by Laura Briggs
Rules for Engagements
By Laura Briggs and Sarah Burgess
Smashwords Edition
COPYRIGHT © 2012 Laura Briggs
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Cover Image: “Keeping One’s Diary in Hand”. Altered art digital photo. Used with artist’s permission, all rights reserved.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter One
"Have you read it?"
This inquiry was made breathlessly on Berkeley Street by a young lady, who eagerly clutched her companion's arm with one hand and a small black volume with the other.
"Have you read it?" These words were repeated on Cork Street, by an elegantly-dressed matron to a woman the same in age and appearance. Her companion likewise held a little black volume rather discreetly concealed behind a hatbox.
Similar copies were being hidden behind work baskets and embroidery hoops; behind handkerchiefs and improving volumes of poetry. Even a few in the pockets of gentlemen's coats, who would protest that such a book was the property of a sister, by whom they were charged to purchase it.
This particular book was quite innocent on the outside. A stiff black cover bearing no ornamentation, its title printed on the binding: Advice for Young Ladies on the Subject of Proposals, by Anonymous. Inside, the first page bore the publication: London, 1818.
Of such a new and novel volume, little can be said at this moment, except that it was a slight sensation among its peers. There are good books and bad books; there are some books of little consequence and some of no consequence at all. Then there are books which are quite small–and whose consequences are unintended–but, nevertheless, change the course of lives.
Perhaps in time, it could be said of this little volume that it was the latter.
Even as young ladies were whispering to one another with regards to the secrets within those pages, a copy of the same book arrived in wrappings of brown paper to a home in Grantley Park known as Evering House. The maid received the package from its deliverer with due gravity, only to have it snatched away with a squeal a moment later by the household's youngest member.
"It's here, Flora!" Ten year-old Marianne shouted, holding the package aloft as she ran.
Flora knelt in the garden, turning earth upwards with a spade. She had been absorbed in planting a series of brown bulbs until the sound of Marianne's cries became audible through the window. She sprang up and hurried inside with all the energy of a schoolgirl.
"Where is it?" she demanded, breathless. Earth-stained fingers hurriedly pushed aside strands of reddish-brown hair which had escaped their knot to brush against her face. The other hand seized the nearest pair of scissors, ready to cut the package's string. Anxiously, Marianne hovered at her elbow as the layers of paper folded away, revealing the slim black volume beneath.
Flora's fingers flipped through the pages. The lingering glance from fair eyes may steal a young man's heart, proclaimed one page. Show knowledge of his subject of interest, be it ships or sealing-wax. Rule after rule on the artful use of feminine charms, woven into authoritative passages.
"It is exactly as I imagined," she said. The little book flipped to a close amidst its wrappings.
"Isn't it perfect?" Marianne answered. "Are you sure we cannot tell anyone, Flora? Oh, I so want to tell someone–"
"Well, you cannot," Flora interrupted. The measured tread of footsteps behind them caused them both to whirl around, guiltily.
"And what is this latest round of mischief?" their father, Sir Edward Stuart, occupied the doorway to the library. "Look at your shoes, Flora–mud over every inch of them. Are you quite sure that you are not also a schoolgirl along with Marianne?"
"Sorry, papa," she laughed. "For a moment, I forgot."
Her father's eye fell upon the open package, at first with curiosity, then with unhappy realization. "Don't tell me that dreadful thing has arrived today," he said.
Marianne ran to him and seized his hand, tugging him towards it. "It has, Papa," she answered, voice brimming with excitement. "Do come and see Flora's book."
"Marianne, please, never call it that," he groaned. "We've enough of this dreadful business without the whole world knowing that your sister is behind it."
"It is only a book," Flora protested. "A perfectly honest endeavor. The publisher is most respectable and obliging, as you know."
"I regret that I gave any daughter of mine permission to dabble in ink and paper like a common tradesman," said Sir Edward. "And on the subject of courtship, of all things–a volume of advice on a subject of which you have no firsthand knowledge, I might add."
"It isn't as if I had any fear of frightening away an offer, Papa," Flora replied, chin aloft as she tucked the book into the pocket of her apron. “I was surrounded by excellent examples without a proposal of my own.”
"It is still not the place of a gentleman's daughter," he argued. "Look at you, skirts muddy, fingers like a gardener's. The work of tradesmen and servants is not for young ladies, Flora.”
A tide of guilt swept through Flora’s veins. Although she was loathe to admit it, she preferred the garden's labor to hours spent plucking at tedious embroidery stitches.
"It is only mud," Marianne spoke up. "Why is it wrong for Flora to play about in the garden but not me?" There was a noticeable streak of dirt across Marianne's palms, no doubt from climbing the fence that separated their garden from the mews.
