The Amorous Education of Celia Seaton

by Miranda Neville

  “That’s only her clothes. Underneath she’s ordinary, like the rest of our family.” Minerva thought about it. “Well, not ordinary. I wouldn’t call the Montroses precisely ordinary.” Celia nodded her emphatic agreement. “But sensible compared to most people I’ve met. That’s why Sebastian is perfect for her. He doesn’t conform to the world’s expectations, either. Lord Blakeney would never have done.”

  “Would you say Mr. Compton—Tarquin—conforms to those expectations?”

  “He doesn’t just conform to them, he creates them! And according to Diana he can be quite rude to those of whom he disapproves.”

  “Yes, he can.”

  “Celia! Has he been unkind to you? Why then did you accept his offer? I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have asked. It’s not my affair.”

  The temptation to confide to a sympathetic ear was too much. Sitting cross-legged opposite, Celia found herself relating the whole story, omitting only the degree of her intimacy with Terence Fish. While shocked at the gravity of Celia’s plight, Minerva found much of the story highly amusing and Celia enjoyed dramatizing her tale. This must be what it was like to have a sister, she thought. Never in her life had she stayed up at night, sitting on a bed in her nightclothes, confiding in another girl.

  “Mr. Compton is behaving quite honorably to insist on guarding your reputation,” Minerva said at the end of the tale.

  “I know,” Celia said. “I’m very grateful, truly I am.”

  “I can’t imagine anything worse. Gratitude is so fatiguing. Think of having to suffer it for the rest of your life.”

  “I am thinking about it.”

  “Yet I’ve always liked Mr. Compton. And he’s Sebastian’s friend. I trust my brother-in-law’s judgment better than that of anyone I know.”

  “They seem a mismatched pair. But I assumed Lord Iverley wasn’t himself today.”

  “Poor Sebastian. Since the beginning he’s been far more concerned about Diana’s condition than she ever was. Childbearing seems to be a very unpleasant business. I think it’s a good thing a man should feel some compunction.”

  “I quite agree.”

  “It doesn’t seem fair that the woman has to do all the suffering while the man enjoys himself.”

  Celia wondered if Minerva understood how and how much the man enjoyed himself. And the woman, too, at the beginning. “Er, Minerva. How much do you know about marital relations?”

  “Not as much as I would like. I’ve seen dogs and horses. And you?”

  “A little.”

  Minerva bounced on the mattress. “Tell me! Please! I’ve begged Diana but she says I must wait until I’m betrothed. How did you find out?”

  “I probably don’t know much more than you,” Celia said hastily. “Do you think Tarquin would be a solicitous husband?”

  “I should think he would find a woman far gone in pregnancy quite lacking in grace.”

  “I think so too.”

  “Even Diana wasn’t elegant the last few weeks. She reminded me of our old pony who’s too old to be ridden and fat as butter.”

  “I don’t think Tarquin would have much use for a pony. He’s much too tall to ride one.”

  Minerva found this exquisitely funny. “His legs would touch the ground on either side,” she shrieked, and rolled over and hid her head in the pillows. “Oh, what’s this book?”

  Celia lunged for it. “Give me that! It’s nothing.”

  “Nothing? Really?” Minerva held it out of reach. “It looks like a book to me.”

  Celia saw that having a younger sister might have its annoying moments. “You shouldn’t open it. It’s not suitable for young girls.”

  “In that case I’m most definitely going to open it.”

  Minerva slid down from the bed, carried The Genuine Amours off in triumph to the far side of the room and settled on the stool next to her dressing table. Celia waited in dread as the girl opened the book to the bookmark and began to read aloud.

  “ ‘A man who seeks pleasure in casual f . . .’ Oh my goodness. I can’t say that word!”

  “Then don’t. Stop now.”

  “Never! This is fascinating. ‘He can never find it but in the senses, while he who has love on his side, is stretched on the rack of delight, by those able ministers of pleasure, passion and imagination.’ ” She looked up. “That seems a proper sentiment. The author advocates the act of you-know-what only when love is present.”

