How to Please a Lady

by Jane Goodger

  Genevieve lifted her head, acknowledging her mute butler, and said, “Dinner is ready. Shall we dine?”

  That’s when a terrible thought occurred to Rose. Her mother had always said that the true mark of breeding was the manner in which one comported oneself at dinner. Rose had been drilled on polite dining habits, something that Charlie’s education had been sorely lacking. She remembered on the ship being surrounded by passengers who had not been as severely schooled as she had in proper dining. At first, she’d been rather appalled at the lack of manners many of the passengers had displayed—Charlie among them. Genevieve and Mitch were not sticklers, but they did comport themselves well and would no doubt look askance at Charlie if he did not.

  As they sat, she watched Charlie, wishing she could school him quickly in how to act. She noted immediately that he removed his gloves and placed them on his left leg, then covered his gloves with his napkin. Rose was ridiculously proud of him.

  The footmen filled their wineglasses, and Mitch held his up to make a toast. “Welcome to the neighborhood, Mr. Avery,” he said.

  “Thank you, Mr. Campbell,” Charlie said, placing the glass down without taking a taste. “I fear I have misled you.” Charlie glanced at Rose before continuing. “I have, in fact, known Mrs. Cartwright almost from the day she was born. You see, I was first her father’s stable boy and later his head groom. I’ve never lied about my background and who I am and I cannot say in truth why I just did.”

  For some silly reason, Rose felt her throat burn and knew if she didn’t get hold of herself immediately, her eyes would begin to glitter suspiciously. How brave Charlie was to admit such a thing. Everyone at the table was silent for a long beat, until Genevieve said, “How marvelous! You, sir, are a success story. Rags to riches. Quite exciting. I have my own rags to riches story to share, perhaps after dinner. Everyone has your gadgets in their kitchen, you know. The mark of a good kitchen is the number of C. A. Kitchen Tools one has. And quite pretty with that little flower on each one. Your kitchen has them, doesn’t it, Rose?”

  Rose gave her friend a smile of thanks; never would she meet anyone as charming and kind as Genevieve. “Yes, that is right. My cook nearly swooned when she found out who had moved in next door.”

  “You must tell me what Rose was like as a child,” Genevieve said. “Not that she’s so old now. Imagine your moving in next door. What a coincidence that . . .” Her voice trailed off because though Genevieve might be a bit naive at times, she was not stupid. “At any rate. Yes. How lucky for us all.”

  Everyone knew that Charlie’s moving into the house next door to Rose could not have been happenstance, and an awkward silence fell over the table.

  “It wasn’t an accident, my moving in next to Mrs. Cartwright,” Charlie said, his eyes on Genevieve, and Rose got the distinct feeling he was purposely avoiding her gaze. “Having Mrs. Cartwright as a neighbor was one of the home’s most important assets to me.” Rose could feel her entire body heat, though she wasn’t entirely certain why . . . until Charlie looked at her. He was affecting her, as no man had since, well, since Charlie. How exceedingly upsetting. It was those women he’d entertained, their cries of passion and obvious pleasure. Would she never be able to look at Charlie without thinking such things? It was purely awful.

  “I don’t understand,” Genevieve said.

  “I don’t want to be crass, but I haven’t been wealthy all that long and I know only a few men who run in the circles that I must enter in order to make business connections. In fact, I was hoping that Mrs. Cartwright might be able to introduce me to New York society. Moving in next door was a calculated business move.”

  Rose told herself not to be disappointed in his revelation, but she was. She’d imagined he’d moved in next door for spite, to show her how far he’d come. She’d even considered that he’d chosen to be her neighbor to rekindle the small romance they’d had on board ship. No, that was the wrong word, for they hadn’t truly had a romance. Friendship, perhaps? Still, to learn Charlie had no motive for buying the house other than making his own pockets more full was slightly upsetting. He had planned all along to use her? Suddenly, the evening felt far less joyous. Why she’d thought using her for business connections was far worse than moving there for spite, she could not say.

