Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  "He is indeed handsome, isn't he?" said Miss Phillips. "Many a young lady has positively declared him to be the most eligible young gentleman this season."

  "Without a doubt," answered Miss Harwick. "My heart is not easily swayed; but I think that Lord Easton might prove the exception to the case. For him I might be induced to trade it for matrimony."

  Chapter Seven

  "Well, I have had enough society to last me until the next ball and possibly beyond," groaned Sir Edward. The carriage had rumbled on to deposit Mrs. Fitzwilliam at her own door.

  "You always say so, Papa," Flora reminded him. She was in a poor mood for their conversation–a rare event in her life. The door was opened by Madge, admitting them to welcome from an eager Marianne.

  "You're home! Oh, you must tell me all about it," she pleaded. Bare feet, a white nightgown, and the late hour attested to Marianne's having escaped from bed.

  "I put her there again all of fifteen minutes ago, sir," explained a long-suffering Madge.

  "Marianne!" scolded Flora. "Do you realize how very late it is? You should have been asleep long ago." She ushered her sister up the stairs ahead of her, pulling off her cloak as she went.

  "But I want to hear about the party," Marianne begged. "If I wait until morning you will have forgotten all the good parts and it won't be half as interesting. Did anyone mention the book? Are all the fashionable young ladies reading it?"

  "I wish to hear no more of either parties or that wretched little book," her father rumbled. "That is enough, Marianne. You will drop the subject immediately and go to bed!"

  "Yes, Papa," Marianne answered in a meek voice. Disappointment dampened her enthusiasm as she allowed her sister to steer her.

  Flora handed her cape to Madge and shook the rain from the folds of her gown. "Come, Marianne," she said. "Let us go to bed and leave Papa in peace for tonight." Below, her father disappeared into the library with a grumble of fatigue.

  In the corridor, Flora paused to light a candle and herd Marianne into her chamber. A small bed of rumpled sheets awaited, piled with storybooks which Marianne read by moonlight to the chagrin of her former governess, lately embarked on marriage in order to escape the despair of controlling her charge.

  "Bed for you, once again," Flora said, tucking the sheets around Marianne and moving aside a volume on poetry and their mother's prayer book.

  "What is the matter, Flora?" Marianne peered into her face with worry. "You are not at all yourself tonight."

  Sighing, Flora shook her head. "It is nothing," she answered. "Now, go to sleep." She slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.

  The candle cast gloomy shadows on either side of the hall as she made her way to her own bedroom. Inside, she set it on her dressing table and flopped into the nearest chair. Her feelings burned at the recollection of Miss Harwick's words: Lord Easton might prove the exception to the case. For him I might be induced to trade it for matrimony.

  She reached for her journal and flipped it open, placing her pen against the blank page.

  It is too wrong, it is too, too wrong! That a man of Roger Easton's character and kindness be made the prey of a fortune hunter, whose only interest is in his title and money!

  If she pursues him, it will only be for mercenary purposes or else for her own amusement. That is the most galling part of all. This, the fate of a man who shows so much goodness to my father, who has every care for his mother and sister! Who conversed tonight with all present as though they were equal to him in rank and fortune, regardless of who they were. Whose Maker's influence painted so many aspects of his character in public and private since childhood, as those of us who know him are assured.

  Hetta Harwick has charms and beauty enough to tempt him into notice, I am sure; for even the most disinterested of men could not help it when such a girl shows him favor and attention. And this all to be done before all of us, his friends, who cannot intervene to dissuade him should he find himself attracted to her!

  There must be a way to prevent this. To save Roger Easton from the risk of such a mistake.

  Here she paused, her glance falling upon the volume on her dresser. The copy of Advice for Young Ladies on the Subject of Matrimony, sent to her with the publisher's compliments.

  An idea flickered through her mind, like the candle's flame stirring upon the dresser. Could not that means of distraction lie within the pages of her own little book? A rulebook, if you will, for enhancing a woman's charms for the sole purpose of attraction?

  Her breath quickened at the thought. Surely it was possible for someone like her to counter the charms of Hetta Harwick using the advice in her own manual. Didn't her little book contain the best means of managing a young lady's arts to attract a young man's attention? While Hetta believed herself above such advice, were her natural charms really better than those of a clever woman with practice?

  Surely if she followed her own rulebook, she might match or exceed Hetta's charms–in order to counter their effect on Roger Easton.

  Is it right? Would it be safe–and prudent? Or even if reckless, might it not be warranted to protect him from such a mistake?

  No answer came to her question at the moment. There was no risk to Roger, surely there was no risk. But if there was, then she would be guilty of a mistake as grievous as Hetta's mercenary endeavors. No matter how good her actions were intended, if her own hand set in motion the little volume's advice.

  Her pen was poised against the page of her journal as her mind weighed its possibilities and consequences.

  *****

  I am resolved to do it. I am resolved to try my own advice against the charms of one Miss Hetta Harwick, as clever and beautiful as she may be. For it would be only too wrong of me to let Roger Easton suffer the fate of such a match–with a young lady of such reputation–after the friendship that was once between us long ago.

