Improper Ladies

by Amanda McCabe

  It was not so much that Mrs. Chase had given him the book, Michael thought. After all, she was a schoolmistress and would naturally advocate proper behavior, even of the extreme sort promulgated in that book. It was that she implied he was so greatly in need of it. What was it she had said? Oh, yes. “I believe that you in particular are most in need of it, Lord Morley.”

  As if he was an ape of some sort! A bumbling monkey with no idea of how to behave in a proper home.

  It was true, he grudgingly admitted, that on his first visit to the Seminary he had not been all he should have been. He had needled Mrs. Chase and her deep propriety. He had spent his entire adult life striving against just such rigid mores, such shallow emphasis on conduct. And her stiff attitude had near driven him mad.

  But he was sorry for his previous behavior, his boorishness. Had he not apologized to her, tried to make up for it? It was Mrs. Chase’s home, and her guests had a duty to behave according to her—he winced to think the word—her rules. And he had mended his ways today, striving to behave within proper gentlemanly boundaries. Aside from his exuberant greeting of Violet, he had been everything that was proper. Even the Anonymous Lady who wrote A Lady’s Rules would have approved of him. He had even given Mrs. Chase a book of his poetry!

  What more could the woman want of him? What could ever erase the pinch of disapproval from her pretty—too pretty—lips?

  And why was he thinking of her as pretty, anyway? Her caps were an absolute fright, and her eyes were frozen. There was nothing behind that ice blue façade—nothing but manners.

  “Michael, why on earth are you driving so fast?” Violet cried, her voice edged with alarm.

  Only then did Michael realize the great speed he had urged his horses to. They practically barreled along the road, dashing past the other now-gawking travelers into Town. The wheels clacked and whirred as if he was in a race.

  He immediately drew back on the reins, slowing to a more moderate pace. “Sorry, Vi,” he said, and threw his sister an apologetic smile.

  She stared at him with wide, wary eyes. “Whatever were you thinking of? You looked a million miles away.”

  He sought quickly for a believable answer—anything but the truth. He could hardly tell her that he was thinking her teacher was a priss. “I was wondering which waistcoat I should wear to Lady Clarke’s rout on Friday.”

  “Hmph.” Violet folded her hands daintily in her lap, her mouth pursed. Michael saw that she had fastened the locket about her neck, the silver oval lying against the lace frill of her collar. He wondered if the gift from Mrs. Chase had somehow magically imparted some of that lady’s qualities into his sister. “I think you should keep your thoughts on the road when you are driving.”

  Michael just laughed at her prim attitude, and reached out to tweak one of her curls again. He had often done that when she was a child, and it had always made her giggle.

  Now she pushed him away, and said, “I also think you should keep both hands on the reins. Your horses look most unpredictable.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Michael answered, in a mock-obsequious tone, and returned his gaze again to the road. When had his giggling sister turned into an elderly duchess? “But I would have you know that Nicodemus and Beelzebub are perfectly well-trained, and as gentle as lambs.”

  “Of course they are, with names like that.” Violet turned her head away to study the passing landscape, so that all he could see of her was the brim of her white straw bonnet.

  Silenced, he too watched their surroundings. The green expanses of the countryside were giving way to the edges of London. The grass was sparse, turning to pavement and gravel, the trees more stunted, the air heavier. The peace of the Seminary’s grounds seemed a different world than that of the shouts and calls of the people—farmers going to market with their carts, racing aristocrats, workers on foot. On the road, they had been a trickle—now they became a flood. Michael had to slow the horses even further as they turned toward the rarefied air of Mayfair.

  “I wish it did not take such a short time to get here,” Violet murmured, so softly that Michael almost could not hear her. “I wish it took days and days. I wish the Seminary was in Scotland, or—or America.”

  She looked at Michael, and he saw that her eyes were misty with unshed tears. The prim duchess was again just a scared young girl.

