Amanda McCabe

by The Rules of Love

  “I wish I could stay with you.”

  Michael laughed, still trying to cheer her up. “You would not like that at all, Vi, I assure you! My lodgings are not at all up to the standards of A Lady’s Rules. You would be most appalled.”

  She giggled, a good sign. “I am sure it is horrid. Tell me about it, Michael.”

  For the rest of their drive, Michael regaled her with exaggerated tales of the decrepitude of his rooms. His descriptions of piles of dirty laundry and thick dust on the bookshelves made her laugh. By the time they drew to a halt outside Bronston House, her eyes were clearer and her cheeks pink.

  Her laughter faded as she stared up at its forbidding gray stone façade, and she reached up to touch her locket. “Will you stay for tea, Michael?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course I will, Vi,” he answered. He handed the reins to a footman, and jumped down to come around and help her to the ground. “And I will take you to supper at Aunt Minnie’s tonight, too, if you want.”

  “Oh, yes!” she agreed enthusiastically. “I would like that very much.”

  Michael offered her his arm, and together they climbed the front steps to the door of Bronston House—or, as Michael chose to think of it, the portal of doom.

  The Seminary was so quiet with all the girls gone, Rosalind thought. A bit too quiet, perhaps. For the first day or two of a holiday she was never quite sure what to do with herself.

  She sat alone in her private sitting room after supper, with a tea tray on the table beside her and an open workbasket at her feet. Miss James, the only teacher still at the school, had taken supper with Rosalind, but then retired to pack for her own holiday.

  So Rosalind was alone, with only the crackle of the flames in the grate to break the silence. Usually, in the evenings, she would listen to the girls play the harp or the pianoforte, or examine their watercolors and needlework. She tried to make the Seminary a home atmosphere for them, a place where they could be comfortable and happy.

  Why could the home atmosphere not be here for her as well, even when they were gone? Why was it so very silent?

  Nonsense, she told herself. She was just being maudlin. This happened every time a holiday commenced. Of course this was her home, the finest home she had ever known. And there were many things she could be doing. Things such as working on a new edition of A Lady’s Rules, which her publisher had requested.

  Thinking of A Lady’s Rules made her remember that scene in her office, where she had presented a copy to Lord Morley. The expression on his face had been mocking, arch—after a flash of what, on another person, might have been hurt. It had been gone in an instant, yet Rosalind still felt the vague stirrings of regret when she remembered it.

  Did she herself not have a rule against making guests feel uncomfortable in her home? Yet she had practically accused the man of uncouth rudeness, which was not the done thing.

  “Even if it is true,” she whispered, staring into the flames.

  The first time she met Lord Morley she had been appalled by his manners. But she had to admit, today he had behaved better. Much better. There had been no lolling in the chairs, no suggestive poetry, no winking at housemaids. This afternoon, aside from lifting his sister off of her feet when he greeted her, he had been a picture of the Rules. Almost. He could never be completely.

  And he had been truly kind when she felt ill. She had repaid his kindness by thrusting the book at him and practically accusing him of being a baboon.

  “What has become of you, Rosalind?” she asked herself, not caring that it was ridiculous to be talking to an empty room in such a manner. “You are only thirty years of age, but you act worse than your grandmother ever did.”

  She sighed when she recalled their cheerless childhood visits to Grandmother Allen, their mother’s mother who had been the sister of an earl and never let anyone forget it. Grandmother Allen insisted children sit perfectly straight and still and silent. How she and her brother had hated those calls!

  Was she now becoming their Grandmother Allen?

  Rosalind shuddered, and stood up to walk over to the fireplace. Of course she was not becoming her grandmother. She merely placed a great importance on manners, on proper deportment, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  She braced her hand on the carved wooden mantel, and studied the miniature portrait displayed there on its silver stand. Her late husband, Mr. Charles Chase, stared back at her with his frank blue gaze. “There is nothing wrong with that, is there, Charles?”

