Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  The spacious grounds at the front of the house were high with grass, the stone walkways and graveled paths now spotted with weeds. She glimpsed the stately pillars and elegant threshold that had once been pristine and welcoming for Donnelly's guests as they wandered across the open lawn. She looked toward Roger to see if he remembered as well. But his interest apparently lay in something on the other side of the manor house, as his figure turned the corner.

  She found him standing on an empty urn grown over with weeds alongside one of its walls. His fingers were prying at the frame of a large ground floor window.

  "What are you doing?" she asked. He did not answer. Instead, he pried it open and climbed over the sill.

  "Give me your hand," he commanded. Flora climbed up on the urn and took his fingers, allowing him to help her inside.

  "You have broken into your own house," she accused him in a mock whisper of horror.

  He merely grinned. "Next time I must remember my key; else there may be a groundskeeper to drive us away." His strong hands encircled hers, helping hoist her through the open frame.

  On her feet again, she turned slowly, surveying the room around her. Dust had settled over the furniture and portraits draped in sheets. His footprints and hers were evident in the dust beneath their feet, where her skirt trailed through a fine powder of grey.

  How extraordinary that it should be the room she remembered best from her childhood. The ballroom from the Donnelly Hall Christmas party.

  "It is ..." she whispered, "it is much changed, isn't it? When I was last here, there was no pianoforte in the corner. And the chair before the fire was not the same as this one." Her fingers trailed along the sheet covering, as if touching a ghost's shroud out of curiosity.

  "We have not been here together since the long-ago Christmas party, have we?" said Roger. "We spied on the dancers, you and I. Right behind those curtains." He indicated the large drapes that were drawn aside and stiffened from disuse.

  "I remember it was dreadfully cold," Flora said. "But the music was so lively, we could not resist. I envied those girls in their fancy gowns, whirling about the floor."

  As she spoke, he drew the sheet off of a short table near the wall. Beneath was a large Swiss music box made from elaborately carved mahogany. Reaching behind, he turned the key. It turned stiffly, yielding after a moment's pressure. When he lifted the lid, a lively tune sprang from inside.

  It was a waltz. The tinny notes echoed in the room devoid of any people but themselves. He turned and gave a short bow to Flora.

  "Would you do me the honor, Miss Stuart," he said, "of dancing with me on this occasion?"

  In spite of herself, she laughed aloud. "Are you quite serious?"

  "Perfectly serious," he said. "This room was meant for dancing and it has long been neglected here." He drew a step closer. "And as I recall, we did not have the opportunity of enjoying it before."

  He held out his hand. Unable to resist, she placed her own in his.

  In the middle of the floor, they took their places for a reel. Their fingers touched, sending excitement tingling through her arms like a bolt of lightening. She met his eyes, aware that her own were shining with pleasure, her cheeks red from racing downhill.

  Their figures were in motion, performing the dance neither perfectly nor awkwardly. Her skirts swept across the floor, leaving circular swirls in the dust beneath her. Their footsteps echoed in the empty chamber with each move and turn to the faltering notes of the music box.

  As they faced each other after the turn, they paused. Frozen in place, their eyes met. She could read the boyish humor in his face, the enjoyment of childish pursuits. But what, she wondered, did he see in her own?

  The music stopped as the box wound to a halt. There was silence, followed by Flora's shaky laugh.

  "That is the end of our dance," she said. Her hand broke from his hold; she pulled away, lowering her eyes to hide her emotions.

  "The works must need repaired," he apologized. "I shall have it looked after when I am here again." She heard the sound of the sheet being thrown over it again.

  "Would you like to explore?" he asked. His voice faltered slightly in the silence around them. "To see the rest of the house, perhaps? The downstairs rooms, the drawing room and the library are not locked."

  She shook her head. "Perhaps when I come again," she answered, quietly. "When Donnelly is ready to receive its many guests with open doors."

  She thought she saw disappointment flash in his eyes over her response. But she was apparently mistaken, for his voice was quite normal again when he spoke.

  "As you wish, my lady," he answered. And helped her over the windowsill, onto the lawn below.

  *****

  They talked of pleasant things as they climbed the hill; anything but serious subjects. As they reached the top, Flora spotted a young woman in the spot where she had been laying earlier. It was Hetta, holding a cluster of wildflowers alongside a slip of paper in her hand, which she studied with great interest.

  As she turned to them, Hetta offered a cool smile. "Is it not a beautiful day?" she asked. "We have long been wondering what happened to you both. I do not suppose Sir Edward is with you as well, for we are quite at a loss to explain where he and the Colonel have gone."

  "We did not see them on our walk," Flora answered, as she collected her wrap from the grass. "But I believe they would have strolled towards the northern grounds. The Colonel is especially proud of his flock pastured just yonder."

  Hetta joined them as they walked back to the picnic grounds. With guilt, Flora realized how long they had been absent when she saw the open hampers, the half-eaten plates upon the laps of various guests. What had they thought, a young lady and gentleman unchaperoned for an hour or more?

  "I had thought to see you on my walk, Marianne," she said, by way of covering her flustered emotions. "Did you confine your search for specimens to the immediate grounds?" She put her arm around her sister in a gentle embrace.

