Rules for Engagements

by Laura Briggs

  What if her father learned of what she had done? She glanced at his face, calm and peaceful as he filled the church with his hearty baritone. He would be humiliated if her name was connected with the book. And words could not express his frustration if he learned it was by her own admission that the truth was known.

  As she raised her head, she avoided looking in the direction of the Eastons' pew. Pained by the thought of meeting Roger's eyes after what had been said in the park. That was more unbearable than any thoughtless remarks he had made in the past. She had made it so herself when she foolishly gave in to her anger.

  "May God our Father bless and keep us all in His infinite wisdom," said Reverend Stanhope. "You may go in God's peace." He raised his hands to signal the close of the service.

  On the church threshold, she paused to shake hands with the reverend and exchange pleasant remarks before following her father and sister onto the lawn. Mrs. Fitzwilliam was already aflutter with the latest rumors, for which she claimed Sir Edward's ear for the moment. Flora avoided walking in the direction of Lady Easton, doing her best to avoid seeing Lucy's friendly wave and expectant smile. Perhaps in a few days, even her friendship with Lucy would be lost. For surely a man who disapproved of Advice for Young Ladies as severely as Roger did would prevent his sister from associating with its authoress.

  "Are you quite well today?" inquired her aunt. "I believe you are too tired after the ball. I must bring you a little packet of herbal tea which my housekeeper recommends for fatigue."

  "That is all right, Ma'am," Flora answered. "I am perfectly fine." She wanted badly to take her father's arm and make her way home before she was forced to speak to Lady Easton. Whose face revealed kindness and concern as she glanced in the direction of the Stuart family.

  "I shall bring it by directly after lunch," Mrs. Fitzwilliam replied. "It will do you nothing but good, given the trials of the London season upon a young lady's constitution."

  "Will you bring me the book in your library on dissecting flowers?" asked Marianne. "I have wanted to borrow it for ever so long."

  "I will," promised Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Flora took Marianne's hand and steered her towards home, avoiding looking over her shoulder at her friends behind her in the churchyard.

  Her tea went untouched after services. In her yellow and brown gown, she lay on the small patch of lawn in the garden, arms folded beneath her chin. The herbs waved their curling branches in the wind, the climbing roses revealing faded leaves amidst their tangled limbs on the wall.

  There was a thud on the ground as Marianne plopped down beside her.

  "Why are you out here, Flora?" asked Marianne. "Aren't you getting stains on your dress? I thought we were supposed to spend Sundays in the morning room."

  "We are," Flora answered. "But I am breaking the rules at the moment." She sighed and plucked at a blade of grass on the lawn.

  "Is it because of another book?" she asked. "Are you writing another? Is it a novel–"

  "I wish I had never written that book!" snapped Flora. "I'm sorry that I ever put such nonsense on paper." She pushed herself into a sitting position again.

  "Whatever is the matter? You sound unwell, Flora." Marianne stared at her with a look of confusion.

  Flora released a bitter laugh. "No, I am not," she answered. "But it doesn't matter, I suppose. Right now, I need nothing but an excuse to be unhappy before everyone I know."

  She felt Marianne's arms around her neck almost instantly. "Please don't cry, for I am no good at comforting people. Madge always cries harder when I try to comfort her."

  “I won’t cry, I promise, if it distresses you so.” Flora released a small laugh in spite of herself. Another moment like this, and perhaps she would have felt a little more herself. But the door to the house opened and Mrs. Fitzwilliam emerged.

  "There you all are," she called. "Sir Edward told me that you were lolling about in the garden and letting your tea grow cold." She raised her silk skirts as she stepped on the lawn to avoid stains on the hem.

  "You shall never guess what I have heard," she said. "The Harwicks are thinking about going abroad again. No word, of course, on whether Miss Harwick shall be going with them, but I suspect not if she has her way. The look in those pretty eyes whenever they glance in the direction of a certain young gentleman is unmistakable."