  She fancied that his smile widened. Charles, a very proper village attorney, had also believed in the importance of propriety, despite his occasional whiskey or card game. It was what had brought them together, had sustained them through their too-short three years of marriage before Charles succumbed to a fever.

  A perfectly proper three years. They had been friends, even if theirs had not been a romance for the ages.

  Rosalind’s gaze shifted from the portrait to the book she had laid on the mantel before supper.

  Lord Morley’s poetry.

  Rosalind reached for it, wrapped her fingers around the rich brown leather cover. She should have left it downstairs in the library, but some compulsion had made her bring it up here before she ate. For some light, before-bed reading, perhaps?

  She opened the volume to a random page, and read, “Her lips, two roses touched with morning dew…”

  Rosalind snapped the book shut. The fire felt so warm, too warm. She turned away, still holding the book, and went to the window.

  She had not yet drawn the draperies, even though it was full dark now. The moon was almost full, and cast a greenish silver glow over the garden. The grounds looked lovely, just as they ought to.

  Rosalind rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting the blessed familiarity of the scene into her heart. This was what she wanted, what she had always wanted. The familiar, the known, the proper.

  Why, then, did her fingers close so tightly about the book she held? So tightly that its corner bit into her palm?

  She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the scene in the garden was the same—except for a new shadow falling from behind one of the trees. It flickered and moved, not a part of the tree’s own solid shadow at all.

  But when Rosalind blinked and peered closer, it was gone.

  “Now you are seeing ghosts, in addition to everything else,” she muttered. She stepped back and pulled the draperies firmly closed.

  No sooner had she settled the yellow taffeta draperies than the door opened, and Molly, the housemaid, came in. Rosalind was deeply grateful for her cheerful smile, her bob of a curtsy—it made the evening seem right, somehow, after poetry and ghosts.

  “Have you finished with the tea things, ma’am?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Molly. I am done with them.” Rosalind watched the maid as she gathered up the tray. “Molly?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “None of the gardeners are still here, are they?”

  Molly seemed surprised by the question, as well she might. Why would anyone be asking about gardeners at nine o’clock at night? “No, ma’am. It’s just you and me and Miss James now.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  Molly lifted up the tea tray. Before she turned back to the door, she said, “I’ll come right back, ma’am, and help you with your gown, if you’re ready to retire.”

  “Yes, thank you, Molly.” Rosalind rubbed her hand over her eyes. She was ready to retire—obviously, she was in need of some sleep. Exhaustion was making her fanciful.

  She had been reading one of Mrs. More’s edifying epistles before she went to sleep. But perhaps tonight she might take a peek at some more of that poetry…

  Chapter Five

  “Parents and other elders should always be respected.”

  —A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Seven

  “S o, here you are at last. I thought that with the harum-skarum way y
ou drive, Michael, that you would have been here hours ago.”

  The Earl of Athley’s voice, stentorian as a brass gong, rang through the cavernous drawing room as Michael and Violet stepped inside the door. Michael squinted through the gloom of the room, until he saw his father seated by the fire.

  As usual the drawing room, indeed the whole house, was dark and stuffy, the air thick with smoke and the overpowering sweetness of the rose and orchid flower arrangements. Heavy green velvet draperies, hung with swags of gold fringe, covered all the windows. More green velvet upholstered the dark, old-fashioned furniture, and gloomy landscapes hung on the paneled walls.

  It was overpowering, suffocating. Michael felt his chest tighten painfully, his throat close as if gasping for a breath of clear, true air.

  He felt this way every time he entered the house. And that was why he stayed far, far away, unless his duty to his sister pulled him back. At least he could leave—she could not.

  He reached up to loosen his cravat slightly, as Violet’s hand slipped from his arm and she crossed the room to their father’s side. Her lilac-colored carriage gown and white bonnet were like a flash of springtime dropped into the gloom.

