by Sally Orr
George glanced upward. In the bedroom above him, his father was reading a book to his mother or, more likely, just holding her hand. After her stroke, Michael Drexel had refused to spend any significant time away from his wife’s side.
As a result, George had taken on the responsibilities of completing many of his father’s contracts. On certain projects, when he had been overwhelmed by problems or needed his questions answered, he had asked his father for assistance or to join him at a construction site. But Michael refused to leave his wife’s side. The reason always consisted of some incoherent mumble about feelings. Not spousal duty, or his mother’s request, or any other reason that might rightly keep his father at home, but a reason George failed to understand—love.
What is the use of love, if it leaves you with nothing more than holding hands?
He had tendered a simple request for a father to assist his son. Was that too much to ask?
Mrs. Morris must have read his mind, because she narrowed her eyes. “Mr. Drexel would not want to be anywhere else in the world, except beside the woman he loves. Perhaps someday you will understand that.”
“I’ll protect their rights and privacy to my last breath. Nor have I ever even hinted my need for Father’s assistance in front of Mother. But I refuse to engage in unseemly, emotional balderdash.” He lifted his chin. “I’m an Englishman, after all. For the sake of our family’s future, I only ask for his presence and advice now and then. Otherwise, if my new drainage system is unsuccessful, I may not be promoted to resident engineer. Then I’d lose my best opportunity for advancement and chance to escape the notoriety generated from the publication of that damnable field guide.” He sighed and dropped the wooden figures. “Please add these ladies to your list. I recommend the younger one”—he moved close to read the card—“the Mrs. A** W*****”—he smiled—“boot dear Ann up to the category of lady she desires. As for the other lady”—he chuckled and shook his head—“let’s be generous and give her the category she desires too: Ruling Goddess. Ambitious that.”
* * *
“Please open the door, dear,” Meta Russell said, evaluating the two ways to break into her sister’s room. She could knock the door down or climb in through the window. Her sister, Lily, must need her, so something had to be done.
Last evening, Lily had escaped to her room in a fit of tears. At the time, Meta had questioned Lily’s fiancé, James Codlington, about the reason behind her sister’s distress. James simply announced the end of Lily and his betrothal, before he hurriedly exited the Broadshams’ town house on Swallow Street.
“Lily, please.” Determined to render assistance, Meta knocked harder than she had yesterday evening. “You cannot spend your life in your room. Please let me in. You obviously need my help.” She placed her ear on the cool wooden door and listened. No sound from the room reached her ears, only the soft breaths of her brother, Fitzhenry, standing directly behind her. “I’ll ask Fitzy to break the door down with a hammer if you do not open it this instant. Please, dearest, let me help you out of this muddle.”
Her sixteen-year-old brother tapped Meta on the back. “Please move aside. Only a bang-up, out-and-out cove can properly handle this situation.”
Meta stepped back. “I don’t see how you can have better luck changing her mind.”
A broad grin crossed his handsome, youthful face shadowed by slight whisker growth at least a year away from needing a regular shave. “I say, Lily, no use glumping. Meta is once again determined to render assistance. If you do not open the door, she’ll make me use a hammer to knock it down. You know what that means. There is every chance my hands will be permanently damaged and it will be all your fault.”
Meta shook her head. “You know I only want what’s best for you and would never knowingly let you damage your hands. Box your ears, maybe.” She reached out in a mock gesture to do so, but he leaned back out of her reach. “So why did you say such an unjust thing?”
“Because last week you asked me to shovel coals. A large lump of coal or the shovel could have fallen upon my hands and ended my artistic career before it even started.”
“That was a temporary necessity, you must admit. You received nothing more than a little coal soot on your hands, and I doubt dirty hands would stop you from becoming a successful artist.” She grinned. “It might even be a necessity for that profession.”