  "I found ever so many by the flowers along the rock over there," said Marianne, pointing towards a pile of stones. "I chased quite a few, but they kept escaping me." She looked tired and sunburned as she followed her sister to the nearest blanket.

  "Wherever have you been?" scolded Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "I thought you must be with the Miss Phillips–the younger one–only she said she saw nothing of you while she was picking flowers. I half-suspected you were with Sir Edward–"

  "I was walking and met Lord Easton," she answered. "I strolled with him to the property boundaries of Donnelly, for he expressed an interest in seeing them again."

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. "No flirting among the trees, I hope?" she said. "Or did Miss Harwick join you for this adventure? I believe she has been gone these past fifteen minutes or so."

  "We did see her," Flora answered. She was breaking apart a piece of cake and attempting to look as casual as possible. "She has gathered a lovely bouquet."

  "I saw nothing of any flowers when we walked towards the north view," complained Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "What a shame, to miss the wildflowers. They do make one feel young again."

  "Indeed they do," Flora answered.

  Chapter Nineteen

  In her room at Brawley Court, Flora searched through the folds of her afternoon shawl and underneath her dressing table. On top of it lay her journal, its loose pages scattered across the surface. Beside it was a bottle of paste, with which Flora was endeavoring to repair it.

  "Are you all right?" Marianne was observing her from the open doorway. Flora glanced up from her position on her hands and knees.

  "I have a lost a page or two from my journal," she said. "Have you seen them? The housekeeper lent me some paste since the binding is all broken." She rose from her knees and sank onto her chair. Today, her mind seemed to be unraveling like the pages of her diary. Perhaps she was exposed to more sun than was healthy on this afternoon's picnic.

  "If I help you find the missing pages, will you go with me to Five Acre
s field again?" asked Marianne. "I forgot my butterflies, Flora, and if I leave them there, they'll starve to death. The housekeeper says I can't bring them back here, but if I ask the Colonel–"

  "I told you to let them go at the end of the day," Flora scolded. "And you most certainly cannot bring them here. At home, you make poor Madge suffer through all sorts of dreadful surprises in your room, but the Colonel's housekeeper is not used to such treatment."

  "Then will you go with me?" Marianne pleaded. "I didn't want to hurt them, just to study them. Butterflies are so pretty to watch."

  With a sigh, Flora grabbed her shawl. "You stay here; I'll go and release them." She pushed aside the journal and made her way downstairs.

  It was a long walk to Five Acres field; a little more than a mile. But Flora felt inclined to be alone for awhile. Alone with her thoughts which felt like a skein of yarn slowly unwinding itself.

  The way it felt when her fingers touched Roger's. The knowledge that the merriment she saw in his eyes was quite different from the emotions of her own heart at that moment.

  Was she falling in love with him? Surely she was not. She knew the risk of heartache, knew the impossibility of an attachment between two people settled so differently in life. Yet there was no other explanation for what she felt.

  She should have taken more precautions. Saving Roger's heart–was that worth her own?

  Hugging her shawl more tightly around her, she made her way through the fields, now empty of laborers as evening fell. The air had grown cooler as the sun lowered itself into the west.

  Marianne's jar was on a rock near the picnic site, its mouth covered by a piece of fabric tied with string. Several butterflies flapped frantically inside. She pulled the cord free and opened the jar, releasing them into the air.

  A few flashes of color emerged and the jar in her hands was empty again. As the butterflies drifted out of sight, she watched them vanish into the glow of the sunset. Turning towards Brawley Court, she made her way in the direction of the house.

  Ahead, she saw a figure strolling through the green, face downcast and hands in the pocket of his coat. Her heart sank. Had one of the guests come to assist her? She hardly felt the desire for company at this moment.

  The person raised his head as she drew nearer. Instead of a guest of Brawley Court, however, she was confronted by young Lord Nighton. He raised his hat and offered her a sad smile in response to her surprise.

  The Lord Nighton she had known in London and in the country was a carefree, rather silly figure in society. An acquaintance of her brother's, she had met him on more than one occasion, where he chatted on about horses and cricket and hunting grouse.

  But for the year following his broken attachment to Hetta, few had seen him smile and only a handful of friends had spotted him dining in the clubs or at social events. No one knew the circumstances behind it–although rumors were much-whispered amongst his acquaintances–but it was evident to his friends that he felt the loss of Miss Harwick's heart deeply.

  "Miss Stuart," he said in greeting. "What brings you to the fields at this hour?"

  "I had an errand to run for my sister," she explained. "We are staying with my uncle at Brawley Court."

  He nodded. "I have heard that he has a party of guests there. He invited me to dine with them, but I have other engagements while I am a guest here in the country."

  She knew well the reason why he would not join them at the Colonel's table. The sight of Hetta's fair face a few seats away would be painful; the sight of her perhaps forming an attachment with another gentleman would be unbearable.

  "Come, let me walk you to your home," he said, offering her his arm. "It is not far from here. I'm sure you would not mind a companion." He smiled, but his cheerful expression seemed false.

  "Not at all," she answered. She took his arm and they strolled side by side.