  “I haven’t been out in society of late,” Rose said, making her voice cold. “I’ve been in mourning.” She found small gratification in the fact that Charlie’s cheeks reddened.

  “We can help a bit,” Mitch said quickly, obviously noting the sudden tension in the room. “Though we don’t move in the same circles Mrs. Cartwright did, we can make some introductions.” Mitch gave Rose a look of censure, which she decided to ignore. She was not in the mood to capitulate.

  “Oh, yes,” Genevieve said. “We certainly don’t call the Astors our friends—can’t really say that anyone does—but we are often invited to entertainments where you might rub elbows with the people you need to meet.”

  Rose watched as Charlie nodded. Something was so reserved about him, so tense. While he talked with Mitch about the connections he needed to make for his business, Rose took some time to look at him. He was uncommonly handsome, but she noticed telltale circles beneath his eyes (she knew for certain he wasn’t getting a full night’s rest), and brackets at either corner of his mouth that hadn’t been there when he’d been a younger man. It was almost as if he’d been spending far too much time frowning. His hair, his beautiful dandelion hair, was cut short and tamed with a small bit of pomade.

  Genevieve glanced at Rose before saying, “Will you also be searching for a bride?”

  Rose snapped out of her reverie. As they waited for Charlie to answer, Genevieve pointedly did not look at Rose. Rose knew this, of course, because she knew Genevieve, and she also knew how difficult it was for Genevieve not to look at her.

  “I’m rather enjoying the life of a bachelor at the moment,” Charlie said, a small smile forming on his lips, and Rose suspected he was thinking about all his lady friends. “I suppose I may marry eventually.” He hardly sounded enthusiastic about the prospect.

  “What sort of women do you prefer?” Genevieve asked. It wasn’t the question but the way she asked it that made Rose want to throttle her.

  “Opera singers,” Rose said without missing a beat.

  Charlie took a bite of fine filet mignon and chewed slowly, looking very much as if he was trying not to smile. He even looked attractive chewing. How could that be possible?

  “Actually,” he said, dragging his eyes away from Rose to look at his hostess, “I’d prefer someone respectable. That is all.”

  “You don’t care if she’s pretty or intelligent or kind?” Genevieve asked.

  “Of course, all of those things are important,” Charlie said, looking as if he’d taken a bite of something he wished he hadn’t.

  Mitch chuckled, shaking his head. “You, sir, have opened a Pandora’s box that I’m betting is best left shut tight. You do realize you’ve just given these two women permission to be matchmakers. Good God, man, I do pity you. You were going to tell us about what Mrs. Cartwright was like when she was a child.”

  Charlie gave Mitch a grateful smile. The very last thing he wanted Rose to do was come up with some list of eligible women he should court. He had no idea why he had said such a thing, because he already knew precisely whom he wanted to marry. His brain got all muddled when he was near Rose, it seemed. The minute he’d seen her, his heart had begun pounding madly and his brain had shut down entirely. And of course his body had reacted, as it always did. He had no doubt why he had moved in next to her and it sure as hell had nothing to do with business. If Daniel had still been alive, he never would have considered buying the home next to them. Moving in next door was a calculated business move. One of the most absurd things to come out of his mouth yet. Yes, he had moved in next door to the woman he’d loved for years, the woman he’d never forgotten and never truly gotten over, for business reasons. Good L
ord, the fact that anyone accepted that load of donkey dung was beyond him. Then again, no one in the room, including Rose, knew he was madly in love with her.

  “Lady Rose—that is what I called her then, even when she was very small—was exceedingly curious. I first saw her when I was about ten years old and she was four. She was . . . spectacularly talkative,” he said, earning a laugh from Rose.

  “I would hang about the stables and batter him with questions and questions. What was he doing? Why? Why couldn’t I feed Moonrise oats? My brothers and I spent hours in the stables, much to my mother’s horror.”