Lily’s muffled voice came from inside the bedroom. “I can hear both of you.” The door swung wide, and the twenty-two-year-old Miss Lily Broadsham stood in the doorway. She wore an old muslin gown covered with embroidered purple diamonds that matched her eyes, which appeared violet in bright light. Considered the prettiest of the three Broadsham sisters, Lily could not claim that title at the moment. Standing erect, her swollen eyes, long black hair in a haphazard plait, and trembling figure indicated she had spent a sleepless night. “If you ruin your hands, Fitzy, that will be the last straw, and I’ll just have to kill myself. There is nothing you can do, any of you. I apologize, Meta, but Polite Society might hear I’ve been jilted and will consider us all to be tainted. Susanna and I will never find a husband who will love and support us.” She sniffed and struggled to hold back tears. “Fitzy will be unable to keep himself on the earnings from his art, so he’ll have to beg a woman with a significant dowry to marry him.” A tear started to fall. “And because of me, you will never find another gentleman to love you again.” She buried her face in her hands.
Meta rushed forward to grab both her sister’s hands. “Nonsense. Even if that happens, society’s gossip is short-lived. As soon as the next bit of news arrives, your broken engagement will be forgotten. Please dearest, all of you will have the future you desire. I promise. And as far as my welfare is concerned, widows are on the shelf, even at twenty-four.” As the eldest sibling, Meta had assumed the responsibility of shepherding her siblings into successful marriages and professions. Besides, once her siblings were settled, she’d be in her dotage. So even though she held dear secret dreams of falling in love and another marriage, her chances of achieving them seemed unlikely. Instead, a life sacrificed for those she loved suited her temperament, and serving her family’s needs constituted the greatest goal of a successful life. She turned to her brother. “Fitzy, you can leave us now. I appreciate your help, but Lily and I are going to engage in female conversation. That means we’ll indulge in talk of romance and most likely cry lots of tears.”
“Eww. Right then.” Wearing a guilty smile, the young man backed down the hall.
Meta leaned back out of the doorway to address Fitzy. “From what I’ve heard lately, it’s all the crack for out-and-out coves and bang-up artists to study their mathematics.”
“Mathematics could never be all the crack. What a hum. Human feelings”—he sighed and tilted his head—“are the medium of the artist, not equations.”
“Then I suggest you study your Renaissance artists again. They used mathematics to mark out the proper perspectives.”
“No, surely not?” he said, his eyes widening.
“Determine for yourself. I left a book on the schoolroom table open to the very chapter you need to read.”
Without a word, he spun and ran down the stairs.
Meta smiled, closed the door, and led Lily to a comfortable window seat almost covered in soft, peach-colored damask pillows. The two sat, and Meta reached for her sister’s hand. “With all this rain, this seat is colder than it usually is. Shall we move closer to the fire?”
“Does it matter?” Lily’s eyes focused on her lap for a full minute. “I’ve changed my mind. I wish to remain on this seat forever, the place where I write my stories. You see, I will never marry now. Instead, I’ll publish novels about jilted heroines suffering cruel fates at the hands of fickle men.”
“But it is chilly, and I don’t want you to become ill.” Meta had returned to the Broadsham family home after the accidental death of her husband. Despite rushing over two hundred miles to be by his side, she did not ma
ke it in time.
He died alone.
For as long as she drew breath, she would never forgive herself for not providing comforting words when her husband needed them the most. Since her father had become senile and rarely left his rooms, she had assumed the duties of meeting the needs of her family. This endeavor suited her to perfection and provided much needed relief from the remorse of not being with her husband after his accident.
Lily started to drag the cane chair next to her bed close to the fire. “Oh well, if we must move… But I am not in the least chilly.” She took her seat, blew her nose into her handkerchief, and then stared listlessly into the glowing red coals.
Meta grabbed the dark oak chair in front of the vanity table and placed it next to Lily’s chair by the fire. She reached for her sister’s hand again. “James told me of your broken understanding, but he did not elaborate. So please, tell me what happened. I am absolutely confident we can set the situation to rights and get him to reconsider.”