  Flora's browed furrowed. "When are they supposed to go?" she asked. Marianne had let go of her and scrambled to her feet, where she was brushing the grass from her skirt in vain.

  "I doubt there is a plan decided upon yet," Mrs. Fitzwilliam laughed. "Like all rumors, there is little proof attached, my dear. I have merely heard such from the Harwick's housekeeper through my maid, that is all."

  "Then it is probably not true at all," said Flora. "Why should she go away when she could still try her luck? Just because Roger was not attentive at the ball does not mean he will not seek her out at another one." She twisted the blade of grass between her fingers into a rope. "If he is capable of loving one without a fortune–so long as she has no present scandal to prevent him from proposing."

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam stared at Flora, puzzled. "What is the matter with you?" she asked. "What strange behavior you have shown lately! If I did not know better–"

  "Enough! I think we have already established that everyone does know better!" Flora got to her feet and marched towards the house, leaving them both dismayed.

  She slammed the door behind her as she made her way towards the stairs. Sir Edward appeared in the doorway of the library, holding his paper.

  "What on earth is this racket about?" he demanded, staring at her with a frown. "Did your aunt say something to offend you?

  She pushed strands of hair from her face, feeling ashamed of her outburst. "I am merely forced to defend my pen and paper endeavors once again," she answered, climbing the steps. "That is all, Papa." Everything had gone horribly wrong and she felt no desire to explain it–what would he say if he knew she had told someone the truth about the book?

  Sir Edward tossed his paper onto the library floor in frustration. "Why couldn't you have penned a book on needlepoint?" he asked. But Flora had already disappeared from sight.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Flora refolded the invitation and slipped it under her breakfast plate. A servant had delivered the note this morning. In a plain folded sheet of paper was a request from Miss Lucy Easton for her friend to call on her this afternoon.

  "Is that a note from Mrs. Fitzwilliam?" asked Sir Edward. "I wish she would stay at home for a day and leave us with some peace! Surely there is not enough gossip in London to constitute the number of confidential exchanges she desires."

  "It is not from Aunt Charlotte," Flora answered. "It is from Lucy." She attempted to busy herself with her breakfast, although she had no heart for her toast and tea.

  When she rang the bell at Landly, she found herself wishing she were facing Mrs. Fitzwilliam and all her gossip than a quiet tea with her dear friend. For would not Lucy now be aware of her role as author of the little book? In the past, Roger never kept anything concealed from his sister for long.

  The servant admitted her and escorted her to the morning room. Lady Easton, with a welcoming smile, was seated upon the sofa beside Lucy, who was consulting an open book of poetry for a certain verse. At the sight of Flora, however, she forgot the book altogether.

  "Here you are!" she said, hurrying forward to take Flora's hand. "I was so glad to receive your reply that said you were coming. I was afraid that you were ill yesterday, you hurried away so quickly after church."

  She pulled Flora onto the sofa, for Lady Easton had taken the nearest armchair. Feeling awkward, Flora attempted a smile as she faced her hostess.

  "I hope you are well, Ma'am?" she enquired.

  "Very well," answered Lady Easton. "Although I was a trifle tired after Roger's ball. Such an evening it was! I thought all the young people would dance until four in the morning, but they proved me wrong by being done at three,
" she laughed.

  Flora blushed. "I believe the excitement may have worn us out almost as much as the grand event itself," she said.

  "I thought I would never go to sleep," said Lucy. "I kept thinking about it over again. There was a young captain who asked for a dance–" Her eyes were downcast as she trailed off.

  Lady Easton raised her eyebrows. "Was there more than one romantic among us that evening, I wonder?" she enquired. "What about your part, Flora? I am sure that as lovely as you looked, you must have led many hearts in a merry dance."

  "I fear not," Flora answered. "I confess that I endeavored to charm and succeeded; but no proposals were made beyond dances."

  She was nervous and dispirited, which made her fear all the more that they would notice the change. Her attempts at a pleasant smile were challenged by deeper emotions.

