Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  “How scandalous,” said Lady Easton, a hint of good-natured teasing in her smile.

  Flora’s brows raised, her tongue hesitating to answer in its usual bold fashion. Had she not better refrain from too much defense on the subject of female artists?

  Before she could reply, however, Lucy leaned closer to her companion and said, “I know it is quite a scandalous thought but I do wonder…that is, I have heard Roger say that women may well match the cleverness of men when it comes to artistic pursuits. Paintings and novels and such things.”

  Flora’s cheeks grew warm with these words of praise, though of course, they were not directed at her own modest endeavor. And never could be, she knew, a shiver passing through at the thought of Lord Easton discovering her secret dabbling in the world of print.

  Smiling fondly at Lucy she said, “No doubt, he is thinking of his own sister’s talent when he says so. Although I admire his foreword way of thinking in such matters."

  "Never mind such radical talk," Lady Easton laughed. "I shall give you something else to think on: how about a ball?" Her features lighted with pleasure at the sight of Flora's surprise.

  "A ball?" Flora repeated. "And when is this grand occasion to be?"

  "Not for some weeks, so there is plenty of time to have a dress made, if that is your concern," answered Lady Easton. "I want Roger properly settled at home before I force him to dance with all the prettiest girls in London."

  "Then he must claim a dance from his sister first," said Flora, "for she is by far the prettiest girl in London this season." She took Lucy's arm in her own as they made their way slowly towards Lady Easton's friends and away from the unpleasant scene she endured before Miss Harwick and her companions.

  Lucy shook her head in protest. "I am hardly so. For I cannot do anything at all with my curls and they will be so unruly. I wish I had your hair, for it is so long and lustrous."

  "And very red," Flora reminded her, "no matter how much I wish it to be more brown; so you should not envy me at all."

  Lucy sighed. "Then you must at least allow me to envy Miss Harwick's golden curls; for at least gold is so very pretty in comparison to my dark hair."

  "Miss Harwick has turned out quite pretty this season," said Lady Easton. "I was greatly taken with her looks when she and Mrs. Harwick paid their compliments the other morning."

  "She is pretty," Flora conceded. If her voice trembled a trifle upon admitting it, her companions did not notice.

  "I felt so sorry for her when her engagement to Lord Nighton ended last season," whispered Lucy. "They say he was much in love with her, but there was some misunderstanding between their families that led to the match breaking off."

  "I believe some of that is true," Flora answered. "Although there must be more to the story, dear Lucy. For surely Mr. Harwick would consent to such an agreeable match; and Lord Nighton was not the silly sort of young man to make irrational promises."

  "True," said Lucy. "Only a few gentlemen would make a promise they could not keep–and they are hardly gentlemen, are they?" She sighed again. "If only every man were like my brother. Roger has such character and faith that he will always be constant. He never breaks promises."

  "His lady love shall be fortunate indeed." Flora spoke softly. "She will be honored by such a match for the rest of her days."

  The rest of the conversation was devoted to the subject of balls and dresses. Lady Easton and her acquaintance debated warmly the merits of different warehouses for suitable fabrics.

  Miss Lucy, they declared, must be iris or pale yellow; but nothing less than blue would suit Miss Flora, they were sure. For was she not lovely today, in such a dress already?

  Chapter Six

  The dinner party at Landley House was elegant enough despite the informal invitation which Roger Easton had offered the Stuarts. A party of twelve or so guests to gather, with the promise of cards and conversation afterwards; although no dancing or music, which would greatly disappoint the younger attendees.

  At half-past seven, the Stuarts arrived at the house, Flora following Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who shared their carriage since her own was "of no purpose" unless young ladies were in need of an escort to balls and parties.

  "I hope the drawing room will not be crowded," complained Mrs. Fitzwilliam. She tugged the pearls strung around her neck into a more comfortable position. "Lady Easton is fond of a fire even on warm evenings, so the place is bound to be stuffy."

