by Sally Orr
Berdy cleared his throat in obvious preparation to read. “A medical dictionary.” He opened the book to a random page. “Let’s see what it says… Breasts, in men they are very small, and chiefly for ornament.” He glanced at his chest. “Very true. Let’s try another.” He flipped the pages. “Generation, Parts of, proper to Women…” Shaking his head, he stopped reading aloud for a couple of seconds. “Evidently this female feature affords a great deal of delight. Hmm, I don’t understand that entry. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” Turning back to the front, he examined each page. “Acephalos. This is applied to monsters born without heads, of which there have been instances.” He looked up at her. “All of these medical terms are confusing. I think I’ll stick to reading the entries on diseases.” He read silently for several seconds. “Acne, a small pustule which arises usually about the time that the body is in full vigor. No! I understand that disease.” He pointed to his cheek. “I have acne. It must be so, because I have a pustule, and I am in full vigor.”
She kept her head down. “You are not full of vinegar.”
“This is important information for a fellow to know. Silly rhymes are not necessary.”
Her chest constricted as she indulged in a favorite memory of William’s response to one of her silly rhymes. He once asked, “How about a rhyme for the word orange?” While she had searched for an answer, his expression softened before he swept her into his arms and twirled her around. She answered, “Porange, gorange, torange,” in a whoosh of held breath and giggles. Her fists gently pounded his chest. He replied, “Fooled you, there is no rhyme for orange.” With a glorious smile, he dropped his head back and rolling laughter overcame him. That’s why she still played her rhyming game; with every silly rhyme she could hear William’s laugh.
“What is the next disease? Acor, it is sometimes used to express that sourness in the stomach contracted by indigestion, and from whence flatulencies and acid belching arise. No!” He slapped the page. “Last week, I suffered Acor after eating mutton pie, remember?” Lines of concern appeared on his forehead, and he quickly turned the page. “I have Agheustia. I have Aglutitio. Without doubt I have Agonia.”
“Berdy, please.”
“Elli. I have every disease mentioned so far, and I’m not out of the A’s. At this rate, by the time I reach the D’s, I’ll be—D—for dead.”
Tossing her needlework aside, she leaped up and snapped the book shut. “There, a simple cure. Now you will have to live.” She smiled like a mother witnessing the shock on her baby’s face after his first failure to stand. “If you have every disease in the book, it must be a great comfort to know you cannot get any sicker than you are today.” She gave him a rocking hug. “With your good nature, I’m certain you will live for a long time.”
“I’ll certainly do m’ best to live.” He covered his cravat knot with his hand to protect the folds from her hug. “But if I am called to Edinburgh, I must let the physicians give m’ diseases a poke or two for the betterment of mankind.”
She ruffled his hair. “Are you interested in the practice of medicine? Maybe a physician would be a good profession for you to consider, if life in the church doesn’t suit your tastes. Next week, when Dr. Potts and his daughter come to dine, we can discuss medicine as a possible living.”
He pulled away from her embrace and restored the random curly locks framing his face in the Venetian looking glass. “You promised me we would live in London for the Season, before I choose my living. Come to think of it, maybe I’ll marry well and won’t need a profession to become a gentleman of great consequence.”
She exhaled a long here-we-go-again sigh. His ever-changing expectations of future success caused her many restless nights. At seventeen, he could support himself on his living of one hundred pounds, complemented by whatever winnings his father sent when his purse strings were loosened by guilt. But this amount would never support a large family. So she could be a desperate mother and parade him around local young ladies, fishing for a sizable dowry, or steer him into a profession. One glance at the apple-green waistcoat confirmed the wiser choice was to find him a suitable living. “Please, love, gamesters like your father don’t win forever. Someday your additional funds might be cut off. You must obtain a profession to support yourself and not depend upon marriage.”
He turned sideways to check the hair on the back of his head in the looking glass above the fireplace. “Yes, but if I marry well, I won’t be stuck in some boring profession. I’ll be able to use my wife’s fortune to become a gentleman of leisure and style.” He tucked and untucked a single curl in front of his right ear.
The expected professions for an impoverished gentleman included the army, navy, church, or law. The first two would take him far from Cheshire, so they were out of the question. Instead, she would ask Henry to recommend law, and Dr. Potts to suggest suitable positions in medicine.
She silently tallied all the other gentlemen of her acquaintance, who might be of assistance, when Mr. Thornbury came to mind. His interests were varied and included the construction of canals, turnpikes, and manufactories. He was also rumored to be financially successful in the City on the exchange. But somehow she didn’t trust him enough to give an impressionable young man practical advice. Even if his handbook was written solely for the amusement of gentlemen in their London clubs, the vulgarity of the presumed content brought his taste into question. So while she couldn’t wait to watch all of her female friends fall under the spell of his masculine charm, she certainly did not want Berdy to emulate his successful flirting. Mr. Thornbury was therefore out of the question. “I have asked Henry to show you around the magistrate’s offices sometime next week. Please, you must refrain from using the word ‘boring’ in his presence. And remember, a respectable occupation will give you options, and options are always a good idea.”
