The Rake's Handbook

by Sally Orr

  “Ross, I was wondering,” Berdy said, “do rakes need fashionable attire to be successful? You know, must they wear a stunning cravat to impress the ladies?”

  Dr. Potts huffed. “What is your experience with the ladies? Cease this foolishness, Deane. Mr. Thornbury and I have serious adult matters to discuss.” He turned his chair, so he could confront Mr. Thornbury directly. “I know Mrs. Colton objects to discussing the foundry today. But I have a responsibility as the town’s physician to inform you of its dangers. Our farmers will not be pleased if you poison the water with soot-filled effluent. People like Mr. Mabbs depend upon clean water for their cattle and sheep. Can you build your foundry elsewhere on your estate? A place far from the river and Mrs. Colton’s house. Perhaps—”

  “Let’s discuss this some other time,” she said, giving the doctor a hard stare before rising to slam the window shut.

  Mr. Thornbury’s gaze followed her to the window and back. “At its current location, the works are far enough upstream that foul water will not be a problem to livestock.”

  After a minute of awkward silence, Berdy said, “Ross, surely a fine knot is the uniform of the rake.”

  “Berdy, please,” she pleaded.

  “I’m sorry to disappoint you, young man, but I am no longer a rake. When young”—Mr. Thornbury glanced at her—“I was…associated with a famous opera singer. Because we were seen together in public, I earned the title Rake. The word is overused, in my opinion, and seems to have several meanings. From behavior that is nothing more than public flirtations to more libertine propensities. So learn from my mistakes. The reputation men make in their youth—whether ill or good—follows them for a lifetime. Being a rake is a bad business all around, and that behavior can have disastrous effects upon your family. Today I get pleasure from my business endeavors. For example, our new foundry will be a success for all of its investors, provide employment, and power England into the future. I’m convinced of that. But I suppose young men will always spend their time thinking about females.”

  Berdy squared his shoulders. “I don’t think about ladies all of the time. I think about a number of important subjects.” He paused. “Subjects like knots. Success as a man must include how well a fellow ties his neckcloth.”

  She made no attempt to dampen his enthusiasm, since he appeared to improve in spirits minute by minute and felt happier discussing knots rather than his leg. She’d save more serious discussions about the lease to a later date.

  Mr. Thornbury settled back in his chair and crossed his long legs. “Do ladies notice cravats? I thought they might glance elsewhere first.”

  She widened her eyes and refused to reply to his outrageous comment.

  “Just a thought,” Mr. Thornbury said, noticing her blush, “from recent personal experience down by the lake.”

  “Oh.” The nerve of the man. Her previous glances had been spontaneous and quite normal. Should she laugh or crawl under the bed in mortification?

  Berdy slapped the counterpane. “Yes, ladies notice. A man’s neckcloth is everything. When I go to London, I’m sure the ladies will be impressed by m’ new knot. There’s no better way to achieve recognition than sartorial excellence.”

  “I see—a new Beau Brummell,” Mr. Thornbury said. “Well, I emulate the German students I encountered on the Grand Tour and often enjoy an open shirt in private.”

  “An open shirt,” Dr. Potts exclaimed. “What a shocking lack of propriety. I feel for your poor mother.”

  “I’m sure a mother who loves her son would never censure an innocent pleasure,” Elinor said.

  Mr. Thornbury inhaled deeply, held her gaze, then grinned.

  Berdy continued without pause. “Why don’t you take satisfaction in a stunning neckcloth? Have you read Neckclothalotta?” Berdy’s features brightened. “Neckclothalotta illustrates many fine examples of the more challenging knots. For my current favorite, you need a high collar up to the ears and at least seven folds. It’s called The Liberator.”

  “Sounds restrictive,” Mr. Thornbury said.

  Elinor hiccuped and furtively glanced at Dr. Potts. Unfortunately, that gentleman failed to appreciate Mr. Thornbury’s humor and seemed to be formulating his next confrontation with their host.

  Mr. Thornbury chuckled. “I cannot believe someone wrote a book on neckcloths. It’s satire, I hope?”

  “Satire?” Berdy furrowed his brow.