  "I think we shall be well enough," said Sir Edward. The servant announced them at the door; they were escorted into the drawing room where, much as Mrs. Fitzwilliam feared, a small crowd awaited.

  Lady Easton came forward to greet them, along with her son. "How becoming you look in that gown, Miss Stuart," she said. Flora smiled faintly, knowing her dress was modest comparison to Lucy Easton's fine fabrics.

  Roger bowed. "My mother is right," he said. "It suits you well. I recall that your appearance was always simple but elegant." He smiled, but there was something in his expression which she could not interpret. An uncomfortable blush spread across her face, forcing her to turn her attention to her shawl.

  "I hope that all is well in your business affairs, sir?" her father inquired.

  "As well as can be expected," Roger answered. "I must meet with one of my solicitors this week; which cannot be a pleasant affair with regards to parting with some of my father's less prosperous holdings."

  Flora took this moment as an opportunity to excuse herself from his presence and join her aunt. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was engaged in conversation with the Miss Phillipses, absent their mother at this moment. She leaned close to Flora's ear and whispered, "Have a care towards the doorway, dear, and tell me what you make of that?"

  Upon turning, Flora observed the entrance of the Harwick family. Mrs. Harwick was dressed in a simple gown of rust-colored fabric; but Hetta Harwick was resplendent in a rose-colored gown displaying gold thread embroidery. Head high as she entered the room, her queenly appearance attracted the notice of two young men who stood nearby.

  "Very elegant," whispered Flora.

  "A bit too elegant if you ask me," Mrs. Fitzwilliam replied. "Of course, if she cares so little about her broken engagement, I suppose no one else need be concerned."

  "I heard it was because his title was not enough," whispered the middle Miss Phillips. "Supposedly his fortune was not good enough, either; for the family has a great need for money and Miss Harwick has such extravagant tastes herself."

  "We cannot know any of those things for certain," Flora whispered back. It was gossip, she knew; yet Miss Harwick's carefree manners seemed to confirm it. She watched as Lady Easton and Roger greeted them. Admiration was evident in his face as he bowed to Hetta. Her lips curved into a becoming smile as they spoke.

  "Do you think rose is a flattering shade for a gown, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?" asked the youngest Miss Phillips. "I should much rather have something less striking for a dinner party."

  "As would all modest young ladies," agreed Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  A solicitor by the name of Gladwell escorted Flora into dinner, where she found herself seated at some distance from anyone of her close acquaintance except Mr. Harwick and Lucy Easton, which afforded little conversation for the three of them on a mutual subject. She was forced to turn to the subject at hand for the second half of the table for an opportunity to include herself and her neighbors.

  "It was quite shocking when his son desired to become some sort of missionary," declared Mr. Phillips of one of his gentry friends. "Of course, being a younger son, it mattered little to the estate, but was most shocking for his mother, poor woman."

  "I am sure there is nothing but good intended from his decision," Flora's father answered.

  "Oh, most certainly," answered Mr. Phillips. "But since they share in the blame for this extraordinary decision, he should have considered his family's good as well."

  "Over his Heavenly Father's?" objected Sir Edward. "I would not agree." His raised eyebrows,
which signaled to Flora that he was growing angry, had no effect on his discussion opponent.

  Another voice spoke up, changing the subject. "At least the field of the missionary will allow him to see something of the world," said Hetta. "The English gentleman trapped by his estate does nothing but see to his land and his income."

  Her fingers traced the stem of her glass, her eyes wandering in the direction of the party's latest traveler, Roger Easton.

  "Travel is not always worth the experience, Miss Harwick," said Roger. "A man who is away from home misses keenly its comforts. His family may be everything to him and yet he is forced to separate himself from them to secure their happiness."

  "That is why any young gentleman should secure himself a good helpmate," said Lady Easton. "For then, he shall be more inclined to understand that her happiness is derived from his presence and not from his income." She cast a fond glance in the direction of her son as she spoke.

  Perhaps they would move on from the subject of matrimony, Flora reminded herself, before the subject of courtship emerged. Then the subject of her book would never arise. But this discussion seemed to captivate others at the table as much as its participants.