“Yes, yes, don’t worry. Once I spend the Season in London, I’m confident m’ future will be a great success.” He resumed reading the lexicon.
Returning to William’s chair, she let her restless gaze move to the tall bookshelves before it continued upward to the white plasterwork of the ornate Gothic ceiling. Her sight locked on a line of the ceiling’s tracery. She followed the line under and over the other plaster lines until its path became lost in a jumbled Celtic knot.
She might lose Berdy after his stay in London. He’d fall in love, marry, and reside in the City close to his wife’s family. Since she would always remain at Pinnacles, close to her memories of William, she feared her future might be spent in isolation. She’d return to endless hours of “keeping busy” or staring outside at the rose garden. Doing her best to fight overwhelming melancholy whenever she spotted a drooping rose, its petals gone and the bud bare with age.
Berdy must have noticed her despondency, because he strode over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I’m sure you’ll be delighted with m’ new surprise. Guess what it is?”
She used the small amount of her remaining optimism to grin.
“I knew you would never guess my surprise. It’s a new dandy horse.”
“What!” She clutched his arm. “Pedestrian curricles are dangerous.”
“No, that flummery is just a rumor. I mean, what is the worst that could happen?”
Now she could no longer manage even a grin. “You might be killed.” The words escaped in an unsteady whisper.
“Oh, please forgive me.” He swiftly hugged her. “I did not mean to distress you with old memories. Besides, the dandy horse is not a real horse, so it won’t behave like an unpredictable brute that can kill a fellow. The dandy horse is a machine. And gentlemen like m’self can control machines.”
***
Once Berdy finished lunch, he fled the house in the direction of the village to retrieve his dandy horse. Custom-made to his exact dimensions by Mr. Rosson of London, the vehicle failed to arrive yesterday, so he knew it would arrive on to
day’s mail coach.
A brisk wind blew grim clouds overhead, but he believed providence would not let it rain until he had a chance to ride his new pedestrian curricle. By the time he reached the inn, the coach had arrived, and a large box bearing his name rested on the courtyard’s cobblestones.
For two agonizing hours, he paced to and fro while Smithy assembled his machine. Then the most technological conveyance made for a single gentleman—a gleaming yellow-and-black dandy horse—beckoned him to mount. The machine had two large in-line wheels, with the front wheel and attached handlebar pivoted for steering. The lucky owner straddled the center bar and sat upon a leather seat. He then propelled himself forward using his feet, rather like running while sitting down. Not even the largest stallion could compete with this two-wheeled machine as fashionable transport. The dandy horse was not a mere animal, but a machine crafted by man and made for gentlemen like him—a man who appreciated style and machinery.
After an hour of practice, during which the faces of the inn’s patrons turned from pointed curiosity to stifled merriment, he became confident in his control of the steering bar to turn the front wheel in the direction of home.
The return trip to Pinnacles proved more difficult than traveling the paved pathways of town. He feared the deep ruts on the road home made him look less than elegant. Luckily, he would not have this problem when he rode the smooth streets of London.
Minutes later, he suffered a small accident accompanied by a great deal of pain, the type of pain felt only by men. Of course, Mrs. Symthe happened to walk by as he was going to grab—but he refrained and gave her an innocent smile.
Mrs. Symthe quickened her pace toward town.
Once he reached the road along the Blackwell estate, he noticed a tall, unknown gentleman on a dappled gray and decided here was his chance to impress a typical appreciative bystander. No doubt one similar to admirers he might find in London. So he lengthened his stride—to present a clean line from his hip to his toe—and looked up to wave. “Ho-ho.” The wind blew the ends of his cravat over his eyes. Unable to see the road in front of him, he hit a rock. “Ho-ho-up!” he yelled, catapulting over his dandy horse. Both man and machine flew into the air and landed with a heavy thunk.
Five
Early the following morning, Elinor stood before Blackwell’s giant front door and repeatedly slammed the brass lion knocker.
The Thornburys’ butler, Rowbottom, greeted her, a twinkle in his steel-blue eyes. He then swung the door wide and stepped aside for her to enter.
“Good morning, Rowbottom. How is Berdy today?” After Berdy’s accident, Mr. Thornbury had taken him to Blackwell and called the local surgeon. Later that afternoon, he also informed her friend, Dr. Potts, and invited him to visit. The doctor assured her Berdy’s injury was nothing more than a bad sprain and perhaps a fracture of a small bone in his foot. But today Elinor worried if Dr. Potts might have been wrong, and Berdy had a more serious injury. What if his injury had festered overnight, and her cherished nephew denied the chance to reach manhood? An active imagination: the bane of all mothers.
Rowbottom took her grass-colored shawl, straw bonnet, and buff kid gloves. “Mr. Deane is well, and you will be delighted to hear he has improved since yesterday. He ate a significant breakfast and is now sleeping. I understand from Mr. Thornbury that Dr. Potts is expected here sometime this morning.”
“Oh, I don’t wish to disturb him, but I must take a peek though. Is that all right?”
Rowbottom nodded, a smile of approval crossing his once handsome, aquiline face. He led her upstairs and opened the sickroom door.
