Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  "I knew of Hetta's attachment before the others did," Flora answered, choosing her words carefully to avoid mentioning any details. "Hetta was aware that I knew and assumed I was connected to the discovery of her impetuous mistake."

  "That is hardly a reason to persecute you," Mrs. Fitzwilliam scoffed. "As if Hetta Harwick regrets getting caught. Such a spoiled and silly girl would have been unhappy if she had run away with a village boy. She's far too proud of her pretty feathers and young gentlemen of fortune to regret the outcome."

  "Perhaps so," Flora said, turning to the household accounts again. Relieved that the theory about herself and Roger Easton had vanished.

  Was Hetta truly happy? She found it hard to believe, given the young girl's situation. Shallow in character, lacking in personal faith, Hetta was but a shell destined to be filled with the fortune of whatever husband she chose. Her life was simply a quest to keep her family afloat financially; there was no love or charity to brighten her future.

  Whatever she may be, Flora penned in her journal, Hetta is to be pitied. For if she continues this way, she must be a hungry creature never to be filled. Always in search of something new to entertain her, to keep from thinking about her life. She repulsed even friendship from those who would offer better counsel–no doubt because there was no better example set for her by her parents.

  Had we been friends in the past, would things have been different between us now? Had we been true confidents and not just forced playmates, would she still have believed that I betrayed her that afternoon? Perhaps so; but perhaps past memories would have caused her to forgive me more quickly.

  For all that I resent in her attempts to toy with Roger's heart as she has toyed with others, I feel something else besides. For what if Hetta once, indeed, did love–and was thwarted in that love?

  Such a question would never be answered in Hetta's eyes. For their depths were inscrutable, Flora had discovered, except where the hunger for fortune and amusement was concerned.

  Was it possible that such an unhappy young girl would learn to love Roger? It was impossible for her to believe, even when viewing her in the best possible light. For how could someone who treated young Lord Nighton with such contempt for having too little fortune show true kindness to young Lord Easton for having too much?

  Such a question, Flora decided, she intended to make sure would never be answered.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "Look how much this little one has grown!" Flora hoisted a giggling little girl into her arms, whose cap slid away to reveal dark hair beneath.

  "You spoil them too much, Flora," her brother Giles scolded. But she knew it was he who indulged even his eldest, barely four years old, in all manner of mischief.

  "Are you forbidding me from running through the house with my nieces and nephews?" she demanded. She looked at her sister-in-law, a slender matron seated on the sofa with an infant in her harms. "Is he to prevent me from doing my duty as an aunt?"

  Isabel laughed. "You must let her have them for at least a little while, Giles. Otherwise, they shall think we are punishing them, depriving them of their favorite relative."

  Giles and Isabel did not reside in London, but in Lambton, where Giles was a barrister. They were in London for the season, currently staying with Isabel's parents at their town house. Having just arrived, they were paying their respects to Sir Edward's family; although Flora suspected there was something more to be said by her brother, on subjects other than his children. Especially when he ushered her into the library after tea.

  "I do not like this writing business," he informed her. She gazed at him attentively, although her thoughts were wandering in the general direction of Marianne and the children playing in the garden.

  "There is no impropriety, Giles," she answered. "Papa will answer for that. For although he loathes it as much as you do, he concedes that there is no reason why I might not have my own way on this."

  "To earn a few pounds, practically by trade?" her brother interrupted. "Flora, have you no sense of what this would mean to our father, if the truth be made known?" In his hand he held a copy of the little book, gesturing with it as though brandishing the evidence by which he made his charge.

  "But it never will be," she answered. "I will bring no scandal upon our family, I promise you. There is strict secrecy on behalf of the publisher. And not even Marianne would breathe a word on the subject."

  She suspected, from the earmarks and scent of herbal tea, that the copy in Giles's hand belonged to her sister-in-law.