  “I know,” he said, hating the damnable helpless feeling in his heart. “But it will not be so bad, I promise. You will be back at school next month, and in the meantime there are many things we can do.”

  She swiped her gloved hand over her eyes. “Gunter’s, and the theater?”

  “Of course. And I am sure Aunt Minnie will give a musicale or a Venetian breakfast or some such for you. You will probably just be at Bronston House to sleep.”

  “I wish I could stay with you.”

  Michael laughed, still trying to cheer her up. “You would not like that at all, Vi, I assure you! My lodgings are not at all up to the standards of A Lady’s Rules. You would be most appalled.”

  She giggled, a good sign. “I am sure it is horrid. Tell me about it, Michael.”

  For the rest of their drive, Michael regaled her with exaggerated tales of the decrepitude of his rooms. His descriptions of piles of dirty laundry and thick dust on the bookshelves made her laugh. By the time they drew to a halt outside Bronston House, her eyes were clearer and her cheeks pink.

  Her laughter faded as she stared up at its forbidding gray stone façade, and she reached up to touch her locket. “Will you stay for tea, Michael?” she asked quietly.

  “Of course I will, Vi,” he answered. He handed the reins to a footman, and jumped down to come around and help her to the ground. “And I will take you to supper at Aunt Minnie’s tonight, too, if you want.”

  “Oh, yes!” she agreed enthusiastically. “I would like that very much.”

  Michael offered her his arm, and together they climbed the front steps to the door of Bronston House—or, as Michael chose to think of it, the portal of doom.

  The Seminary was so quiet with all the girls gone, Rosalind thought. A bit too quiet, perhaps. For the first day or two of a holiday she was never quite sure what to do with herself.

  She sat alone in her private sitting room after supper, with a tea tray on the table beside her and an open workbasket at her feet. Miss James, the only teacher still at the school, had taken supper with Rosalind, but then retired to pack for her own holiday.

  So Rosalind was alone, with only the crackle of the flames in the grate to break the silence. Usually, in the evenings, she would listen to the girls play the harp or the pianoforte, or examine their watercolors and needlework. She tried to make the Seminary a home atmosphere for them, a place where they could be comfortable and happy.

  Why could the home atmosphere not be here for her as well, even when they were gone? Why was it so very silent?

  Nonsense, she told herself. She was just being maudlin. This happened every time a holiday commenced. Of course this was her home, the finest home she had ever known. And there were many things she could be doing. Things such as working on a new edition of A Lady’s Rules, which her publisher had requested.

  Thinking of A Lady’s Rules made her remember that scene in her office, where she had presented a copy to Lord Morley. The expression on his face had been mocking, arch—after a flash of what, on another person, might have been hurt. It had been gone in an instant, yet Rosalind still felt the vague stirrings of regret when she remembered it.

  . Did she herself not have a rule against making guests feel uncomfortable in her home? Yet she had practically accused the man of uncouth rudeness, which was not the done thing.

  “Even if it is true,” she whispered, staring into the flames.

  The first time she met Lord Morley she had been appalled by his manners. But she had to admit, today he had behaved better. Much better. There had been no lolling in the chairs, no suggestive poetry, no winking at housemaids. This afternoon,
aside from lifting his sister off of her feet when he greeted her, he had been a picture of the Rules. Almost. He could never be completely.

  And he had been truly kind when she felt ill. She had repaid his kindness by thrusting the book at him and practically accusing him of being a baboon.

  “What has become of you, Rosalind?” she asked herself, not caring that it was ridiculous to be talking to an empty room in such a manner. “You are only thirty years of age, but you act worse than your grandmother ever did.”

  She sighed when she recalled their cheerless childhood visits to Grandmother Allen, their mother’s mother who had been the sister of an earl and never let anyone forget it. Grandmother Allen insisted children sit perfectly straight and still and silent. How she and her brother had hated those calls!

  Was she now becoming their Grandmother Allen?