  "Are you staying long at Brawley?" he asked. "The London season is always busy and the Colonel's wife is often eager to be in town."

  "It is but a few days," Flora answered. "We are not a large party, but merely making merry with the countryside, as they say."

  He was silent for a few moments before speaking. "I believe Miss Harwick is among the guests," he said. Glancing at her, he asked, "Is she well?"

  "Tolerably well," Flora answered. "I confess that I have not really conversed with her above five times this holiday."

  She knew what he was thinking. He was longing for news of her, contemplating some chance that perhaps his name had crossed the fair lady's lips with more agreeable words than the last ones spoken between them, no doubt. It was something Flora doubted could ever be, given Hetta's current resolve. A part of her longed to tell him this, to end his suspense for good.

  "Lord Nighton," she said, her voice faltering, "I am aware of your circumstances; of the reason for your question, I mean ..." She trailed off after a moment. He let out a deep sigh.

  "Do you think," he began, then hesitated. "Is it possible, Miss Stuart–is there any chance that Miss Harwick may be regretting her present situation?" He paused to face her as he asked the question.

  "I would not ask," he continued, "but I thought there might be hope, perhaps, since she ... since her circumstances are unchanged since I last saw her."

  Her heart ached as she listened, knowing her answer would be painful. "I do not think so," she replied, gently. "Miss Harwick shows no signs of discontent with her circumstances."

  His face fell. Turning away, his gaze roamed the landscape as if seeking to escape his frame of mind.

  "We were not publicly engaged, you know," he said. "I had intended to ask her father to approve. For I had never met a girl so pretty or clever as her." He laughed bitterly. "I rather assumed she was more attached to me than my money or title. Perhaps my presence in town had made her believe I was worth more than I was."

  "You should not blame yourself," she said. She was surprised by his willingness to confide in her, leaving her unsure how to respond. "You had reason to believe she cared about you, no doubt."

  "I suppose I have no reason for melancholy, since there is no breach of promise. Yet I thought ... I thought she might ... but I suppose it was her father who must have the final say."

  Lines of pain crossed his mouth. Flora touched his arm, turning him towards her with a firm touch of persuasion.

  "Do not regret what has passed," she said. "You are a kind young man who will easily love another. But do not feel pain for the loss of someone who cannot feel or care what their actions have cost."

  "I do my best," he murmured. "But it is too hard sometimes. We are both much in society these days."

  No doubt he came to the country to escape her presence in the city, but had failed. Now the young lady in question had reappeared in the countryside, in the company of a merry party of guests, rubbing salt in the wounds left by their breach.

  Nighton offered her a tired smile. "Do you believe that we are given too much to bear sometimes, Miss Stuart? That some things have the power to render us helpless? I pictured my life one way and here it is, quite another thing."

  "I believe that our Heavenly Father shall never give us too much to bear," she answered. "If your faith is strong, then you will find a release in time. He is willing to help you do something better than forget."

  "And what is that?" he asked.

  "To heal, sir." With a gentle smile, she took his arm again and they walked along.

  The rest of their journey was silent. They neared Brawley Court's lawn, where Colonel Miles was visible in conversation with his gamekeeper. He broke from it at the sight of their approach.

  "Lord Nighton! Good to see you, my dear sir," he said. With a teasing smile, he surveyed Flora's presence. "And here you are, out with such a charming companion as my niece. I venture to say that you may have been tempted by our Lover's Walk along the avenue?" He added this remark with a wink.

  "Lord Nighton was merely kind enough to escort me home," Flora answered. She felt e
mbarrassed for her poor companion. "I was out walking and he saw me on his way back to his host's lodgings."

  "Quite true," said Lord Nighton. "I must be going now. Colonel Miles, Miss Stuart." He tipped his hat and strolled away.

  The curtains belonging to an upstairs window in Brawley Court fluttered for a moment, revealing Roger's face briefly before they fell into place again. Flora caught only a glimpse of him as she turned from her host and made her way inside the house.

  It was laughable, being teased by her relatives in connection with a gentleman who would never dream of making her an offer. As if a man of Lord Nighton's status would be tempted to secure her hand for a mere pittance a year!

  But was her heart entertaining the foolish possibility that young Lord Easton might?

  Chapter Twenty

  Let me be on my best behavior tonight; let me not entertain silly, girlish ideas of romance. Flora breathed this silent prayer as she descended the stairs. The pins holding her hair in place poked her head painfully, while her gown seemed somewhat wrinkled upon emerging from her trunk.

  This afternoon had done a great deal to alter her composure. She was far too confused about her own feelings to give any thought to her appearance and demeanor; her list of rules were forgotten momentarily in a greater fear for her emotional state.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam claimed her arm the moment she entered the drawing room. "What news! I have just be informed by Mrs. Phillips that her youngest brother is engaged–quite a surprise, no? Although I fear it was by letter, which is entirely inappropriate."

  She was squeezing her niece's arm too tightly, although Flora did not feel it.

  "How nice," her niece answered.

  Her aunt continued, the lackluster reply unnoticed. "Perhaps we shall receive word of another engagement," she whispered. "For I'm sure before long, young Lord Easton shall spot a young lady to his liking."