  "But if it did become known," he said. Sitting next to her on the sofa, he put his arm around her in a brotherly embrace. "Think of yourself, my dear; think of Marianne. We are speaking of your reputations as well, you know."

  He did not speak of their lack of fortune, not the inevitable day that she and Marianne would be his dependents. Forced by circumstances to look to him for their needs and receiving whatever portion he could give them of their father's dwindling fortune.

  "I suppose you intend to write another one?" he asked. "There is no hope that this little volume is your only intention?" Her lack of response he interpreted as guilt.

  "Then I suppose I am asked to bless your endeavors with good humor," he concluded, with a long sigh. "To give you leave to enjoy this notion."

  "Is a lady author so distasteful?" she inquired, playfully. "Or is it because I am your sister?"

  "Don't be silly," he answered. He thumped her arm softly with the book before tucking it into his pocket again. In a gentle voice, he added, "But surely there is something more appropriate that you could be doing with your time. Instead of scribbling novels or such things."

  He did not understand. And would not understand, she realized. It was better to be playful about the whole matter and put an end to the conversation to avoid unpleasant lines about limited fortunes and lack of proposals.

  "I shall take up a new needlepoint pattern tonight, expressly to please you," she answered, as she rose with a playful bow to return to her romping nieces and nephews.

  From Isabel, she received more sympathy. "Of course there is nothing wrong with a woman engaging in an honest activity," she said. "Only you must take care that it be a secret. As for my part, I must admit I greatly enjoyed your little book." She squeezed Flora's hand sympathetically.

  No doubt Isabel had considered her children's four hungry mouths and her husband's small income as she spoke. But Flora also knew her sister-in-law's warm heart was not without a sense of adventure when it came to a woman's life which admired bold gestures.

  "I hope that Giles will see it that way in time," Flora answered. "After all, a man may write without being a scandal, so why not a woman? If she takes care to protect her name, that is."

  "I agree," said Isabel. "Although I must admit ... I rather did wonder .. if some of the rules in this little book might have been inspired by our confidences. When your brother and I became attached." A shy blush appeared as she spoke.

  "An authoress must always keep her sources perfectly secret," Flora whispered. "Although I must confess that I learned a great deal from your courtship. Only you musn't tell Giles."

  They dropped the subject of the little book the moment Sir Edward appeared.

  "I come bearing good tidings for all to hear, I hope," he said, removing his coat and handing it to the maid. "No less than an invitation from Colonel Miles himself, requesting that we all come to Brawley Court for an extended visit." His free arms were now scooping up two eager grandchildren, who hurried to him in hopes of finding sweets hidden in his pockets.

  "Brawley Court!" said Flora. "Surely you are mistaken–it is still the season. But it would be so lovely."

  Further words failed her on the subject, for she could not think of returning to her favorite childhood haunt without getting swept up in memories. The thought of seeing its grounds, strolling through the neighboring meadows, was all too good to believe.

  "He was quite clear in his invitation and he promis
es it will be a sizeable party," her father answered. "Word has it the Bartons and Harwicks are among those accepting the invitation. And there is some talk that the young Lord Easton will come as well, although Donnelly Hall is but a stone's throw from there."

  "If we are in the country," said Marianne. "Then I can collect specimens! I need a jar and a–"

  "What you need is a governess and a sewing needle which prevents your thread from getting snarled," Sir Edward objected, swinging his grandson upon his shoulder. "I do not see the need for transporting bugs from the country into a London house." He had only this morning had a trying lecture from the housekeeper Madge on the subject of a box of snails found beneath Marianne's bed.

  Flora hugged her youngest nephew in a playful embrace. "The country air is always good for these little ones, no?" she said, as the boy's fingers reached for a stray lock of her hair.

  Giles shook his head. "Unfortunately, we shall not be joining you," he answered. "I have a previous engagement in town which shall keep us much occupied."