  "Was there no one to tempt your eye at all?" inquired Lady Easton. "For more than once, I thought I saw you taken with someone, perhaps. Although such visions are sometimes tricks played by candlelight."

  Lucy saved Flora the trouble of answering by speaking up with a change of subject, although it was not one her friend would have chosen.

  "I rather wish that life could be as romantic as a ball; as romantic as it is in books," Lucy said. "Imagine if it were really the pursuit of love, the Advice for Young Ladies on the Subject of Proposals come to life in a game of Hearts. Wouldn't you agree, Flora?" she pleaded. "For I know you adore such matters as much as I."

  "I think such rules are hardly a spellbook for success," Flora replied, with a tender smile. "Your brother is right to warn you away from it, perhaps. The temptation to toy with hearts may be greater than any of us know." Try as she might, she could not prevent the gloom that settled over her words.

  The sound of a gentle cough punctuated her statement. Roger was standing in the doorway, listening to their conversation.

  Her heart froze at the sight of him. He offered her a short bow of greeting.

  "Roger, don't lurk in the doorway," his mother called. "Come and be seated here with us."

  He entered and took a seat on a chair near the sofa. When he glanced at Flora, he did so with embarrassment that seemed almost boyish.

  "I suppose you ought to thank Flora," said Lucy, "for she has done her best to persuade me that your advice about the little book is best. And I thought I would have an ally in her!" She laughed, which made Flora feel her own embarrassment more keenly.

  Roger cleared his throat. "Perhaps I was too harsh in my remarks before," he said. "It has done no harm for you to read the book; I daresay there is some good in it after all."

  "That is quite unnecessary," Flora replied. She felt her cheeks dye themselves a deep crimson. "I have reflected and agreed with you–"

  "But I was wrong in what I said before," he interrupted. "There is no harm in endeavoring to help young ladies encourage the attentions of willing suitors. What is courtship but a willing engagement between two people–in a society which prevents almost every sort of intimacy that would make open expression possible!"

  She was struck speechless by his remarks. Did she understand the meaning of his words or was she confused? She bit her lip in dismay.

  "How can you talk so, Roger?" said Lucy. "If ever Anonymous had a detractor it was you, as I recall."

  "I withdraw my previous arguments, Lucy," he answered. He passed a cup of tea from his mother to Flora. As their fingers touched, their eyes met. She read a mixture of remorse and pleading in their depths. Her fingers trembled slightly as they grasped the saucer.

  "Then I am glad," Lady Easton said. "I feared you would plague your sister to death with warnings against a little bit of nonsense; and I feared she would pester you into despair with all its advice on detecting a young lady's favor."

  "I daresay I didn't mind," said Roger. "And when I am away, I shall miss it all the more." He took his own cup of tea and tasted its contents.

  Flora hesitated before speaking. "You are leaving, then?" she said. "It is final?"

  "I fear so," answered his mother. "He must be away to France again for a week, then possibly to our interests in the Indies, if our solicitor cannot resolve a matter connected with his father's property there." She reached across and patted her son's hand. "Of course, we are in hopes that only a little effort must be made and Roger will be among us again by September or so."

  "But when he returns, he is going to the country for to stay," said Lucy. "He shall turn into a gentleman farmer and stay there always unless we persuade him to come for the season. And in the meantime, I must miss him for all these weeks abroad!"

  "As will we all," said Flora. Her voice was now trembling; although her hands were occupied with her cup of tea, she feared that her emotions were growing visible before their eyes.

  "Then I must write often," he said. "My letters will be meant for Miss Stuart's eyes as well as Lucy's," he added. "If she will permit me to address her now and then in those lines."

  "It pains me to hear this 'Miss Stuart' from you always, although it is proper," his mother said. "I do you wish you would call her by her name sometimes, as you once did."

  "As you wish," Roger said, offering his mother a good-natured smile of compliance. "Then I will say that every one of my letters will include an address to Flora in particular. And to her family."

  "Much better," laughed his mother. "He sounds more like himself now, doesn't he, Lucy?"