  “Why couldn’t you feed Moonrise oats? And who is Moonrise?” Genevieve asked.

  “Moonrise was my mare, such a sweet and courageous horse. I miss her dearly. And she was allergic to oats, so I wasn’t allowed to feed them to her. Charlie was quite adamant. I do believe he loved her as much as I did.” She smiled fondly at him and he felt his face turn red. Again. “She had a foal right before I left. My father sold her, the foal, not Moonrise, thank goodness.”

  Charlie could picture Rose perfectly, her big brown eyes, her dark hair often braided into pigtails and pinned atop her head. Those braids never did stay put and she’d end up with the two dark ropes of hair whirling about her. Even then, she’d held a special place in his heart.

  By the time the two couples left the table to move to the parlor for dessert, Charlie knew one thing: he couldn’t imagine himself married to anyone but Rose, but he was probably the last man on her list of potential suitors. Just out of mourning, she might not even be considering marriage yet. And even if she were, he doubted he would even appear on the list. If he possessed all the money in the world, it wouldn’t stop her from considering him a commoner, a working man who had no business thinking about her, never mind marrying her. He understood this, as well as he understood he would go to his grave loving her.

  Chapter 15

  Learn to restrain anger. A man in a passion ceases to be a gentleman, and if you do not control your passions, rely upon it, they will one day control you.

  —From The Gentlemen’s Book of Etiquette, and Manual of Politeness

  Rose had never been the type of woman to spy on her neighbors. She reminded herself of this fact as she watched another strange woman standing on Charlie’s front steps to be admitted into the house. Watching this was no easy feat. In order to see his front entryway, Rose had to stand in her own foyer, get up on her tippy-toes, lean over a small table, and crane her neck just so.

  After the woman had gone inside, Rose relaxed and sighed. Who were they all? The past three nights since her Thursday evening dinner with the Campbells, it had been silent next door. But during each of those days that had passed, she’d spied no fewer than two different women on three separate days enter his home. Alone.

  She shouldn’t care and she told herself it was none of her business what her neighbor did, as immoral as he apparently was. But she did care. Obviously. Her strained neck was proof of the fact. Unfortunately, the women were standing too far away for her to see their features, but Rose imagined they were young and pretty. And she had to admit, based on their clothing, they were respectable ladies. Were they contenders for the title Mrs. Charles Avery? What young woman wouldn’t want to marry a rich, handsome man?

  A woman, she told herself, who was completely aware of just how many women Charlie was interviewing for the position of his wife, that’s who. Rose crossed her arms, curiosity burning inside her. What were they doing? They weren’t playing chess, that was for certain.

  It would be completely unconscionable to actually go over to her property line and try to peer into his house. And she told herself she probably wouldn’t like what she saw in any case. Just that thought made her cheeks burn—and other parts of her body were also strangely hot. Rose pressed her fingertips against her temples, not because her head hurt, but more to expunge the images in her head. Other than statues, Rose had never seen a fully naked man. Her only experience had been with Weston, which had been disgusting. Clearly, the women who visited Charlie were not disgusted, quite the opposite. Stacy nearly swooned every time she caught sight of him, and she’d heard her maids giggling more than once after he’d walked by.

  “I won’t be able to see anything anyway,” she whispered to herself. It was highly unlikely they’d be doing whatever they were doing within sight of a window. Rose chewed on her lower lip, debating with herself and wondering why she was debating at all. Because I want to know. Because if he is with a woman, I will be able to stop thinking about him. I will know and that will be that.

  Mumbling to herself about how wrong what she was about to do was, Rose walked to the back of her home and slipped outside, looking behind her as if she were a thief. As she walked around the house and entered her narrow side yard, she frowned. Facing her was a hedge that was just too high for her to easily see over. She walked along the hedge, casually, to see if she could find a thin spot where she might be able to peer through to the other side, but her gardener was far too good to allow a thin spot. Putting her hands on her hips, she looked about, as if a space would magically open up for her.

