories exist, sir—I’ve seen them myself. Before I met Hutton, I couldn’t clearly understand what exactly I was seeing.”

  “My personal engraver, Mr. Mackenzie, can assist you by making plates of any pictures you wish to include in your report. He
maintains a studio here, in the basement. I agree that you should illustrate your findings—that would be helpful.”

  “I could do it now, if I had paper and a pen.”

  Sir Joseph instantly provided both.

  Remaining on his feet, Dare leaned over the table to produce the familiar, craggy outline of a Manx rock formation, sketching it with vertical and horizontal lines. After he’d added some shading and texture, he said, “This represents a rock I’ve examined on St. Patrick’s Isle at Peel.” He used the quill to point out the curving layers. “See how this slate has been compacted, then pushed upright? Originally these were layers of sediment on the ocean’s floor. Over time, through many continuing cycles of heating and cooling, they were dramatically tilted and crumpled and folded.”

  “Yes, I do see.” Said the baronet thoughtfully, “I’ve participated in many scientific expeditions, and I’ve sent explorers around the globe to discover as much as possible about our vast planetary home. Like your Scotsman friend, you’ve assisted science without straying terribly far from your birthplace. Some of my geologist acquaintances might care to hear your defense of Huttonian theory. In November, my Thursday morning scientific meetings will resume, as will my regular Sunday evening dinner parties. If you’re still in London, I’ll see that you receive an invitation.”

  “If I’m in London,” Dare replied, uncertain whether he would be, “and invited, I shall attend.”

  “I daresay our discussions resemble those you had with Hutton and his associates.”

  “But in Edinburgh, nobody may participate without first declaring his preference for one of the rival theories, Neptunian or Huttonian.”

  “Informed debate is a necessary component of scientific advancement,” Banks asserted. “Our Thursday breakfast gatherings are open to men only—the conversation is scientific and ideological. The dinners, while not as elegant or sophisticated as those given by my charming neighbor on the other side of the square, include ladies, and the topics are more general.” Rising, he rubbed his hands together. “Now, sir, you must allow me to weigh you. When you’ve removed your boots and coat, you shall sit upon my scale.”

  Dare submitted to this curious command, following his host to an alcove where the apparatus was located. Obediently he lowered his body onto its seat, as though he were a Newmarket jockey after a race.

  “Now I must add you to the record,” said the baronet, taking from his shelves a stout book with a leather cover. “Corlett, Sir Darius. Thirteen stone, seven and a half pounds. You are very lean, for a man so large.”

  At his host’s insistence, Dare glanced through the alphabetized sections, and saw how the weights of all the members of the Banks household had increased over the years—with the exception of Mab the dog. “Ten pounds,” he commented. “She must be a very small animal.”

  Farther on, he found the names and weights of aristocrats, authors, and geniuses of science. The addition of his obscure name to this impressive record made him feel as though he’d been admitted to a very select group. He rejoiced at his acceptance by this odd, brusque, and fascinating supporter of many remarkable discoveries and innovations.

  He’d come to this house prepared to stand up for his beliefs. He left it determined to revise and submit his composition for publication by the Royal Society. Election to the membership would place him at the pinnacle of achievement, but he knew better than to set his hopes so high.

  Impatient to tell Oriana about his meeting with Sir Joseph, he gazed at the house on the other side of Soho Square. But she was across the river at Vauxhall, singing with Ned. He must swallow his frustration and refrain from complaint when his need of her clashed with her professional obligations. His happiness was built upon an uncertain foundation, and he couldn’t be sure how much strife it would withstand.

  Oriana’s desire to escape the crowded theater was tempered by a reluctance to curtail Ned Crowe’s pleasure, and by the civility due her friends Mick Kelly and Mrs. Crouch, who had kindly shared their box at the Haymarket.

  Although she didn’t dislike The Daughter, a new comedy unfolding on the stage below, its deficiencies were apparent to one who had endured so many similar productions. The perennially popular device involving false identities was the chief reason she wasn’t enjoying this performance as much as Ned, who chortled at every joke. On stage, when truth was revealed, forgiveness was instantly bestowed.

  Real life is different, she thought, clapping at the conclusion of Mrs. Bland’s song. Thomas Teversal’s evasions and lies had broken her heart. Time had mended the crack but couldn’t eradicate the scar.

  By calling herself Mrs. Julian and disavowing her profession, she’d set herself up for trouble. Dare’s discovery that she was also Ana St. Albans had shattered his faith in her honesty and had roused his anger. From the distance of several months, her early mistakes loomed larger than they had when she’d committed them, and now her conscience was heavier than it had been in Liverpool.

  But if she hadn’t presented herself to him as a respectable widow, he wouldn’t have allowed her to live at Glen Auldyn for a memorable month of well-intentioned masquerade.