"Because Flora is a young lady, not a child," her father answered. "Now go and tidy yourself before your lessons." Marianne retrieved her ball from the hallway and hurried upstairs.
Sir Edward sighed. "I suppose you have no regrets about this yet?" he asked. Flora gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek as she drew off her stained apron.
"Since it is an honest profession, Papa, what have I to be ashamed of?" she asked.
*****
The daughter of a gentleman may possess a little more rank than those below her; but to be successful in the world at large, she must possess some fortune beyond her personal charms.
Miss Flora Stuart possessed an old and respectable name, a reasonable amount of beauty, and no shortage of talent and charms. She was not heir to a fortune, however; that was the chief problem that rendered it likely that a young woman of one and twenty would remain unattached forever.
Young women less clever and capable than Flora would despair at such a fate. But there were ways in the world to find something beyond life as a penniless dependant.
"Of course, the little volume will be published nom de plume," explained Mr. Herbert. A monocle framed the right eye of the este
emed representative of the publishers Herbert and Chaswick. "We cannot have, ahem, the name of a single young woman attached to one of our volumes, as I'm sure you understand."
"I do," Flora answered. Beneath a bonnet of straw and flowers, she forced a pleasant smile to her face. "Although I cannot see how a man's name attached to a ladies’ book on courtship will be helpful."
"Ah. That is why there will be no name upon the text, Miss Stuart," answered Mr. Chaswick. "The book will be published anonymously, in order to incite public curiosity.” As the younger member of the firm, Mr. Chaswick omitted the monocle in favor of plain spectacles.
“It is preferable to have no name on it at all,” grunted Sir Edward. He thumped his stick upon the floor and gave Flora a longsuffering glance. “If you feel this book is worth printing, that is.”
“Oh, indeed we do, Sir Edward,” answered Mr. Herbert. “Little volumes on the subject of ladies’ manners and conduct are quite popular. This one, we feel, shall have a similar effect. Only perhaps with a touch more interest, since it concerns the subject of matrimony.”
“I hope you’re not suggesting it will cause a scandal,” Sir Edward objected. Flora placed a restraining hand upon his, lest he challenge the publishers then and there to protect their family name.
“Not a scandal, sir; no, not at all,” Mr. Herbert assured him. “Merely a subject of advice which ladies will find readily entertaining. We assure you that there is nothing unseemly in a book that enlightens young women on the subject of their, ahem, charms.”
“A sort of rule book on the sport of engagements, if you will,” joked Mr. Chaswick, until a dark glance from Sir Edward silenced him into seriousness again.
“As it is, Sir Edward, you may trust that this little volume will not be connected with your family in any way. Our trade is discreet and quite proper in these matters.” With a little bow as they rose to leave.
Within their carriage afterwards, Flora maintained silence, as did Sir Edward. A rather sour expression was fixed on his face until the publishing house disappeared from his view.
“I would not do it if there were any other way, Papa,” she began. “You know I would not. But as it is–”
“I know how it is,” Sir Edward interrupted. “I know well how it is, daughter.” This, with a long sigh.
“I would never begrudge Giles his inheritance,” she said. “Of course, he will do his best for us. But you know that he has Isabel and the children. There is only so much he can do to maintain us, given his own small purse.” She reached across and pressed her father’s hand. “This will be for the best for all of us. You will see.”
Sir Edward said nothing in reply. His thoughts turned inward as his daughter gazed out at the city as they clattered past its buildings.
Twenty-four years before, when Sir Edward Stuart escorted his fair bride across the threshold of his London home, he did so knowing she would never be the lady of a rural estate, nor bear a title more grand than his modest knighthood allowed. But love convinced him that she would not care; and, in this case, love was right.
The thought of what consequences would follow a marriage of small means never occurred to either of them. Lady Gladys instructed her daughters and son on matters of faith, on good sense and kindness.
Her presence lingered yet in their home, in the strong character of Flora and the dark curls and eyes of Marianne. Her prayer book lay upon Marianne’s mantel, her delicate cross around Flora’s neck. The premature passing of Lady Gladys Stuart left her spiritual instruction to comfort their souls long after her departure; and her meager fortune to be divided between her daughters.
But a small fortune translates into a small dowry, too small to tempt a serious suitor to pursue a girl such as Flora. While her father might have despaired about Flora’s tomboy ways, it was his private regret that he had somehow failed with regards to her matrimonial prospects.
And what of Sir Edward’s estate? What little was left of the dwindling family fortunes–his title, his house in town–was bequeathed to their eldest child and son, Giles. Giles was all goodness and kindness as a brother. More than once, he assured his father that he would care for his sisters when the inevitable moment came.
“They will always have a home with me, Father,” he promised more than once. “I would never allow my sisters to know want or neglect, I assure you.” But he was also married to a lady of limited fortune, with four children of his own to consider.
