The Rake's Handbook (4 page)

“I know other mothers whose sons…” She dropped her needlework and tugged on the lock of hair escaping her cap. “A mother should stay with her ill son, not flee to the countryside like a coward, shouldn't she?”

His jaw tightened. She spoke of painful feelings, a subject he refused to openly discuss. “Please, let's not speak of it.”

“Yes. I cannot bear it. Not a word, not a whisper. Too much…”

Ross could not bear it either. His exaggerated reputation as a rake, most likely created by boredom in London's clubs, coupled with a reckless moment where his behavior reinforced that reputation, had led to his brother's death. No amount of nursing on her part could have saved John. Now both he and his mother were living a fallacy—both pretending they would recover—both hearts broken. For all his supposed expertise with females, in reality he knew very little. Perhaps her desired furniture or grandchildren would preserve her sanity. For him, the promise of iron and steam engines to build England's future was the only thought keeping him sane. He rose from his chair and stood behind her. He hugged her, then let his cheek rest upon the top of her head. “We'll never mention this again. Period.”

A taut silence ruled, and the room filled with an unspoken pain that hung in the air.

Once her breathing calmed, he strode over to the console table, poured himself a brandy, and returned to his chair. He peered at the amber liquid dancing from the reflected light, took a long gulp, and savored the brandy's trail of fire down his throat. Meanwhile, the stillness lingered, except for the ticking of the mantel clock or a random hiss from the coals in the fireplace.

His mother's expression, which had been light for most of the evening, remained blank.

He needed to say something to divert her thoughts from dwelling upon her grief. He planned to tell her his good news at the end of the week, but he'd rouse her from low spirits by telling her tonight. He expected her reaction to be a happy one, so he watched for her smile. “I have news for you. I've started negotiations with Charles Allardyce, the major contributor of the funds for our foundry. Next month he will visit Blackwell with several of his daughters. You know the family.” He inhaled deeply. “It is not settled yet, but I plan to wed his daughter, Lucy, if we suit.”

“Marriage?” Her face lit up with the famous family smile. “Grandchildren!” She clapped her hands. “I can hardly wait—boys—I so hope they are boys. I'm not quite sure how to spoil girls. Do you know how to spoil—don't answer. Why didn't you write me about your betrothal earlier?” She picked up her needlework then immediately put it back down.

He grinned, his victory complete with her smile. “I wanted to witness your surprise. But I'm not betrothed yet. Don't make plans for the wedding breakfast anytime soon.” He hooked his forefinger under his tight collar and tugged it loose.

“Do you love Lucy?” Her insistent tone indicated every detail of the courtship was important to her, and she expected answers.

“Allardyce has given our investment group funds for the initial construction. Better yet, his share of the profits will only amount to five percent per year. He conceded these favorable terms upon my agreement to wed Lucy. With ten daughters, six still at home, his goals are not solely profit.”

Her smile faded. “Ross,” she whispered, “what about love?”

With his hands clutched behind his back, he started to pace before her. “Don't ask for the impossible. I will fall in love the minute your shepherdess here herds cows instead of sheep. Besides, with this marriage I will finally meet Father's demands. He was disappointed I didn't marry at twenty.”

“Yes. Your father pushed you to wed for money, but now with your success, I want you to marry for love.”

“Humph.” Love
—the
ultimate female word. Many of his friends had found love, yet that seemingly violent emotion had never claimed him. The general consensus was that no love could be as powerful as the one you felt in your twenties. Now almost in his thirties, he was too old, too cynical, or perhaps his heart didn't work like other men's. He had every intention of respecting his wife and being fond of her and any children they might produce. But that
feeling
that drove men to behave like asses and ruin good capes by laying them in mud puddles for My Lady, he had no desire to find.

“After…” He paused. He needed to choose his words carefully to avoid another silence. “I gave you a solemn vow to change my behavior, and I have. I will try to act like the perfect gentleman you want me to be, but it is too much to expect romantic…attachment.”

“Ross,” she said with a slight shake of her head. “If you are not happy, I will—”

“The only way I can move forward is to put one boot in front of the other and do what's right. Since this marriage is desirable by all parties involved, it's settled. Anyhow, how could I be bereft of affectionate female company when I have my handsome mother near?”

“Oh, Ross.” She gave him a small, sweet smile. “While I enjoy being first in your affections, it's a crime to waste a fine gentleman like you hidden away up here in Cheshire with only his mother to flatter. I wish you happy with Lucy Allardyce, and I hope you'll marry soon. She is the prettiest of the sisters, so you must wed immediately. Before a younger buck—who doesn't need her father's funds—presses his suit.”

“Thank you, Mother. I'll present my offer of an ancient buck before a younger buck can even ask her to dance.”

“You don't know she will accept your addresses. We must not depend upon her father's friendship, and make sure of your engagement. I suggest you turn on that famous charm you seem unable to tame.”

He chuckled warmly. “Yes, dear, if you wish it. Indeed, I look forward to marriage. It goes without saying that I will do everything in my power to make Miss Allardyce happy. So to insure the future success of our family, I'll give her an irresistible broadside of charm.”