  She leaned down to peck a dutiful kiss onto the earl’s wrinkled cheek. “It was my fault we are late, Father. I stayed too long at the school, saying good-bye to everyone.”

  The earl scowled. “Who at that pitiful Seminary could have been worth your taking all that time? Some parson’s daughter or merchant’s niece?” He banged his stout walking stick on the floor, the hollow thud of it echoing up to the rafters. “I was a fool to ever send you to that school, Violet. I should not have listened to your aunt’s blandishments. Associating with people of all sorts has obviously made you forget your position. You should be here, learning to prepare for marriage. What else are girls good for?”

  Violet turned panicked eyes onto Michael.

  Michael came toward her, breathing a bit easier now that he had somewhat adjusted to the dimness. He understood Violet’s panic—the Seminary, as fusty as it was, was her refuge from this place. But he was not as worried as she. Their father often ranted about the school, about Violet’s “forgetting her position” there, getting too educated and not being able to find a suitable husband because of it. Yet the truth was, the earl would rather not have the trouble of his daughter being underfoot. So her school was safe—for now.

  “Father, you know that the Seminary has only students from the finest families enrolled there,” Michael said, gently taking Violet’s arm and leading her to a chair away from the overpowering heat of the fire. “Violet has only the most suitable friends, who will be of great help to her when she makes her debut next Season.”

  Michael had almost said “use” rather than “help,” since that was all the earl truly cared about in people—how he could use them to his advantage. How they were placed on the social scale. “I understand, Father, that the Duke and Duchess of Wayland are sending their own daughter there in few years.”

  “Wayland, eh?” The earl’s dark eyes narrowed shrewdly as he absorbed this. The Waylands were assuredly at the pinnacle of Society. “Well, that at least is something. Though I do not know what they are thinking to send their daughter there so early. There is no telling what odd notions the gel might absorb there. But then, the Waylands are odd people. The duchess is an artist.” His lips curled with disdain on the word artist—it might as well have been courtesan.

  As their father went on, dissecting the peccadilloes of the Waylands and their “disgraceful” set, Michael sat down in the chair next to Violet’s. He leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the heavily carved piece of furniture, stretching his legs out before him. Violet was rubbing her fingertip over her silver locket, staring at the floor. She was the very picture of a dutiful daughter, but Michael recognized the misty look in her eyes as one of faraway thought. She was lost in some daydream, so Michael tried to follow her example and think of something else.

  Their father’s conversation seldom required more of a response than a nod, or an “Oh, yes?” or a “You are quite right, sir.” So distraction was fairly easy. His gaze moved over the half-hidden footman standing in a shadowed corner to await the earl’s command, to the large stone coat of arms over the fireplace. It had the Bronston insignia of a hand holding a sword and a lion, with the motto Semper Officiosus.

  Duty Always. Perhaps, Michael thought, it should have been Dullness Always. He almost wished he could trade places with that footman.

  His musings were interrupted when he heard his name.

  “Michael,” the earl barked, “is that a pink cravat you are wearing?”

  Michael grinned. “Indeed. Though the correct name is ‘maiden’s blush.’ Quite evocative, wouldn’t you say? It is all the crack.

  Violet made a suspicious choking sound, and bent her head down until her expression was entirely concealed by the brim of her bonnet.

  The earl turned a deep red color, one that would never earn a moniker like “maiden’s blush.” “Miser’s apoplexy,” perhaps.

  “Insolent!” the earl shouted, and banged the stick against the floor again. “I have put up with your deplorable behavior thus far, your ‘poetry,’ your ‘club,’ the tittle-tattle I hear from every quarter. Even your ridiculous notions about fashion! But I will not stand your disgraceful behavior any longer. You are a viscount, and one day you will be the earl…” He broke off, gasping for air. The footman hurried forward to pour out a glass of some clear liquid, which the earl gulped down.

  “Father!” Violet cried, and started to rise from her chair.