Berdy was indeed asleep, and even from across the room, she could see a healthy blush upon his cheeks. Now with Berdy safe and her anxieties lessened, she resolved to find Mr. Thornbury. Yesterday, she lacked the presence of mind to adequately thank him for Berdy’s rescue, so today she must give him proper thanks. He saved a young man, fetched the surgeon, then opened his home to strangers. One expected no less from an English gentleman, so she doubted he would repeat his forward behavior again.
Maybe Henry and society had misjudged him? In the excitement of believing the man to be a scoundrel, they failed to give him appropriate credit for his actions that revealed a heroic character. All this famous rake business might be an exaggeration arising from his inherently droll conversation and outrageous charm. Two of her friends had expressed doubts about the mistress rumors, as well. So if the right moment arose—she did not want to offend him—she would ask about the foundry rumor. She even took precautions and wore the snake bracelet today, though she probably would not need its painful pinch. “Is Mr. Thornbury at home, Rowbottom?”
Rowbottom indicated his employer was engaged in pistol practice on the lawn. Walking in the measured slowness appropriate in a good butler, he led her to Blackwell’s vast library and swung open the double doors.
Elinor stepped out onto a stone terrace with a commanding view of the Cheshire countryside on a sunny summer’s day. White cotton clouds marched overhead in unison with their dark shadows rolling across undulating emerald fields. The faint sounds of cowbells rang in the distance. Her spirits lightened from the stunning prospect before her.
Rowbottom announced her, nodded respectfully, and returned to the house.
Mr. Thornbury held a pistol up, aimed in the direction of a straw target, and turned his head upon her approach. His wine-colored coat, gray wool trousers, and a shirt the color of the richest cream gave him a casual air.
By now she knew him well enough to realize the dark forelock covering one eye was habitual. He probably had no idea that—for some unexplained reason—the sight made her throat dry. “Good day,” she called. “I understand Berdy had a good night?”
He grinned broadly. “Welcome, Mrs. Colton. Yes, you will be pleased with your nephew’s improvement. Dr. Potts is expected here sometime soon, so we’ll get a report on his condition.”
“I’m delighted to hear that. I also wish to thank you for—”
He fired the pistol.
She leaned sideways to get a clear view but saw no evidence of a hit. “If you had taken the time to aim, you might have hit the target.”
“I think you’ll find that shot satisfactory,” he countered in the barely perceptible tone of an affronted male.
Was he boasting? She marched toward the target placed a hundred feet away, and he followed. Once she drew near, she discovered his shot had hit dead center. “Why, you did aim.” She turned to face him. “You have an excellent eye.”
For a brief second his radiant smile appeared. “Yes, and not only for targets.”
The all-too-familiar heat from his rakish innuendo began to simmer on her cheeks. She gulped and found her throat dry. Heavens. She told herself she was safe from his palpable charms, because she wore her snake bracelet. Not the best of her ideas, but it was her only idea. “May I take a shot?”
“You can shoot? When did pistol practice eclipse singing as a feminine accomplishment?”
“When my father didn’t have a son. With no son to teach manly pursuits, he taught me instead. Unfortunately, there are unpleasant consequences of my unique upbringing. I’m very poor at needlework, you see.”
“Regrettable tragedy.” He rubbed his chin. “Explains your fondness for coarse fishing. Although you must possess some of the requisite accomplishments.” He lazily surveyed her. “Can you sing?”
“Ah, a common question.” She flashed him a sly smile. “When you squeeze a frog, I can sing the exact tune.”
He chuckled. “Sounds harmonious. Can you play?”
“After you squeeze the frog, his arms stiffly shoot out—”
“Your technique?”
“Precisely.”
He laughed freely, a happy, rumbling sound.
She laughed too, and they started back to the terrace. The day was warm, calm, and a bird
chattered somewhere close. Gazing up at the rear of Blackwell Hall, she delighted in the house’s situation. All it needed was a garden to complement the scenery. “I find it strange the back of the house has just a lawn and lacks a garden. Imagine how beautiful a formal rose garden would look. In the evening, you could sit on a willow bench while enjoying the perfume of China roses warmed by the day’s sun. Do you know why no formal gardens were planted?”
“No,” he replied, his arms moving in a slight swing as they walked back uphill. “Mother has yet to mention the landscape. She is interested only in new furniture and her tasty weeds.”
“Pardon?” She caught the laughter playing in the corner of his eyes.
“Pineapples. Mother is making use of the pinery glasshouse to grow pineapples.”
“Oh.” Her arms swung in a rhythm matching his, so she clasped her hands behind her back. “Mr. Thornbury, I cannot thank you enough for your hospitality while Berdy recovers at Blackwell.”
He halted too and appeared to be considering his next words.
She faced him directly. “Also, I cannot forget your quick actions immediately after the accident.” She unclasped her hands. “When you rescued Berdy and brought him here, I mean. I’d hate to think of the outcome had I found him by myself.”
“I’m glad he’s feeling better. No thanks are necessary.” He paused. “I understand you are rearing your nephew.”
“Yes, ever since my sister’s death. She had hopes of him entering the clergy, rather than following in his father’s footsteps and becoming a gamester.”