  "Send Isabel with us, then," pleaded Flora. "For you know what it is like, having the freedom of the countryside all about you." Her raptures were overpowering to herself, but Isabel merely shook her head with a smile.

  "The baby has already traveled too much," said Isabel, "but our being absent should not detract from your pleasure, since the party will be large. And I know how you love the country," she teased.

  "As a child, she thought of nothing else," volunteered Sir Edward. "And perhaps it would have been better if it were still so." With a meaningful glance in the direction of the little book tucked beside Isabel.

  At dinner, Giles entertained them with stories of the weeks spent in Bath during Isabel's long convalescence after their youngest was born. His good humor was inherited from his father, but his gift of storytelling was all his mother's, something which Flora believed had been passed to each of them.

  She was ready enough to be distracted from her thoughts, but could not be. Her mind remained fixed on the subject of the return to the countryside. It had been so long since she had seen Colonel Miles's estate. The sprawling fields of Brawley Court seemed to call to her with their fields of green and gold.

  Of course, there were other fields bordering the Miles property. The fields that belonged to Donnelly Hall and its heir.

  She remembered his remarks about the Christmas Eve party in the Hall. The music and mistletoe were suddenly alive again in her mind, as was a much more dangerous memory for her romantic impulse.

  Reaching for her glass, she endeavored to think of something else. Were there not attractions enough for her without reliving the past? Would she not be content with the whispers around her about the "little book" as she basked in her success as its clever author?

  Cleverness, however, would probably only achieve two things for her. A few pounds in her pocket for the keeping of herself and her sister; and the salvation of Roger from falling in love with Hetta Harwick.

  "You hardly seem yourself, Flora," said her sister-in-law, studying Flora's appearance in the soft light of the drawing room after dinner. "Will you not tell me what is the matter?"

  "Nothing is the matter," Flora answered. "I am the same as always, except for the book. And I must confess that I take more than a little satisfaction in its success." She lowered her book of poetry, the first volume she had touched in a week, minus the Advice copy tucked in her dressing table.

  "I have hopes that the little advice book shall be useful to you as well." Isabel lowered her voice. "Shall its authoress not live out its pages with a splendid success of her own?"

  Her eyes searched Flora's with a query that made her heart tremble. Surely Isabel did not suspect her?

  "There shall be no hearts conquered by me," Flora answered, with a brief smile. "No charms needed for anything but pleasant company."

  "You cannot be content with that forever," said Isabel. "Is there no one to persuade you otherwise? Giles and I wonder at a charming young lady in London's busy season–"

  "You forget that this charming young lady has thoughts occupied by the scribbling of a pen and the secret fame earned by it," Flora answered. "I can assure you that I am in no danger of a proposal. Indeed, there is very little to tempt anyone, I think, into preferring my hand over another charming young lady's–providing it holds a suitable fortune, that is."

  She laughed, to prove to Isabel that it was spoken in jest. There was disappointment in her sister-in-law's eyes over these assurances, proof that she and Giles had hoped for more.

  Did they not understand that there was no possibility of more? For all her charms, there was no fortune to be had. And to conquer a heart by charm alone meant rivaling the feminine arts of all of London's Hetta Harwicks in a serious game of consequence.

  There shall be no hearts conquered by me. She wondered if Isabel realized that she carefully omitted any assurance that her own heart would be unconquered. For all her words, she wondered if the armor which protected it might possess chinks and cracks.

  *****

  "I have a present for you," Roger whispered. He spoke quietly as Lucy stirred on the sofa, her head crowned with a wreath of holly leaves.

  "A Christmas present?" Flora asked. She stared at him with a mixture of surprise and childish dismay that was evident at almost ten years of age. "Are you teasing me?"

  A few moments before, they had crouched behind the drawing room's drapes and watched as no less than twenty couples danced "Sir Roger de Coverly" to the tune of fiddle and cello, with no less than Lord and Lady Easton leading the way. Then they had whirled themselves dizzy before the library's fire, imitating the steps of the reel as best they could. Roger leading the way with his arm about Flora's waist, her crown of holly and ivy glowing in the firelight.