  “Believe me,” Celia said. “He does not practice what he preaches.”

  Minerva read quickly down the page. “No, I can see that. Now he is engaging his master’s daughter. How very interesting. They are doing it outside on a downward slope. Listen to this. ‘This posture greatly enhances the pleasure, as it admits of the most perfect entrance that possibly can be conceived of every inch of a prick.’ ”

  “Truly?” Celia asked, torn between interest and the conviction that Minerva should not be using words like prick. Not at least in that particular meaning of the word. “I didn’t get to that bit.”

  “Where did you get this book?”

  Celia felt her face heat up. “I believe it belongs to Tarquin.” She explained how she found it.

  “I knew he collected books, but not this kind. I didn’t even know this kind of book existed. How fortunate that you found it. Finally I can learn something useful.” She flipped a page. “What do you suppose this means? ‘A deluge of spermy rapture.’ ”

  Celia gave up trying to argue Minerva out of further reading and the pair of them laughed a good deal over phrases like “hills of delight” for breasts. The younger girl, exclaiming with almost academic interest over a description of a sexual position where the man held the woman as he would a wheelbarrow, was principally impressed by the educational value of the book. Celia, on the other hand, found herself growing warmer with every warm paragraph. Her private parts—or the “arched cloister of Cupid” as Mr. Featherbrain would put it—grew wet and achy and offered the best argument yet for accepting Tarquin’s offer. She had a notion, hastily suppressed, of joining him in his room. Even if she could do it without Minerva’s knowledge, he would likely not welcome her.

  “You know, Celia.” Minerva looked up from her reading. “I don’t think you should marry Mr. Compton. I don’t think you want to do any of these things with a man you do not love.”

  As nothing else could, Minerva’s opinion made Celia realize she was not, and perhaps never would be, a properly brought up English girl. She did not love Mr. Compton, but felt no reluctance about doing any or all these things with him.

  Chapter 19

  A friend in need is often another woman.

  The next afternoon Tarquin and Celia were invited to attend Lady Iverley in her chamber. Less than a full day after giving birth, her appearance was flawless. Propped up against a mound of pillows in a gorgeous lace-trimmed dressing gown, her dark brown hair was arranged in perfect glossy waves. Tarquin’s appreciation of the skills of her maid deepened. Sebastian gazed at her with a more than usually infatuated grin, but Diana’s attention was all on the swaddled bundle she held in her arms.

  “Tarquin,” she said, looking up. “What a lovely surprise to see you. Please introduce me to Miss Seaton. And accept my felicitations.”

  He presented Celia, who curtseyed very properly. “I do apologize for our intrusion at this time, Lady Iverley.”

  “It’s no trouble to me. If Tarquin needs our help, naturally he has it. Would you like to see the baby?”

  Celia showed great, and apparently unfeigned, enthusiasm for the new arrival. “What a beautiful boy.”

  Tarquin, taking a squint without getting too close, thought he looked like a rouged walnut. “Does he have a name yet?” he asked.

  “We’re still arguing about it. Sebastian wants to name him after one of his favorite fifteenth-century printers, but I draw the line at Wynkyn de Worde. He’d be dreadfully teased at school.”

  “I should say so,” Tarquin said, appalled. “Wha
t’s wrong with something ordinary, like John?”

  “Or Sebastian?” Celia asked. “Or Tarquin?”

  “The bane of my childhood,” he said. “My father was fond of Roman history.”

  “We’re not naming him Tarquin,” Sebastian said. “But we would like you to be godfather.”

  “And Miss Seaton—may we call you Celia?” Diana asked. “Will you be his godmother?”

  Celia looked pleased but diffident. “Oh, thank you. I don’t know . . . you scarcely know me. And who knows what we . . .”

  Tarquin cut her off with a squeeze to the upper arm. “We would both be honored,” he said firmly. “You’ll have to inform me about the duties of a godparent. I don’t remember my own godfather doing anything for me. I certainly didn’t go and live with him after my own parents died.”