  Dr. Potts pounded his fist on the arm of his chair. “Honestly, Deane. Mr. Thornbury and I have serious matters to discuss. Now, since you intend to proceed with your foundry, I must inform you every gentleman”—he glanced at Elinor—“womankind too, has a right to the flow of water without alteration.” Dr. Potts’s expectant expression appeared to seek her approval for his badly timed speech. “Here in England, my fellow physicians brought about these laws to stop the construction of privies over streams.”

  “Dr. Potts.” She nodded in Berdy’s direction, a clear hint to end this offensive discussion once and for all.

  The doctor ignored her. “Let me finish. I—”

  “Do you realize,” Mr. Thornbury said, “the foundry will also be for the public good? At least sixty to a hundred men will be given employment. Many of our poor will find work and no longer have to depend upon the charity of our parish.”

  “That is of no consequence,” Dr. Potts stated. “Our poor can find work if they put their minds to it.” He picked up her hand. “Now don’t be worried about the cost of prosecution. Mr. Mabbs, I’m sure, will help you share the costs of—”

  “I insist you stop this discussion now.” She yanked her hand out of his. “We will speak of the matter at a more appropriate date.” The good doctor, in her opinion, had become too presumptuous.

  A tense silence followed.

  She and Mr. Thornbury held each other’s gaze, like old friends who could communicate their feelings with a mere glance. The empathy expressed in his eyes convinced her that he understood her exasperation created by the doctor’s attacks.

  “L’Americaine,” Berdy said, reclaiming everyone’s attention. “It’s a favorite knot of mine. A difficult tie to get just right. First, you hold your head up and then scrunch the linen down fold by fold, like this.” Berdy raised his chin and wrapped his soiled cravat around his neck. “You lower your chin thus to achieve each perfect fold.” He concentrated on slowly lowering his head. “Not too fast. Your chin is not a hammer.” He then took a full minute to produce one perfect crease. “The other difficulty is that, with so many folds, it takes an hour to tie.”

  Mr. Thornbury chuckled. “I can think of many things I’d rather do with an hour.” He grinned at her. “For example…reading a good handbook.”

  “Oh.” She coughed on purpose to mask the eruption of a spontaneous giggle.

  “It’s not a good idea to waste time on a knot,” Mr. Thornbury continued. “You’re too young to remember Viscount N. One morning he took so long to tie his cravat—he missed his own duel. Reputation ruined, of course.”

  “No,” she said, laughing freely. He really was a complete hand.

  Berdy calmly continued, “Did you know m’ favorite knot is—”

  “Cease!” Dr. Potts exclaimed. He jumped to his feet and yanked on the bottom of his puce waistcoat. “If you continue to speak flummery, no one will heed you. A mature gentleman must be able to converse upon every subject, but that does not include neckcloths. Now, Mr. Thornbury, perhaps you can move your foundry south.”

  “Dr. Potts, please stop.” She stood to face him. “Enough.”

  “Stop? Why? After that behavior I witnessed on the lawn, do you have some understanding with this man?”

  “No! Of course not. You are being offensive. Please stop.”

  The doctor turned to Mr. Thornbury and continued. “If you change your transportation plans to include wagonways to send your engi
nes to market, it will lessen the adverse effects on the river. Perhaps I should make our objections known to Lady Helen. She will support our suit, I’m sure.”

  “I’m warning you. Leave Lady Helen out of this matter.” Mr. Thornbury seemed to dampen his rising temper and spoke evenly. “Let me repeat again: the site cannot be moved. Wagonways would be difficult, because we’d have to cut through the high rock on the east side of Blackwell.”

  Her host’s carefree smile vanished, so she tried to appease him. “That sounds expensive.”

  “Yes,” Mr. Thornbury said. “The profits would quickly disappear in transportation costs.”

  She could not bear him being put upon any longer. Maybe in her panic at the thought of Pinnacles’ destruction, she had been unjust. Now that she had witnessed his kind behavior toward Berdy, he seemed like a reasonable gentleman. He even warned Berdy about the ease of losing one’s reputation.