  Rosalind shuddered, and stood up to walk over to the fireplace. Of course she was not becoming her grandmother. She merely placed a great importance on manners, on proper deportment, and there was nothing wrong with that.

  She braced her hand on the carved wooden mantel, and studied the miniature portrait displayed there on its silver stand. Her late husband, Mr. Charles Chase, stared back at her with his frank blue gaze. “There is nothing wrong with that, is there, Charles?”

  She fancied that his smile widened. Charles, a very proper village attorney, had also believed in the importance of propriety, despite his occasional whiskey or card game. It was what had brought them together, had sustained them through their too-short three years of marriage before Charles succumbed to a fever.

  A perfectly proper three years. They had been friends, even if theirs had not been a romance for the ages.

  Rosalind’s gaze shifted from the portrait to the book she had laid on the mantel before supper.

  Lord Morley’s poetry.

  Rosalind reached for it, wrapped her fingers around the rich brown leather cover. She should have left it downstairs in the library, but some compulsion had made her bring it up here before she ate. For some light, before-bed reading, perhaps?

  She opened the volume to a random page, and read, “Her lips, two roses touched with morning dew ...”

  Rosalind snapped the book shut. The fire felt so warm, too warm. She turned away, still holding the book, and went to the window.

  She had not yet drawn the draperies, even though it was full dark now. The moon was almost full, and cast a greenish silver glow over the garden. The grounds looked lovely, just as they ought to.

  Rosalind rested her forehead against the cool glass of the window, letting the blessed familiarity of the scene into her heart. This was what she wanted, what she had always wanted. The familiar, the known, the proper.

  Why, then, did her fingers close so tightly about the book she held? So tightly that its corner bit into her palm?

  She closed her eyes for a moment. When she opened them, the scene in the garden was the same—except for a new shadow falling from behind one of the trees. It flickered and moved, not a part of the tree’s own solid shadow at all.

  But when Rosalind blinked and peered closer, it was gone.

  “Now you are seeing ghosts, in addition to everything else,” she muttered. She stepped back and pulled the draperies firmly closed.

  No sooner had she settled the yellow taffeta draperies than the door opened, and Molly, the housemaid, came in. Rosalind was deeply grateful for her cheerful smile, her bob of a curtsy—it made the evening seem right, somehow, after poetry and ghosts.

  “Have you finished with the tea things, ma’am?” Molly asked.

  “Oh, yes, thank you, Molly. I am done with them.” Rosalind watched the maid as she gathered up the tray. “Molly?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “None of the gardeners are still here, are they?”

  Molly seemed surprised by the question, as well she might. Why would anyone be asking about gardeners at nine o’clock at night? “No, ma’am. It’s just you and me and Miss James now.”

  “Oh, yes, of course.”

  Molly lifted up the tea tray. Before she turned back to the door, she said, “I’ll come right back, ma’am, and help you with your gown, if you’re ready to retire.”

  “Yes, thank you, Molly.” Rosalind rubbed her hand over her eyes. She was ready to retire—obviously, she was in need of some sleep. Exhaustion was making her fanciful.

  She had been reading one of Mrs. More’s edifying epistles before she went to sleep. But perhaps tonight she might take a peek at some more of that poetry ...

  Chapter Five

  “Parents and other elders should always be respected.”

  —A Lady’s Rules for Proper Behavior, Chapter Seven

  “So, here you are at last. I thought that with the harum-skarum way you drive, Michael, that you would have been here hours ago.”

  The Earl of Athley’s voice, stentorian as a brass gong, rang through the cavernous drawing room as Michael and Violet stepped inside the door. Michael squinted through the gloom of the room, until he saw his father seated by the fire.

  As usual the drawing room, indeed the whole house, was dark and stuffy, the air thick with smoke and the overpowering sweetness of the rose and orchid flower arrangements. Heavy green velvet draperies, hung with swags of gold fringe, covered all the windows. More green velvet upholstered the dark, old-fashioned furniture, and gloomy landscapes hung on the paneled walls.