  "A capital suggestion, Ma'am" Mr. Harwick declared. "Any gentleman who has taken a wife will agree. Now, all young Lord Easton needs is a copy of that clever little book to identify the female whose charms are most designed to lure him."

  As the other guests laughed, Flora tingled with the knowledge that opinions on her volume were about to be given before its unknown author. Remember to say nothing that betrays your position! she reminded herself, closing her eyes for a moment.

  A good-humored smile crossed Roger's face. "Since my arrival in London I have heard of nothing but this little book," he answered. "First from my sister and mother, then from young ladies of my acquaintance, even from the gentlemen of my acquaintance! Upon my word, I wish to hear of something else for a change!"

  He did not approve. That much was evident from his careless tone in response. Despite her better judgment, she felt a twinge of disappointment.

  "Anything on the subject of marriage is popular in a respectable society," Flora replied. "I believe we can all agree that our society in London is as respectable as any other place we know."

  "That is true." Roger smiled. "But in my estimation, Miss Stuart, most young men are immune to the arts with which young ladies entice them. Only a man of weak sensibilities or foolishness is made captive by an outward display of beauty alone."

  "That is why young ladies do not need a rulebook to ensnare them; a clever young gentleman always make sure that her charms are quite authentic before he offers his proposal," said Hetta. There was a good deal of chuckling on the part of the male dinner guests over her remark.

  "I would suggest that few men can tell the difference between the careful practice of a woman's charms and the artless display of a charming woman," said Flora. "When the art is well-practiced, what does its observer care whether the artist is merely skilled or naturally gifted?"

  Her cheeks burned with heat as she grew bolder in the debate. She dropped her eyes to avoid the wide-eyed admiration of the delicate Miss Lucy Easton and the pained expression on her father's face.

  "A clever observation, Miss Stuart," chuckled Mr. Phillips. "Very much so."

  "But if we were to take this little book at face value," ventured Lucy, timidly, "should we not believe that a young man is persuaded by–as the book calls them–the charms of a young woman?"

  "Perhaps to some degree they are," her brother answered, "but I hope I am not among those who are touched so easily. As I'm sure so does young Gladwell here." With a glance at the sheepish young solicitor.

  "Well, what of your plans for the new carriage, Lady Easton?" asked Sir Edward, sensing an opportunity to dispel mention of the subject altogether. "I've heard tell that a new one will grace your carriage-house within the month."

  "Ah, that would be Roger's decision now," answered Lady Easton, with a fond smile. "Now that he is home, I shall have no cares on such subjects."

  With that, the question of matrimony and advice thereof had passed.

  Flora remained quiet for the rest of the meal, sensing her father's disapproval of her previous remarks. Although it made her dull company for those around her, she assured herself it was much safer after having drawn so much attention with her spirited reply.

  She reflected on the danger of her position as author as she sat on the sofa in Lady Easton's drawing room. It was the fault of being connected to the book, which made her far too eager to debate its faults and merits when she should remain a disinterested observer.

  Lucy sank down next to her on the sofa. "How brave of you, Flora–I could never say the like in the presence of so much company," she said. "It seems so strange to me that gentlemen should discuss a book of advice for ladies. Or even talk of matrimony, for that matter."

  "I believe gentleman talk of a great many more subjects than just the roads and the weather," Flora replied. "If we only give them the change by bringing up a braver subject ourselves."

  "Now you sound just like the little advice book," said Lucy. "Remember, the rule about talking of subjects gentlemen find of interest? Only I supposed at the time it meant horses or riding or pheasants or some such item."

  Back to the little book again; it appeared its authoress was destined to encounter it at every moment. "A gentleman conversing with you would be only too pleased to discuss the roads," she answered, in return for a modest blush on Lucy's face.