  Is it possible to secure a man's attention without touching his heart? I hope so. And I think it must be, for a man can enjoy a woman's company and find her charming without feeling any desire to propose matrimony to her.

  I am not as charming as Miss Harwick ... and certainly not as pretty. But I believe that I can be every bit her equal if I keep my wits about me and keep my head engaged. And since I have no fortune at stake, what possible reason can I have for failing?

  Chapter Eight

  The candle had long burned out on the dresser as Flora lay asleep, her head buried in her arms. An open journal lay before her, its pages fluttering in the breeze from the door half-ajar. A moment later, the door was pushed fully open to admit Marianne.

  "Flora?" she whispered. She touched her sister's shoulder. With a start, Flora sat up.

  "What?" she asked. She touched her forehead, her eyes bewildered at the stream of sunlight through the drapes. "Is it morning? How can that be?" Glancing down, her eyes met the folds of her simple dinner gown, her shawl slipped halfway to the floor.

  "You let the candle burn all the way down," accused Marianne, perching herself on the edge of Flora's bed. "Papa will be displeased if he sees, so I would hide it away somewhere if I were you. Or give it to me," she said, with a sudden change of heart, "and I shall melt it together again and make one for reading at night."

  "You shall have no night-time candle, lest you burn our house to the ground," retorted Flora. She rose and began fumbling with the buttons of her gown. "Is Papa at breakfast?" she inquired.

  Marianne nodded. "Busy with some papers which arrived yesterday. It is too quiet there, so I came here instead."

  Her sister pulled the ornaments from her hair and ran a brush through its folds in quick strokes. "I suppose you could not wait another moment to hear about last night's events," she guessed, pinning her hair quickly into a plain, high knot.

  "Were the dresses very pretty?" asked Marianne. "Were the gentleman all talking of sport? I am sure that Colonel Miles will have them all to look for pheasants soon." Her feet swung back and forth against the coverlet as
the questions tumbled forth.

  "Colonel Miles will not have anyone to his country house for a little while yet," Flora reminded her, "for the season has its charms and you forget that he has a wife who longs for a little fashion now and then."

  "Then what of the ladies? They were not all full of nonsense about prints and fabrics, were they?"

  "You would have found it very dull," Flora answered. She adjusted the sleeves of her dress before the mirror, noting how old-fashioned the waistline had grown.

  Attempting to sound casual, she added, "They talked of nothing at dinner but the little book." A mischievous grin sprang to her mirror's reflection, then turned towards her sister's excited face.

  "Oh, I knew it was so! Everyone is talking about it," she squealed. She sprang from the bed and followed Flora down the stairs. "You should be quite famous, Flora!"

  "We are not to tell anyone, Marianne," Flora reminded her. "That was the bargain when Papa agreed to its publication and I shall not break my promise to him." With a warning glance, she silenced her sister on the subject temporarily.

  Flora entered the breakfast room and took her seat. Marianne's last words had been audible to her father, who looked up from his cup of tea with a trying glance.

  "If Marianne cannot hold her tongue on this subject–” he began. Flora shook her head.

  "I have spoken to her, Papa," she answered. Marianne joined them at the table, reaching for a slice of toast on the platter.

  "I would never tell if I wasn't supposed to," Marianne said. "I should only tell if we were allowed to tell. If Papa should change his mind–"

  "Daughter–" Sir Edward spoke in a stern voice. His youngest daughter was too occupied with spreading preserves over her bread to listen.

  "Is the letter very important?" Flora asked, in order to change the subject. She noticed the page tucked beneath his plate, its broad strokes indicating it was a business matter and not the "crossed" lines of friend or family.

  "It is a letter from my solicitor," he answered. "It regards the Easton estate, for they are not yet aware that young Lord Easton has returned to England." He tucked the page into his pocket as he spoke.

  "The matter is not grave, I trust?" she asked. For a moment, she wondered if it concerned matters that would send Roger abroad with respects to his father's property.

  "I sincerely hope not," answered Sir Edward. "It would be far too cruel, now that he has finally returned home, to require him to depart once more. His mother would feel it keenly after this present happiness, I'm sure."

  Flora cradled her cup of tea before taking a sip. It surprised her that she felt regret over the thought of Roger Easton's departure. Would it not be the safest way to keep him from a hasty attachment? She reproached herself for the question entirely.

  The maid, looking hesitant, appeared in the doorway. "If you please, sir. Mrs. Fitzwilliam–"

  "Send her in, Dill," answered Sir Edward. A moment later, the lady had joined them at the table in a splendid afternoon gown.

  "I have just come from the milliners, my dears, and I regret to inform you that all the best bonnets are gone," she sighed. "It is too true, I am afraid; for although I made haste, I was misinformed as to the day their newest fashions would be ready."

  "I have not a need of a new bonnet, Aunt," Flora assured her. "And I am sure that Miss Marianne will not be in need of one for at least another year, if she takes great care of her Sabbath bonnet and does not fill it with birds' eggs again."

  "How was I to know that I would break a shoe lace and fall?" asked Marianne.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam tisked loudly. "A lady must never gather nature in such a fashion, Marianne," she answered. "We are to take cuttings of flowers and medicinal herbs and nothing more; and those are meant to be gathered with shears and a basket for the cuttings."