  As for his previous kiss on her neck, he must have been surprised by her refusal. So she decided to forgive him. She still had doubts about the foundry, but at least she could show her gratitude by agreeing to his earlier request and join him to visit a working industrial chimney. Together they would observe the amount of smoke and then come to a mutual agreement whether the soot might damage her home. “In appreciation for your efforts on Berdy’s behalf, I will agree to visit a working steam engine with a similar chimney to the one you plan—if your offer still stands. This is not a formal agreement of your lease, you understand. I merely want to view the situation for myself.”

  Mr. Thornbury did not say anything at first. After scanning her expression, perhaps to determine if she was in earnest, his stunning smile appeared. “Thank you. I’ll make the arrangements.”

  “I’m sure you want me to escort you, of course,” the doctor said.

  “No,” she said with a firm voice. “Thank you, but I’m old enough that an escort is not necessary, and I don’t want to take you away from your patients.” Granted, she had a few doubts about whether she could resist Mr. Thornbury’s charm on the journey, but if she remained steadfast, there should be no future loss of proprieties and certainly no opportunity for him to kiss her.

  “Take my advice. You need an escort. Don’t you understand this man wrote The Rake’s Handbook and cannot be trusted around women?”

  Berdy brightened. “Did you write a handbook, Ross? I’d dearly love to read it if it is all about how to be a rake.”

  “Deane, you are too young to read such a vulgar book,” the doctor snapped.

  Berdy sat straight in excitement. “Have you read it, sir?”

  The doctor cleared his throat. “Of course.” He glared at Berdy. “Well, let’s just say I looked into the matter after I witnessed your aunt—”

  “Now I question whether anyone in Cheshire has read it,” Elinor stated.

  “Is it amusing, Dr. Potts? Tell me all about it.” Without a reply from the doctor, Berdy turned to Ross. “Do you have a copy of the handbook? I’d be immensely grateful if you let me borrow it.”

  “No, I did not think of bringing a copy here to the countryside,” Mr. Thornbury stated. “I apologize.”

  After an awkward silence, Dr. Potts held his hand out to her. “You know my concerns. I’ll take my leave now, but we will speak of this later. May I escort you home?”

  Mr. Thornbury rose from his chair, headed for the door, then turned to address Berdy. “After the doctor leaves, I’ll return with more cravats, so you can teach this old dog a trick or two about the perfect knot.”

  She smiled at him before giving her hand to the doctor in farewell. “Thank you. But I prefer to stay with Berdy while he is feeling poorly.”

  “Very well,” the doctor said. “Deane, you and I must discuss your intentions later. Real intentions, none of this vulgar rake nonsense. Thornbury, I’ll take my leave of you for the present. But unless you want to meet before the King’s Bench, I suggest you stop your plans for a foundry.” He bowed slightly, and Mr. Thornbury followed him out of the room.

  Berdy fussed with his neckcloth in preparation for his return.

  Judging from Mr. Thornbury’s ability to keep Berdy from fretting over his leg, she gained confidence that he would see to Berdy’s eventual recovery and amusement while he remained at Blackwell.

  Berdy held up his long white cravat. “The rain after the accident must have washed out the starch. Look at this—limp—dead. A fellow can never be caught in public with a neckcloth like this.”

  She began to harbor guilt that the doctor’s accusations had offended Mr. Thornbury. It was difficult to tell, because even after threats, his lighthearted banter remained. Mr. Thornbury’s patience and charm were an admirable aspect of his manners, and she liked this side of his character. In the future she hoped they would become fast friends. The other side, the flirtatious rake side, she knew how to keep in check now—a simple, firm “no.”

  Mr. Thornbury returned with his arms full of white neckcloths. “My current cravat inventory is scandalous. Will these do?” He laid the neckcloths at the foot of the bed, picked up the top one, and handed it to Berdy. “Show me how to tie L’Americaine.”

  Berdy leaned forward to grab the tie. “Ow!” He crashed back onto the pillows, the cravat pile spilling across the floor.

  Mr. Thornbury, without comment, picked up the spilled neckcloths. He folded them neatly into an orderly pile on the counterpane. Pulling up the ends of his collar, he took the tie from Berdy’s clinched fist. “I hope L’Americaine doesn’t require a whale bone. I don’t wear cravats with stiffeners.”