  “Don’t you know?” Sebastian said. “You will be in charge of his religious education.”

  “Are you quite sure about that?”

  “I expect you to take him to church every Sunday when we are in town.”

  “I never go unless I’m accompanying Hugo.”

  “And you must teach him every one of the Thirty-Nine Articles.”

  Diana came to his rescue. “Stop teasing, Sebastian. Poor Tarquin is terrified. It will be nice if you—both of you—take an interest in our son. I hope you will be providing friends for him soon and that our families will always be close.”

  Tarquin didn’t know if Sebastian had told his wife about the complications relating to their engagement, nor whether his friend was showing his support for Celia or applying subtle pressure on Tarquin to stick to his resolve. He wasn’t sure how he felt about that. Yes, he was set on doing the right thing. But on another level he couldn’t truly accept that he might, in a matter of weeks, be tied to this woman for life. Was he expecting to be rescued from the consequences of his own good intentions?

  His betrothed blushed at the hint of their future progeny. Astonishing really that she should be capable of shame.

  He found himself looking at her a great deal and the more he looked the less he was troubled by her appearance. He decided her bold, expressive features transcended mere fashion, and was astonished to discover fashion could be transcended.

  Perhaps his strange reaction resulted from their setting and company. Accustomed to being perfectly at ease in the highest of haut ton circles, among the Montroses Tarquin was nothing special. He could draw a belly laugh from Mr. Montrose for a jest or a serious response from Minerva for an observation on politics. But none of them cared a whit for the cut of his coat. Mostly he remained a silent listener to a constant stream of badinage about children, books, medicine, the cultivation of vegetables, the breeding of dogs, and any other subject that crossed anyone’s mind. And Celia was there with them, bantering back and forth as though she’d known the family forever. Her face alight with laughter and interest, she was a handsome woman.

  Lady Iverley diverted his attention from Celia’s face, softened almost to prettiness as she smiled at the baby. “I know how you can be helpful,” Diana said. “When he is old enough you may take our son to your tailor.”

  “That I can do. And perhaps in return you could help Celia with her wardrobe. She has almost nothing to wear and is in need of some advice.”

  “I would be delighted. And it will give my maid something to do. She’s dying to start planning new clothes for when I have my figure back, but I’d much rather just play with him.” She lifted the infant for a kiss and while she made the kind of silly noises people use for young children and small dogs, Tarquin planned his escape from this dangerous location.

  “Would you like to hold your godson before you go?”

  “Thank you, no,” Tarquin said hastily. “Another time perhaps. When he’s a little older.” Much older, he swore silently, if ever. He suspected babies of exuding undesirable secretions. Extremely glad to be told to leave his betrothed with Lady Iverley, he retreated with his dignity intact before being landed with any new duties. Sebastian went with him, under orders to send in his wife’s maid.

  “Funny little fellow,” he said of his newborn son. “I wonder when they start looking like people. I’ll have to find a book about it.”

  “I should leave it to the women. They know what to do with infants. Diana looks well.”

  “Doesn’t she?” Sebastian said with his rare wide smile. “It’s remarkable how she has come through the ordeal.”

  Tarquin shook his head in silent amazement at the way his friend had changed since his marriage. And yet he hadn’t really. He was the same old earnest bookworm. The only difference lay in his undoubted happiness.

  Celia remained behind with Diana Iverley who, though groomed to an inch, appeared otherwise unalarming. They spent a few more minutes admiring Master Iverley who was tiny and sweet in a red, wrinkly way. Celia had always been fond of babies, but she thought Indian ones, with their darker skin, were prettier.

  “Now,” said Diana, “before Chantal comes in. Tell me, do you want to marry Tarquin? Sebastian and Min have both told me some of your story.”

  “At the moment,” Celia replied, “I don’t have a ready alternative. I hoped perhaps you could help me find a position as a governess.”

  “If it comes to that, I could try. But I really think you should consider marrying him. He’s a good man underneath that exquisite exterior. And I should like having you as a friend.”