  “Sit back down, gel!” her father choked. “I am not finished with what I have to say.”

  “But you are ill,” Violet dared to say.

  “A mere shortness of breath. I am not dying, which is a very good thing, considering the disgraceful state of the next generation. The family will be ruined before I am cold in the ground.”

  Violet’s face crumpled with hurt at those words. She sank back into her chair.

  Michael’s hands tightened onto the arms of his own chair until his knuckles whitened. His father had always been cold, hateful, haughty to those not of his own station—and even to his own children. Ever since his wife died bringing Violet into the world, he had revealed no hint of human feeling. But age had brought a new venom to him, a deep anger.

  Michael had never met a man more in need of a good thrashing. But his father was indeed an old man—it would not be at all honorable for Michael, with all the strength of his twenty-eight years, to beat him.

  Really, he thought, all he would have to do now was steal the earl’s walking stick. Even that could not be done, but one day Michael would tell him every last truth he had coming to him. Every last hateful thought that Michael harbored in his own heart.

  Not now, though, with his sweet Violet looking on. Michael would never do anything that could possibly hurt his tenderhearted sister.

  Before the earl could launch into another diatribe, Michael stood up and said, “I am sorry to cut short this cozy family moment, but I fear I have errands I must perform. I told Violet I would take her to Aunt Minnie’s house for supper, so you need not share your dried-out lamb cutlets and overcooked peas with us. Good day, sir.”

  “I will just see you out, Michael,” Violet said hurriedly. Together they left the room as quickly as dignity would allow, their father’s sputterings chasing them out the door.

  “How absolutely horrid,” said Violet, shuddering, once they stood safely on the front steps. “He becomes worse every time I see him!”

  Michael kissed her cheek, and she curled her hands into the folds of his coat, holding onto him in defiance of her precious rules.

  “It will be all right, Vi,” he said reassuringly. “Do not go back to the drawing room. Go up to your chamber, and send your maid for some tea. Father will settle down now that my infuriating presence has been removed. I will be back in only a couple of hours, and we will ha
ve a lovely supper with Aunt Minnie and her friends. Does that sound nice?”

  “Very nice.” Violet nodded, and stepped back to give him a brave little smile.

  “Now go inside. It is becoming chilly out here.” Michael tapped Violet on the tip of her nose, and climbed up into his phaeton.

  At the corner of the street, he glanced back to be sure she had gone inside. She had not. She still stood there on the steps, her arms wrapped around herself.

  She gave him a wave, and another smile—and Michael’s heart ached. He wanted so very much to go back to her, to sweep her up and carry her away from that gloomy house.

  Carry her all the way back to the serenity of Mrs. Chase’s drawing room. Mrs. Chase would be able to comfort Violet. And what was even odder, he wished he could be there, as well. That he could sit in that small office again, and tell Mrs. Chase all the things that ached in his soul. Not the stern, stiff schoolmistress Mrs. Chase, but the one he had glimpsed so briefly. The one with rich depths to her sky-eyes, and soft hands and sunset hair. That Mrs. Chase had hints of gentleness and understanding in her.

  Instead, all he could do was keep driving into the gathering London night.

  The townhouse of Lady Minerva Fielding, better known as Aunt Minnie, was as different from Bronston House as day was from midnight. She was their father’s sister, but she had lived a very different life from his, as evidenced in the spacious, pastel airiness of her rooms, the fine paintings on her walls, the constant merry sparkle in her green eyes.

  She was one of the last people Michael would ever have expected to follow A Lady’s Rules, but there the volume was, in a place of honor on the round table in the middle of her foyer.

  As Violet hurried off to greet some of Aunt Minnie’s other guests, Michael picked up the book, riffling through its gilt-edged pages. Their aunt had marked certain “rules” with ticks of dark green ink.

  “‘A gentleman must never seat himself on the settee beside his hostess…unless invited,’” he muttered.