  Tired after a few dances, they plopped down on the hearthrug, beneath the mantelpiece stripped of much of its greenery by eager young fingers. Roger, seated at her feet, had leaned close to her in order to whisper without being heard by his sister.

  "I meant it as a surprise," he said. "Now don't go and spoil it." He pulled something from his pocket and pressed it in her hand. When she opened it, there lay a gilded walnut shell.

  "The present's inside," he explained. The shell's halves parted from a wax seal, revealing a small gold star with a loop at the top.

  "Oh," she breathed softly. "It's beautiful." She let the ornament tumble into her hand.

  "How did you get it?" she asked.

  "I bought it with pocket money," he answered, with a shrug. "But you should wear it. We'll get a bit of cord or a ribbon–" he fumbled through his pockets, then glanced at the scarlet ribbon threaded in Flora's hair.

  "Here," he said, pulling its bow untied. She cried out in protest as the ribbon snaked free of its knot. Folding the edge, he attempted to poke it through the star's hole.

  "Wait, Roger," she said. He glanced up with a frown.

  "I didn't get you anything. A present, I mean." She felt very miserable as the thought settled over her. "Why didn't you tell me you were going to?" Her brow furrowed as she spoke, wishing he had not gotten her anything quite so nice. Why not a pretty stone or a hollow bird's egg, instead of something which cost him coins?

  "Because it would spoil the surprise," he answered, giving up on threading the necklace, since the ribbon was too wide. He placed the ornament back in its shell and slipped it into her pocket.

  "But I have to give you something," she persisted. "And I have nothing that's worth anything in my pocket except a stray button and a pebble. But you may have anything with me that you want for a present." She dug her hand eagerly into her pocket.

  "Anything?" he asked. She nodded, solemnly. In her mind, she was planning on parting with the button, a wooden one painted green.

  He shook his head as she pulled it out. "You said anything you had with you," he reminded her. "Not what you had in your pockets."

  With that, he leaned forward and cupped her face in his hands. Sh
e felt his lips brush her cheek in a soft, warm touch. He drew back for a second and met her eyes; she pulled away, feeling a strange tingle in her skin beneath the site of the kiss.

  "How dare you?" she scolded.

  "You said it didn't have to be in your pockets," he grinned. "Just on you."

  "You are a silly, spoiled boy and I don't care if you did give me a present," she answered, scrambling to her feet. "I won't be kissed by any boy, do you hear me?" She ran towards the library door, her crown of greenery sliding to one side of her head.

  "Flora, wait," he called, climbing to his feet. On the sofa, little Lucy stirred. "Is it Christmas morning, Roger?" she asked.

  "Hush, Lucy, and go to sleep," he answered. But Flora kept going, weaving her way through the crowd of onlookers as the dancers stomped enthusiastically through the final steps of their jig.

  Her good humor was restored by a chocolate given to her a few minutes later by Colonel Miles. Restored enough to forgive Roger when he begged her pardon the day after Christmas.

  "If I could, I would give you back the kiss," he said. "I shall take another present instead." The incident forgotten, he joined her in devouring a small box of Turkish delight given to Flora by her brother.

  It did not occur to her until later that her scarlet hair ribbon had been forgotten. A present from her governess, it had fallen to the library floor when she fled and Roger had told her that he could not find it afterwards.

  *****

  Forgetting such memories was for the best. There was no better way to protect her heart and keep her focus on the task at hand than avoiding such sentimental thoughts as the Christmas party at Donnelly Hall.

  Flora repeated this to herself as she entertained her youngest niece with a miniature doll made from colorful rags dyed with vegetables. The child's fingers were busy attempting to undo the doll's knotted limbs as her aunt made it dance from a string. A very agreeable distraction in her aunt's eyes.