  Yes. She was glad she had agreed to visit a mine’s chimney, a small token of thanks for his attentions to Berdy. She doubted she’d find the smoke acceptable, but that knowledge might be useful in persuading others against his foundry. He might even see the impossibility of chimneys near a residence and change his plans. The trip might also be to Berdy’s advantage. The journey would give her the opportunity to appeal for his assistance in acquainting Berdy with the industrial gentlemen of the age. Gentlemen who earned livings as successful engineers, factory owners, and canal builders.

  The subject of neckcloths lessened Berdy’s distress, for he opened his eyes and started to speak without a grimace. “No stiffeners, lightly starched will do. Just bring the first pass around under your chin. Yes, like that. Now jut out your jaw and nod your head down to put a purposeful crease—not a vulgar crease—in the center.”

  “How is this?” Wearing a sly grin, Mr. Thornbury faithfully executed the young man’s instructions.

  Berdy tilted his head to observe the side view of Mr. Thornbury’s cravat. “You want the folds to look spontaneous. Like they just fell into place. A true spontaneous effect requires a great deal of practice.”

  “Then why don’t you tie a square knot and be done with it?” she said.

  “Ladies don’t know anything about neckcloths,” Berdy countered.

  She exchanged smiles with Mr. Thornbury, thankful for his efforts to divert Berdy’s mind from his foot. “I don’t see the crime in having an eschewed cravat,” she said. “Sometimes a roomful of crooked cravats makes the company merrier.”

  Mr. Thornbury winked.

  Berdy’s eyes widened. “You can’t be serious. A fellow can have the shiniest boots and the finest coat, but it is all for naught if he exhibits a fatal cravat.”

  “I agree,” Mr. Thornbury said with a sham-serious expression. “If I ever presented a fatal cravat in public, guilty conscience would force me to avoid society.” He pivoted to face her. A twinkle of glee shone in his blue eyes as he repeatedly lifted an eyebrow mockingly. “Even Polite Society.”

  She burst into laughter and looked forward to his friendship very much.

  “Don’t move,” Berdy huffed. “You’ll have to start all over again to tie L’Americaine properly.”

  “My fault, young man.
I promise to move only under your direction.” Unwinding the flawed cravat, Mr. Thornbury turned his back to her.

  Her sight riveted on the contrast between his white shirt collar covered by the ends of his sable hair. The difference startled her, since it was so unlike William’s light hair. She couldn’t recall gazing upon her husband’s hair resting over his collar, but she must have done so at some time.

  Examining the tips of Mr. Thornbury’s hair, she felt an overwhelming urge to press his dark locks against his snowy collar. What would his hair feel like if she raised her hand to the top of his head and stroked the glossy brown waves down to the ends? Coarse? Silky? She gulped loudly. What movement would his hair make if she ran her forefinger through the bottom of his short locks and watched them separate and join? Her palms dampened from the desire to touch. What would his hair smell like if she buried her nose in the depths of his midnight locks and inhaled? Soap? Cigar? A restless energy settled in her nerves, and she knew whatever perfume his hair possessed, she would recognize it.

  Suddenly she became aware of Mr. Thornbury facing her, wearing a devilish smile. Heavens. The knowing fire in his eyes jolted her out of her fantasies. How long had he been staring at her?

  He stepped toward her and whispered, “Reading my handbook, dear lady?”

  Caught in nothing more than an innocent daydream, she felt her treasonous cheeks burn.

  His wonderful smile broke across his face. “You must have really enjoyed those earlier chapters of my handbook, since you seem to be reading them a second time. Hurry up. It’s time to read chapter three.”

  Eight

  Elinor grabbed her gloves before stepping outside to wait for Mr. Thornbury’s arrival. A chill wind circled under her bonnet and sent it askew, causing her to remonstrate to the dark cloud directly above her. “Make up your mind. Rain or don’t rain.” The evil cloud teased her by aiming a solitary drop on her forehead before it scooted away. Leaving the overbright sun to shine upon Mr. Thornbury’s carriage as it breezed up to her front door.