  "I do not know why everyone insists upon saying kind things to me," she said. "Only a moment ago, Miss Harwick paid me a distinctly nice compliment upon my gown, saying it was the finest she had seen of its pattern. I feel as if–" she trailed off for a moment, before adding, "– as if perhaps people feel they ought to compliment me. Because I am an heiress."

  There was truth in this, but Flora would not let her know it. "Never think such a thing," she scolded her. "I believe that the compliments paid to you are of friendship and nothing more. No one who knew you well could suspect anything else."

  "Thank you for saying so," Lucy replied. "I can always rely on you to cheer me whenever I feel silly about such things; although I suppose I oughtn't burden you with my little faults."

  "There are no faults," Flora whispered. "Merely those you imagine. And if you doubt me, you must ask your brother; for he is so good he would never dote on anything less than worthy."

  "My brother tends to think too highly of me as well," said Lucy. Which was also true, but this was forgivable in anyone's eyes, especially those who truly did know Lucy Easton. Flora could recall at least a half-dozen times in which Roger had exerted himself on behalf of his sister's wishes, knowing her to be too shy.

  "I believe the best proof of your worthiness could be attested to by Colonel Miles's favorite goose," said Flora. "For which your brother received a severe punishment without complaint, as I recall."

  The goose feathers of long ago were meant for decorating six year-old Lucy's bonnet, after she admired one worn by an admiral's wife to a Sabbath service.

  As the two of them laughed, Roger turned towards them with an expression of curiosity from his position across the drawing room. Catching his eye, Flora longed to share the recollection with her companion in mischief from so long ago.

  "Of what are you and Miss Stuart talking with such interest, Lucy?" he asked. "Is it nonsense, I hope? For I fear Miss Stuart's cleverness will overwhelm you, otherwise."

  It was spoken teasingly to his sister, but Flora sensed the compliment to herself in his words, causing her heart to beat quickly. Beside her, Lucy laughed again.

  "It is of no consequence to you, dear Roger," she answered. "Unless, of course, you still wish to acquire feathers for a certain bonnet."

  "Oh, the mistakes of poor young Roger are once again dragged forth," he answered. "Shall you ever grow tired of that silly story? I believe it is only good now for telling to
our little cousins for amusement." With that, he turned away again.

  Was the boy who plucked the goose somewhere inside that formal coat and spotless cravat? She was ashamed of herself for even wondering such a thing. Grown-up Flora, the bold authoress of the scandalous little advice book, had no interest in the thoughts or doings of a wealthy young lord come into his own at last.

  She permitted Lucy to distract her with a lengthy description of a concert last summer in Bath. She was aware that young Lord Easton's face had tensed slightly as her gaze turned elsewhere; after a moment, she could hear the sound of his voice once again engaged in conversation with her father.

  Upon a request by Mrs. Phillips, Lucy sprang up to fetch a piece of newly-acquired music for her observation. With her view of Roger unobstructed, Flora could not resist the urge to study his profile unnoticed. Searching the grown-up Roger Easton for the boyish features fast-vanishing in the chiseled form of manhood.

  Was her own face so changed to him? The tan of the summer sun had not touched her skin with its old enthusiasm since the autumn they both grew up. Her freckles she had traded for a delicate complexion as best she could; her long locks and braids now styled in the modern fashion.

  So her thoughts continued, until the two men were interrupted by the introduction of Mrs. Harwick to their circle. She could not help but smile at Roger's patience with Mrs. Harwick's fawning gestures. Apparently, a large title inspired more geniality in the lady than the mere deference of age or position.

  She wished Lucy would return to the sofa and give her something to converse about, for she was growing bored left to her own devices. She was half-decided to go in search of one of the Miss Phillips or her aunt for company when the murmur of voices from somewhere behind her drew her attention.

  It was Miss Harwick's voice, engaged in conversation with the eldest Miss Phillips, both ladies hidden discreetly by the tall screen shielding the room from the fire's heat.

  "Young Lord Easton is a charming host," said Miss Harwick. "I was greatly surprised upon meeting him. For he is nothing at all like his sister in countenance or manner. Quite manly, in fact."