  Then she spied the gate at the end of her property that separated her yard from his. It had never been locked, as Rose had allowed her old neighbors’ lively brood to play in her garden. She’d enjoyed watching them and had often set up a game of croquet. Rose strolled to the gate, and again looked behind her to make certain none of her staff was looking out into the garden, then she slipped through, holding her breath, and closed the gate behind her.

  “Oh, Lord.” What would she do if she were caught in his yard? She had to have some sort of explanation other than the truth, which was too awful to even consider saying aloud. Why, I thought I’d watch you and your lady friend cavorting. Surely there is nothing wrong with that!

  Oh, so, so wrong. But Rose started walking stealthily in the twilight darkness of Charlie’s garden toward the first lit window she saw. She knew it was far more difficult for anyone inside the house to see her, but she was filled with fear at any rate and tried to walk as quietly as possible. The first window with light shining through was the kitchen, and Rose ducked down upon seeing members of Charlie’s staff cleaning up after dinner. Lifting her skirts, she walked, bent over so she’d be below the window, along the house until she reached the next lit window.

  She wished she knew more curse words, because they would come in quite handy at the moment and all directed at herself. What was she doing?

  Rose slowly straightened, poised to run just in case Charlie or someone else was peering out the window directly at her, and looked inside. What she saw, well, it wasn’t what she’d expected.

  A man, whom she recognized as one of Charlie’s footmen, was sitting at a piano, and Charlie and a woman were standing in the center of the room. The woman was talking to him as the footman looked on, hands poised above the piano keys. The woman was much older than he; her hair, which had been covered with a bonnet when she’d stood outside his door, was sprinkled with gray. She had to be at least fifty years of age. Then, as Rose watched, she instructed Charlie to place his right hand upon her waist and his left in hers, and raised their joined hands to shoulder level. Clearly, she was instructing him how to dance the waltz.

  Something in Rose’s heart shifted at that moment. Of course Charlie wouldn’t know how to dance. How could he? And his manners at dinner, so impeccable; had he had a lady give him lessons in proper table manners as well? He certainly had to have learned it somewhere. It occurred to her that Charlie was learning to be a gentleman, learning all those things that had been drilled into her brothers from the day they were born. Drilled until everything was second nature—dining, conversing, dancing—all those little habits that separated the classes. They were not inborn, they were learned. Rose, of course, already knew this on a certain level, but watching Charlie’s stumbling attempts at the waltz, his clear frustration, was almost heartbreaking.

  Rose stood the
re, transfixed, as Charlie and his tutor stopped and started, again and again, until Charlie started to get it. He was so determined, his face set and solemn, finding absolutely no joy in the dance. It was like everything else, Rose realized: he needed to learn it and so he did. It was very nearly heroic, this simple waltz.

  After some time, they moved onto a schottische, which Charlie clearly knew better than the waltz. Rose realized it was more likely that Charlie had already known the schottische. His tutor said something, and Charlie gave her a grim smile, so Rose assumed it was some sort of compliment. Charlie was an athletic dancer, not particularly graceful, but confident and strong. It would be thrilling to dance with him, Rose thought, her eyes on his hand, which rested lightly on the lady’s slim waist. For a sharp instant, she wished that strong hand was on her.

  Blushing hotly, Rose turned away and rested her back on the cool stone of the house. What was she doing, spying on him? Was her life so empty that the only entertainment she could find was watching her neighbor be tutored in dance? She looked up at the moon, barely visible through a thin layer of clouds, feeling lonelier than she ever had before. She stood there for several long minutes, watching the moon’s glow brighten and wane, depending on the thickness of the clouds, allowing herself to slip into a bout of self-pity. When was the last time someone had held her? In truth, she couldn’t remember. Perhaps her brother Marcus when she’d been ill? She wrapped her arms around herself in a rather pathetic attempt to comfort herself.

  Angry that she’d slipped into self-pity, Rose turned back to the window and looked inside, only to see an empty room.