  It was overpowering, suffocating. Michael felt his chest tighten painfully, his throat close as if gasping for a breath of clear, true air.

  He felt this way every time he entered the house. And that was why he stayed far, far away, unless his duty to his sister pulled him back. At least he could leave—she could not.

  He reached up to loosen his cravat slightly, as Violet’s hand slipped from his arm and she crossed the room to their father’s side. Her lilac-colored carriage gown and white bonnet were like a flash of springtime dropped into the gloom.

  She leaned down to peck a dutiful kiss onto the earl’s wrinkled cheek. “It was my fault we are late, Father. I stayed too long at the school, saying good-bye to everyone.”

  The earl scowled. “Who at that pitiful Seminary could have been worth your taking all that time? Some parson’s daughter or merchant’s niece?” He banged his stout walking stick on the floor, the hollow thud of it echoing up to the rafters. “I was a fool to ever send you to that school, Violet. I should not have listened to your aunt’s blandishments. Associating with people of all sorts has obviously made you forget your position. You should be here, learning to prepare for marriage. What else are girls good for?”

  Violet turned panicked eyes onto Michael.

  Michael came toward her, breathing a bit easier now that he had somewhat adjusted to the dimness. He understood Violet’s panic—the Seminary, as fusty as it was, was her refuge from this place. But he was not as worried as she. Their father often ranted about the school, about Violet’s “forgetting her position” there, getting too educated and not being able to find a suitable husband because of it. Yet the truth was, the earl would rather not have the trouble of his daughter being underfoot. So her school was safe—for now.

  “Father, you know that the Seminary has only students from the finest families enrolled there,” Michael said, gently taking Violet’s arm and leading her to a chair away from the overpowering heat of the fire. “Violet has only the most suitable friends, who will be of great help to her when she makes her debut next Season.”

  Michael had almost said “use” rather than “help,” since that was all the earl truly cared about in people—how he could use them to his advantage. How they were placed on the social scale. “I understand, Father, that the Duke and Duchess of Wayland are sending their own daughter there in few years.”

  “Wayland, eh?” The earl’s dark eyes narrowed shrewdly as he absorbed this. The Waylands were assuredly at the pinnacle of Society. “Well, that at least is something. Though I do not know
what they are thinking to send their daughter there so early. There is no telling what odd notions the gel might absorb there. But then, the Waylands are odd people. The duchess is an artist.” His lips curled with disdain on the word artist—it might as well have been courtesan.

  As their father went on, dissecting the peccadilloes of the Waylands and their “disgraceful” set, Michael sat down in the chair next to Violet’s. He leaned back, trying to get comfortable in the heavily carved piece of furniture, stretching his legs out before him. Violet was rubbing her fingertip over her silver locket, staring at the floor. She was the very picture of a dutiful daughter, but Michael recognized the misty look in her eyes as one of faraway thought. She was lost in some daydream, so Michael tried to follow her example and think of something else.

  Their father’s conversation seldom required more of a response than a nod, or an “Oh, yes?” or a “You are quite right, sir.” So distraction was fairly easy. His gaze moved over the half-hidden footman standing in a shadowed corner to await the earl’s command, to the large stone coat of arms over the fireplace. It had the Bronston insignia of a hand holding a sword and a lion, with the motto Semper Officiosus.

  Duty Always. Perhaps, Michael thought, it should have been Dullness Always. He almost wished he could trade places with that footman.

  His musings were interrupted when he heard his name.

  “Michael,” the earl barked, “is that a pink cravat you are wearing?”

  Michael grinned. “Indeed. Though the correct name is ‘maiden’s blush.’ Quite evocative, wouldn’t you say? It is all the crack.”

  Violet made a suspicious choking sound, and bent her head down until her expression was entirely concealed by the brim of her bonnet.

  The earl turned a deep red color, one that would never earn a moniker like “maiden’s blush.” “Miser’s apoplexy,” perhaps.