  "But on the subject of bonnets," she said, without taking a breath, "you must get something new, Flora. For walking out, if nothing else. Is this not the season for proposals, when every young woman must be about herself and her charms?"

  "I have charms enough without a new bonnet," Flora answered, playfully.

  "You must be relying heavily indeed upon the Advice for Young Ladies to be so sure without a few touches to your wardrobe," answers Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  Sir Edward lowered his cup. "Let us forget this nonsense," he said. "I wish, my dear lady, that you would not encourage the subject of advice or proposals with such eagerness."

  "Why not, when all society is ablaze with the subject?" retorted Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "I think there shall be no escaping the subject of conquering hearts when one is on display at a ball or dance."

  "But not all hearts are conquered for the purpose of proposals," Flora said. "Sometimes, I think, young ladies merely charm gentlemen for the purpose of being charming."

  "You mean amusement," Marianne interrupted, no longer interested in her toast.

  Flora aimed a very stern expression at her sister. "No, I do not mean 'amusement'," she replied. "I mean ... a practical exercise. Drawing a man's attention is a matter of the head, not the heart. All young ladies intend to amuse the gentleman before whom they are present, even without the purpose of drawing a proposal."

  "Nay," she continued, "I would venture to say that most of us find ourselves good-humored and genial before a man without the slightest intention of touching his heart."

  She busied herself with a piece of ham. Although she enjoyed the vague explanation behind her plan, she had no desire to explain it. Certainly no one else would understand it, including her aunt, who would undoubtedly suggest she meant to ensnare the young heir herself. As if Flora Stuart was any likely match for the wealth of Lord Easton.

  "What–a young lady who doesn't want a proposal?" declared Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "I have never heard the like, even from such a headstrong girl as yourself."

  "That is not what I said," Flora replied. She skirted the subject of marriage as best possible in her reply. "I am simply saying that the arts involved exist outside of the end result. Much like playing an instrument, for instance."

  "A poor example indeed for a young lady who practices scarcely once a week," Sir Edward said.

  Flora's mouth pinched itself into a line. "I am fond of the harp," she answered. "Really, I am. There are just other things which must often be done."

  "You have neglected your music for the little herb and rose garden, I trust," Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. "I'm afraid you've plied your feminine arts very little in the subjects of trimming bonnets and needlepoint and embroidery as well."

  This was far too much to be endured. Heat crept into Flora's cheeks in response.

  "And Miss Marianne is bound to be just as bad unless she spends less time capturing insects and more time with her lessons," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Something I hope your new governess will put an end to if your sister won't."

  "I'm beginning to despair of finding a governess for her," Sir Edward said. "For her reputation precedes her. It shall be a richer man than I who pays the salary of such a longsuffering woman."

  "But I haven't done anything bad," Marianne protested. "What is wrong with keeping a beetle in a jar? He doesn't harm anything so long as he is there."

  "You really must put him back, Marianne," Flora answered. "For the housemaid is afraid of him and the leaves you collect for him are scattered all over your floor. Aunt Charlotte is right; young ladies do not run about in the garden with muddy skirts." She set aside her utensils and rose. "That is no doubt why my charms have failed to secure a proposal."

  "I see that smile lurking about your lips, Miss Flora," Mrs. Fitzwilliam responded. "You should take more care, lest you find your own heart ensnared–by thinking it can't be unless you wish it."

  Flora shook her head. "I have no such thoughts. Merely an inclination to be a charming and pleasant young lady in society."

  "Now you sound like the little advice book," answered Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  *****

  Upstairs, she flipped open th
e book and perused its pages. Despite the fact that she had penned the words herself, they seemed unfamiliar in print. She had only read the manuscript in its original form, her own handwriting curving across sheets of paper. Never before had she read those lines set in type, giving her a strange thrill. It was almost as if a stranger had written them.

  The rules of conduct for a lady desirous of attracting a proposal. Short, simple, and witty. But which one should one start with? Which rule is the most important? And are all the rules essential for success–or only a few?

  These were questions which Flora had never considered when writing it. She had given no thought to the steps in which the rules were applied, no advice as to whether one rule was more important than another.

  Or did she? After all, the first rules in the volume concerned dress–which seemed of lesser importance than, say, the rules about refraining from petty gossip about rivals. Such rules were easily carried out first in the plan.

  The second part, the rules of conduct when others are present. Might that not be considered less crucial to drawing notice than the final part of the book, the rules on using feminine charms? One's conduct concerned forming an initial impression, which she had already done. Now she wanted Roger Easton to notice something different about her. Namely, that she was not a rambunctious little girl who plucked geese or ran about in country fields.

  Those rules were certainly the most important of all.

  She turned the book to the first page. "A lady's dress is often the most memorable part of her appearance, but never neglect the gentle accents. A simple necklace, a headdress, even a hair ribbon may be enough to draw a gentleman's notice when striking and cunningly displayed."

  A bold and daring thought indeed. She blushed, knowing that even a harmless, witty line like that would mean scorn for her family, if anyone knew she penned the words herself. What a blessing that the publishers insisted upon anonymity.