Lily shook her head. “No, he will never change his mind. He said his judicial career would be at risk if he resumes his engagement to me. He might remain a common lawyer for years and never ascend to serjeant-at-law. If society discovers my initials in the field guide, he says it will have serious repercussions. Serious enough for his mother to claim that if we wed, she will cut off his funds to save the family’s connections and reputation. Then what will he do?”
“Field guide? I don’t understand. How can marriage to a sweet girl like you risk his career in the court?”
Lily rose and fetched a small book from her vanity. Handing it to Meta, she sighed and took her seat. “James claims the entry on page one hundred and sixty-one is me. It isn’t, of course, but he will not change his mind. Our families have been acquainted for ages, and I was eighteen when this book was published. How could he even consider the possibility that the entry was me?” She blew her nose again.
“That is something I intend to find out.”
“It’s no use; he’s too frightened. Any hint of scandal, much less having your fiancée’s initials appear in The Rake’s Handbook: Including Field Guide, would be an end to his professional aspirations. He would become the lawyer with the scandalous wife and everyone knows that once society has spread tittle-tattle—even if false—it is impossible to change their opinions. Turn the pages and see for yourself. You must admit the initials are unusual and similar to mine.”
Meta examined the small tome. Covered in plain paperboards, the palm-sized book contained just over two hundred pages. Turning to the indicated page, she saw the entry: “L****** B*******: This blue-eyed beauty enjoys the sport and is known for joining in the festivities with a lot more than just her heart. She is famous for her plush lacteal hillocks of passion.” Meta shook her head. “Oh my, oh my, how vulgar.” She snapped the book shut. “Enough! Except for the loose similarity to your initials, how can this entry be tied to you?”
Lily shook her head and shrugged her shoulders. “I told James the book must be about—well you know—those females. But he disagreed and said the book is about proper ladies and their—well, you know—bedroom habits.” She sighed, then gave a dainty sniff. “He told me that down at his club the common name for the book is The Field Guide. I guess gentlemen are supposed to carry it so they can readily spot these women on the streets. He even told me that over a thousand of these horrid books were published and sold to men around Covent Garden.”
Meta considered James Codlington to be an honorable, intelligent young man. Although he was still young and gangly in appearance, she had complete confidence in his good character. He would follow his father and be a successful justice in the Court of Common Pleas one day, an honored position held at various times by several members of his family. “How did James come by it?”
Lily glanced up, wide-eyed. “You know, I forgot to ask him. That is somewhat suspicious, don’t you think? Maybe he is the sort of gentleman that purchases books like this one. Perhaps I should not wish to wed James after all. Maybe he is one of those men that keep secrets from their wives and cannot be trusted?”
“Nonsense.” Meta had known James and his family for years. He did not have a secretive personality—far from it. “Lily, a more honest gentleman never lived; you know that. Besides, the two of you acknowledged your love a year ago and recently announced your engagement to your family. You even assured me it was true love, remember?”
Lily’s almost violet eyes began to shimmer with unshed tears. “I-I certainly thought it was, I truly believed it was mutual, until yesterday. Oh, Meta.” She covered her face with both hands. “Why has he insulted me in this way?”
Meta examined the small book again. The text was divided into two sections, with the first section titled: The Rake’s Handbook. The second section, consisting of about fifty pages, bore the title: The Field Guide. Each page of the field guide described a lady’s best features and amorous personality. It also provided tips upon how to recognize her in person, for example, a penchant for a favorite type of bonnet or colored spencer. “How could someone be so heartless as to write a book like this?”
Lily did not reply, resuming her vacant stare in the direction of the hot coals.
Meta flipped through every page in the book, then returned to the page in question. “How can James say it’s your name on this page when the spelling is off? There are too many spaces for the word Lily and too few spaces to spell Broadsham properly. Therefore, this female cannot possibly be you. Did you point that fact out to him?”
“Yes, but it made no mark upon him whatsoever. He thought the extra letters in the first name were only because it meant Lillian. You know, while we all call you Meta, your full name is Margaret and would have eight spaces. James said the lack of a letter in the last name was merely a printing error.”