  “You don’t know me.”

  “I wouldn’t admit it to her, but my little sister is a good judge of character. She likes you very much.”

  Celia wondered if Minerva had told her about their previous night’s readings, and if Diana would feel the same way if she knew she’d introduced a young girl to improper literature.

  “He’s still very angry with me.”

  “Of course he is. You made a fool of him.” Diana laughed. “Terence Fish! We are never going to let him forget it.”

  “Please don’t bring it up. Things are awkward enough between us.”

  “Very well, much as it pains me, I shall refrain from teasing him until you and he have resolved your differences. Let’s talk about clothes.”

  “Thank you. I do need something to wear, even though I never look right, however I’m dressed.”

  Diana narrowed her eyes and looked her up and down. “Your figure is good,” she said with a nod. “That kind of thick curly hair can be troublesome but I like the color. It must be dressed in a way that enhances your face, particularly your cheekbones which are your best feature. You have a strong face and you need gowns to match it. Demure muslins such as young girls wear will not show off your looks to advantage.”

  “Thank you.” This dispassionate and honest assessment gave Celia far more confidence than indiscriminate and insincere praise.

  “When Chantal comes we’ll make you modish enough to hold your own in any company.”

  “Perhaps it’s wrong of me, but I’m quite reluctant to make an effort to improve my appearance just so that I won’t shame Tarquin. It rubs me the wrong way to transform myself just to try and win the approval of a man who’d probably strangle me if he could get away with it.”

  Diana gave a crow of satisfaction. “I knew you had spirit. But let me make one thing very clear. We don’t dress to please men. We dress to please ourselves and annoy other women. You’ll feel much better when Chantal has finished with you. Men don’t care. I could put on rags and, if he noticed at all, Sebastian would ask me if I have a new gown.”

  “Tarquin would notice.”

  “True. He’s quite unnatural that way and therefore should be ignored.”

  For a moment Celia succumbed to temptation and a secret ambition to dazzle Mr. Tarquin Compton into stunned adoration so she could proceed to trample on his heart. Reality intruded. “I have no money.”

  “That’s all right. I have all the clothes I’ve worn while I was increasing. My maid shall cut them down to fit you.”

  “Won’t you nee
d them for next time?”

  “I never wear the same thing for more than one season. Chantal would give notice.”

  The Iverleys, Celia decided, must be very rich despite their lack of pretensions. She’d never heard of anything so extravagant.

  “If we need to buy anything,” Diana continued, “and I expect we shall—shoes, stays, that kind of thing—you can repay me when you are married.”

  “I am very grateful, Diana, but I’m not comfortable with the arrangement. It’s bad enough that I may be forced to marry a man who dislikes me, without burdening him with my debts.”

  “In that case, you must marry someone else. You have no idea what a genius Chantal is. I used to be quite ordinary-looking, you know. By the time she’s finished you’ll have no trouble attracting suitors. Tarquin will have to fight for you.”

  The next morning she found Tarquin in the garden, staring at the seedy shrubbery in such a brown study he didn’t hear her approach. Her eyes were caught by something in the middle of his back. She plucked it off and he swung around.

  She held up the short white hair. “I’m just trying to be helpful. This was clinging to your coat.”

  He half smiled at her, for the first time in several days. “Thank you. With Mrs. Montrose’s dogs, it’s hard for a dandy worthy of the name to maintain his standards in this household.”

  “Will your reputation be sunk beyond reproach?”

  “I shall have to resign from my clubs.”

  “You may rely on my discretion. I promise not to tell a soul that the perfection of Mr. Tarquin Compton’s person was marred by canine shedding.”

  The elusive grin broadened and her heart banged against her ribs. She’d missed that smile. It would be easier for her if he remained resentful and morose.

  “Thank you. I don’t know what Uncle Hugo would say if he knew.”

  “Who is Uncle Hugo?”

  “My great-uncle, Lord Hugo Hartley. He taught me how to dress.”

  “I always wondered how you became a dandy.”