  The rest of the afternoon seemed a blur to Flora. It felt as if she had escaped from certain torment, awakened from a nightmare into a pleasant dream. From the moment he had bowed, to the way he spoke her name, all attested that their friendship and his kindness towards her remained the same.

  He had not told. He had kept her secret. Furthermore, he had defended it against those he loved most. For that, she would be grateful forever.

  She pressed Lucy's fingers as the visit drew to a close, promising to come again often, especially when her brother was no longer there to keep her company. She received a motherly kiss from Lady Easton. Lord Easton, however, insisted that she make use of their carriage to convey her home, despite her protests.

  She let him escort her to its door, feeling the silence between them keenly. He took her hand to help her into the carriage, pausing for a moment with her fingers in his.

  "I hope that I am forgiven," he said. He locked his dark eyes with hers as he spoke. "It was inexcusable, my behavior in the park that day and I know you must have felt the pain of my reaction keenly."

  "It is nothing," she answered. "You have been gracious enough by keeping my secret for me." She attempted a smile with these words. "There are some ladies, I'm afraid, who must rely on such secrets for their livelihood, even to the dismay of their family and friends."

  "I shall ever esteem your friendship," he answered, his face growing gentle. "And what you do will not change that."

  He released her hand and closed the door. The driver snapped the reigns and drove away towards Evering House.

  She pressed her hand to her brow, feeling her temples throb beneath her fingers. It was over and her secret was safe. Lucy Easton would continue as her companion; her family would not lose its honor over the meager pounds earned by her books.

  And if nothing else, she had parted with Roger as his friend, with the assurance that she would always be one. Since it was unlikely they would be in each other's company often in the future, it was the best she could hope for.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  The new book would be on giving up tomboyish habits. Rules for Young Ladies on Proper Decorum. Flora had decided this after a few days' reflection and began making notes on it almost immediately. She intended to pattern it after her own experience–and as a guide for correcting Marianne's behavior in a few more years. Beyond that, she had no other concrete plans.

  Perhaps next she would write a novel. Something lighthearted to escape her heartache and its painful associations in the dreary winter of London. In only a matter of days,
Roger would be far away from here, en route to France.

  Hetta Harwick would also be gone. It was confirmed that the Harwicks were going abroad for a period. The expense of London life, it was rumored, was too much for his income and retrenchment was the only possibility if they wished to retain their carriage and the Paris fashions their wardrobes boasted.

  Flora reflected on all these things as she sat before her dressing table, tucking stray locks of hair into her elegant winding crown above the shoulders of her white gown.

  Tonight's concert was supposed to be an affair for music lovers. For her, it was only a temporary escape from her loneliness, courtesy of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's generous offer to escort her niece by carriage. Sir Edward was not inclined to appreciate long musical evenings.

  "You look pretty tonight," Marianne observed, sprawled across the foot of Flora's bed. The notes for the new book were spread across the coverlet, where Marianne tossed each page as she read it.

  "Don't get those mixed up," Flora said. "I shall be needing them in a day or two when I start the book." The very thought of it made her heart grow heavier.

  I should be happy, so why am I not? Did it not turn out as I wished?

  She adjusted the string of pearls around her neck. The white gown did not seem quite as elegant as she once thought; her curls seemed close and frizzy. With a sigh, she smoothed her skirts. Looking into the mirror again, she observed Marianne studying her with concern.

  "You do not have to write another one if you hate it so," Marianne said. "We will be all right without it, won't we? I shall be grown-up enough to write them soon and I shan't mind doing it at all."

  Flora shook her head. "I do not mind the writing," she said. "It is only society's feelings towards it that I dislike."

  She turned and sat on the bed, drawing Marianne's tangled curls between her fingers to braid them neatly.

  "I shall not let us starve or go to the streets, so you needn't worry about anything," she continued. "I promise that it will all be well. We shall have a pleasant life somewhere, you and I." She tied a piece of ribbon at the bottom of the braid to hold it in place.