  Their affair was taking its toll on her nerves. Although Dare seldom visited her house, they met in secret. Because they hadn’t yet settled on a place where they could indulge their desire for each other, she was in a persistent state of yearning. In the hours following their brief, surreptitious encounters, she lay wakeful upon her lonely bed, her emotions in a tempest and her chaotic mind eagerly plotting out their next meeting.

  After the curtain fell on the final tableau, she and her companions chatted about the performance. She was grateful to Mick Kelly for treating Ned so kindly, and told him so when the young man left the box to approach a fruit seller.

  “It would be wrong,” he declared, eyes twinkling, “for a wine merchant’s son to put on airs of superiority. Young Crowe is my equal in talent, is he not?”

  “In truth, my dear,” Mrs. Crouch said, smiling, “the Manxman’s skill on the violin far exceeds yours.”

  “His popularity with the Vauxhall audiences is great,” Oriana informed them. “He wasn’t prepared for so much attention, after all his years living on the island, yet he thrives on it. He says he never worked so hard, not even in Sir Darius Corlett’s lead mine.”

  “Ours is a demanding art,” Mick concurred. “Signor Corri tells me that you are diligently preparing yourself for the rigors of opera. I am hopeful of soon restoring you to the exalted position to which your vocal gifts entitle you.”

  Bathed in his warm and luxuriant praise, she was in a cheerful mood when the Earl of Rushton entered the box.

  “Still in town, my lord?” she asked in surprise. “His Majesty prorogued Parliament a fortnight ago.”

  Her surprise increased when Matthew Powell followed the earl. “Shouldn’t you both be at Rushton Hall?”

  “Business in Downing Street kept me here,” his lordship replied.

  “I couldn’t tear myself away from town without drinking to your health,” the younger man said gaily.

  “Come into the box lobby and take a glass of wine with us.”

  Oriana suspected Matthew’s stay had everything to do with his effort to settle his debts. She left her chair and accompanied them to the adjoining saloon, where refreshments were sold and served to the theater patrons.

  “My daughter met with Miss Mellon in Chester and engaged her to direct the Rushton Hall players,” the earl announced. “The chosen piece is The Critic, the satiric comedy by Sheridan, far more suitable for young ladies and gentlemen than Pizarro.”

  Oriana was pleased to hear that her friend had secured the Kingsleys’ patronage. “Harri will manage it splendidly.”

  “But we still require your musical expertise,” Matthew interjected. “Would you join our revels if they included your cavaliere servante?”

  This smiling query greatly impaired her serenity. “I can’t imagine whom you mean.”

  �
�Ana, Ana,” he chided, “you know perfectly well I’m talking about Corlett, the Manxman you acquired during your travels.”

  She regarded the earl uncertainly. “Do you endorse the invitation, Rushton, or is this one of Matthew’s teases?”

  “I will agree to any plan that ensures your presence at Rushton Hall,” he stated.

  “I’m not sure Sir Darius would accept.”

  “I’ll wager he does,” Matthew predicted.

  When the evening’s entertainment came to an end, Oriana and Ned bade their theater companions farewell. She endured some good-natured teasing from Mrs. Crouch on her eccentric choice of summer cloak, a full-length, hooded garment of black silk.

  “The high price of fame,” Mick Kelly jested. “Even in the depths of night she must travel the town as an incognita, to avoid being mobbed.”

  A hackney delivered Oriana and a visibly weary Ned to Soho. After dropping him at Morland’s Hotel, she returned to her square. At her orders, the jarvey halted at the entrance to the gardens, and she pulled up her hood and fastened her cloak before leaving the vehicle.

  Oriana’s midnight assignations with Dare occurred as often as the weather permitted, on evenings when she had social engagements. They relied on a simple signal—if she intended to meet him, in the morning she placed her cherished pelargonium plant outside the front door, ostensibly to partake of the fresh air and summer sun shine. During the day, when making his rounds of the furniture-makers or consulting with Sir Joseph’s engraver, he passed near her house.

  She reached into her reticule for the iron key that unlocked the garden gate. A tall, dark figure emerged from the surrounding darkness, and silently followed her into the enclosure. The night sky was thick with low hanging clouds, which seemed to scrape the rooftops of the houses forming the boundaries of the square.

  As soon as they reached the sheltered rendezvous place, he took her into his arms for a heady kiss.

  “I’m late tonight,” she apologized, as St. Anne’s great bell clanged once. “Ned would stay for the farce, and I didn’t like to spoil his fun by leaving before it ended. And then it seemed we’d never escape from Mick Kelly, he talks on and on—” Interrupted by Dare’s demanding mouth, she abandoned her explanation.