“I wonder if his mother had anything to do with that excuse, since it does not sound like James at all.”
Lily ignored her. “Most of all, he seemed consumed by the fact that my initials appeared under the category of Happy Goer—a subject he could not leave alone, although I had no idea what he was going on about.” She looked up at her sister. “Oh, Meta, why didn’t he believe me? Why didn’t he know in his heart it was not me in that book?”
Meta glared at the small tome. “That is something I plan to discover. Indeed, I have numerous questions for James. But first, I don’t see the words ‘Happy Goer’ under the entry that he presumably thinks is you.”
Lily blew her nose somewhat indelicately. “It’s a term in the index, at the front of the field guide.”
Meta flipped the pages and found the index, which consisted of six different categories of lady. She read the title of each category aloud: “Widow Makers Tied Up, Goddesses Who Rule the Roost, Happy Goers, Eager Out of the Gate, Wilting Flowers, and Rabbits. Oh my, I’ve truly never seen anything so vulgar.”
“So vulgar,” Lily repeated. “I don’t really understand it. How could a lady be considered a rabbit? Cute and fluffy? Her breeding abilities?”
Unlike Lily, Meta had been married for almost two years, so she had heard enough of private masculine conversations to understand the section titles likely referred to the lady’s amorous behavior in bed. “No, dearest, by using the word ‘rabbit,’ I doubt the author meant the lady’s number of children, or cute and fluffy, or even jumping.”
Lily widened her eyes. “Jumping? Oh, what does that mean?”
Actually, Meta did not know the precise definition of each term, but she believed Lily would probably be listed under “Rabbits,” speculating that the author meant “scared as a rabbit” as a metaphor for the ladies’ lack of courage. “What sort of coarse and indecent man wrote this odious book?” She examined the title page and found the names Ross Thornbury and George Drexel. Mr. Thornbury’s name was attached to the handbook section, and Mr. Drexel’s name was listed on the title page of the field guide.
“Do you know the identity of any of these gentlemen?” L
ily asked. “I suppose I cannot call them that, can I?”
“This Mr. Drexel is certainly not a gentleman. He’s some vile creature that haunts the streets of Covent Garden, a heartless and jaded rake, no doubt. He might be dangerous, so I will try and talk to James first. Perhaps after a day of private contemplation, he now realizes the injustice of his accusation.” She patted Lily’s knee. “I don’t want to elevate your hopes prematurely, but we might resolve this situation with only a little fuss. James might even be eager to make amends. I’ll go have a word with him.”
For the first time that morning Lily smiled—not a happy smile, more of a resigned one. “Thank you. But on this matter I do not need your help. James and I have already had a long conversation about this field guide. I pointed out the differences in initials, and he summarily dismissed me. Truly, all is lost. Please do not argue the point with James on my behalf. I have come to accept the fact that I will never marry, and you must too.” She reached over to grab her sister’s hand.
Meta had no intention of causing Lily additional distress by talking to James against her wishes. But she would do anything to ensure that Lily married the man she loved. “Then we must find this Mr. Drexel person. He wrote this filth, so we’ll ask him to convince James that it’s not your name in his cursed field guide. I’m sure when the scoundrel realizes he has hurt an honorable woman, he will do whatever it takes to right the wrong he created. I don’t know how this can be accomplished, but he has no other choice, does he?” She turned to the front page and discovered the address of the publishing house. “The three of us will pay a call on his publisher and inquire about the whereabouts of this Mr. Drexel. Then we’ll pay a morning call—if the man has a decent home to receive callers—and ask him to enlighten James about the real name of the woman mentioned on that page.”
“But, Meta, you’ve seen his field guide. This Mr. Drexel is obviously a scoundrel of the worst sort. He is probably the sort of man who abuses his servants. The sort of man who spits in public. It’s far too dangerous to ask Fitzy to join us, because Mr. Drexel may even be the sort of man who eats children.”