In the carriage, Flora played with the ribbons dangling from her bonnet and thought about the promise her brother must keep. If she could be successful, would it not be better to keep a separate income for herself and Marianne–perhaps even a separate cottage for them somewhere outside London? No longer a burden on her brother and his income, if it could be arranged without impropriety or scandal.
But if she was to be successful at this, many more meetings must take place and perhaps for worse things than a book of courtship advice. Perhaps for novels, which would at least be exciting–or for dull subjects, like children’s lesson-books.
“If only a young gentleman had made you an offer,” Sir Edward said, rousing himself from silence. “Any offer would have been better than this plan you pursue. What would your mother think, were she alive to see you turned to a profession like this?”
“She would think I have at least procured a small income for myself and Marianne,” Flora answered. Although she pictured her mother, her face clouded with worry at the thought of her children dependent upon something as fickle and unpredictable as the books sold in a shop.
“I still say that we must find a better way,” Sir Edward said. “You should not be so employed. Even a gentleman of no fortune surely deserves to have his children safe from any potential disgrace.”
Flora turned her gaze away from the window. “What harm could come from a little book, Papa?” she argued. An anonymous little volume sold for a few coins, a disgrace indeed!
After all, she could easily think of a bigger disgrace in which a gentleman‘s daughter could engage herself. Marrying for money, for instance.
Chapter Two
As a child, Flora was rather immersed in romance and courtship, both directly and indirectly. Unusual circumstances for a girl more at home romping with a troupe of lively boys in the farmyard or climbing trees; but why should a girl given only a few weeks in the country not enjoy herself?
Since climbing trees and playing in the garden didn’t make her immune to love’s charms, it gave her a curiosity about courtship unfettered by prim reflections on her own future. The whispered fancies of young ladies fueled her imagination, their dance of courtship at a party observed as if watching brightly-feathered birds pursuing each other in a tree.
At ten, her first kiss was stolen in secret by a boy at a Christmas party. At fifteen, she experienced her first thwarted love, a slight affair compared to the throes of pain suggested in sentimental books.
Her knowledge of lovers and courtship progressed to proposals by degrees. Spying on her brother in the parlor, she observed her future sister-in-law’s arts firsthand. The demure glance, the blushing cheek–the tender sigh as she permitted his arm to wrap itself around her waist upon accepting him.
By then, Flora’s auburn braids were pinned up in a more stylish fashion, her muddy skirts and games replaced by delicate muslins and needlework. Youth, maturity, and eagerness made her a subject of confidence for Isabel with regards to all the delicate details.
“But when did you suspect?” Flora asked. “That he was in love with you, I mean.” She and Isabel were strolling in the park, where the most private of tete-a-tetes might be engaged without rousing the interest of anyone.
“Oh, I knew it from the first,” Isabel assured her. “There was no doubt of it. I remember the look upon his face the moment I first entered Mrs. Campbell’s drawing room. A look that positively assured me he was quite smitten.”
“But how could you be sure of keeping him so?” Flora asked. “Surely y
ou don’t mean that my brother failed to attract the notice of the other young ladies present.”
Isabel squeezed her arm with sisterly affection. “I made sure of him, dearest Flora, with everything I had. Even the sweep of my skirt held his attention by the end of the evening. A mere glance, and I could have brought him to my side in an instant.” A blush of triumph spread across her face.
“Such little things,” said Flora. Who was beginning to feel that courtship must simply be a collection of small events somehow assembled into a bigger picture.
“A woman’s spell lies not in the scope of her charms,” Isabel whispered, “but in how artfully she applies them. Remember that, dearest, when it is your turn to capture a young man’s heart.”
Flora did remember the advice. By the time her reflection in the mirror proved her suntanned skin had became creamier and her figure displayed the curves of womanhood, she was well-informed with regards to which female charms were necessary for enticing a proposal.
She, of course, had never practiced them. But she thought of another use for her knowledge.
*****
Papa thinks little of my efforts, I know; and as for myself, I hardly know what to say. I am fortunate that I have a genteel means of earning an income at hand, and one that I confess I find agreeable. Did my governess not always say that I was clever with words? Was she not always scolding me for limericks on my French verb slate or poems in the margins of my lesson books? While Papa may ask what in heaven’s name inspired me to such a scheme, he knows as well as I do what I want. Even then I would not tell him about the little manuscript under lock and key in my dressing table drawer, a secret known only to Marianne, given that she WILL pry into her sister’s things now and then.
Flora’s pencil flew over her journal with one hand, while the other was occupied with her tea cup. Across from her, Marianne was turning the pages of Advice for Young Ladies on the Subject of Proposals with an interest that made her sister heartily wish she had confiscated the book earlier. At the entrance of Sir Edward, Flora discreetly slid her journal and pencil into her lap.