A shaft of dawn's rays illuminated the dusty blue cupboard in the corner of Elinor's bedroom. During the night, sleep eluded her, because her home's fate remained in doubt. She lifted her sore finger up into the shaft of sunlight. Sure enough, it appeared bright red and throbbed like the devil. Within hours after returning home yesterday, the fishhook puncture gained the hue of burning coals and felt equally hot. She resolved to find the appropriate poultice before her immediate journey to Blackwell. At the first minute society considered a polite hour to call, she planned to directly ask Lady Helen about her son's plans for a foundry.

Once downstairs in William's book-lined study, she pulled several medical books from the tall shelves and spread them over the polished mahogany desk. Since the wound was not serious enough to call Dr. Potts, common sense suggested she should follow Mr. Thornbury's advice and teach herself the best method to cure an infected wound.

Her housekeeper, Mrs. Richards, entered the study and handed her a note from Henry.

After a quick perusal, Elinor discovered Mr. Thornbury had not been at home when Henry called at Blackwell yesterday. Her handsome neighbor spent the morning charming her by the lake, so she wasn't surprised. Henry promised to pay a call again within the week and make inquiries about the foundry.

She moved aside the Trafalgar memorial inkwell—replete with weeping lion—and pulled the largest medical book forward. After deciding to start with “cuts,” she began to read the entry when Berdy came into the room.

He must have been experimenting with cravat knots, because he silently struck a dramatic pose on the Axminster carpet's center medallion of roses. Thus staged, he lifted his chin for her approval, but his smile faded without her immediate praise.

“Please, love. A young man in your situation cannot support himself as a London dandy. If you married, how would you provide for your family?”

He waved a hand in the air. “Not now. I've plenty of time to choose a profession. I thought you'd be excited to see m' new knot.” He turned to give her a side view. “I call it
The
Circumbendibus
.”

“Why do they name cravat knots? It's not as though they are pets.”

“Elli. This is important. When we go to London for the Season and I'm seen wearing
The
Circumbendibus
, I'm convinced this knot will be even more popular than the
The
Bungup
. Then all of London will acknowledge me as a gentleman of elegance and style.”

Glancing at the wide-eyed expression beaming from his smiling face, she cherished that eager look. It first appeared when Berdy was nine, seconds before he ran toward a dangerous horse, his arms open wide, repeating the words “horsey hug.” The first of many panicked moments she experienced in the role of his mother. Now, almost nine years later, she worried she would never fulfill her late sister's last wish to guide him from adolescence into a mature, responsible man. “With that enormous bow, can you look down?” She doubted he could move anything above the cravat.

He huffed and attempted to lower his chin. He couldn't place it on his chest—the giant neckcloth blocked his forward movement—so he tilted his head to the side. “Of course, I can look down. You are…are you pressing flowers?”

“No…books are used for reading.” She closed the lexicon and gave him her full attention.

“Very amusing. You know at school I'm considered a great scholar.”

She examined his figure from his head to his Hessians. Today he did not dress like a scholar. He wore ivory pantaloons below an apple-green waistcoat. His curly blond locks were brushed forward in a disheveled appearance called
à la Titus
. “Scholarship is more than knowing which tailor produces the best waistcoats, and which draper sells the finest silk. Scholarship means reading books, too.”

“I read books that are…thick.” He picked up the biggest, turned it around, and read the spine aloud. “
Quincy's Lexicon Physico-Medicum Improved: or a Dictionary of the Terms Employed in Medicine, and in such Departments of Chemistry, Natural Philosophy, Literature, and the Arts, as are connected therewith
.” He paused to take a deep breath. “That title is so long, I must have learnt something already.”

She grinned. “William admired
Quincy's Lexicon
and said the book is a dazzling piece of scholarship. It was written in the last century and still contains important information, but William loved to laugh at the silly entries that somehow escaped revision. Of course, medical knowledge is much more advanced nowadays.” She got up from the desk and sat on the large-cushioned chair by the arched Gothic windows. Relieved the subject of conversation changed from frivolous cravats to books, she picked up her needlework.

Berdy cleared his throat in obvious preparation to read. “A medical dictionary.” He opened the book to a random page. “Let's see what it says…
Breasts, in men they are very small, and chiefly for ornament.
” He glanced at his chest. “Very true. Let's try another.” He flipped the pages. “
Generation, Parts of, proper to Women…
” Shaking his head, he stopped reading aloud for a couple of seconds. “Evidently this female feature
affords
a
great
deal
of
delight
. Hmm, I don't understand that entry. Perhaps I should start at the beginning.” Turning back to the front, he examined each page. “
Acephalos. This is applied to monsters born without heads, of which there have been instances.
” He looked up at her. “All of these medical terms are confusing. I think I'll stick to reading the entries on diseases.” He read silently for several seconds. “
Acne
,
a
small
pustule
which
arises
usually
about
the
time
that
the
body
is
in
full
vigor
. No! I understand that disease.” He pointed to his cheek. “I have acne. It must be so, because I have a pustule, and I am in full vigor.”

She kept her head down. “You are not full of vinegar.”

“This is important information for a fellow to know. Silly rhymes are not necessary.”

Her chest constricted as she indulged in a favorite memory of William's response to one of her silly rhymes. He once asked, “How about a rhyme for the word orange?” While she had searched for an answer, his expression softened before he swept her into his arms and twirled her around. She answered, “Porange, gorange, torange,” in a whoosh of held breath and giggles. Her fists gently pounded his chest. He replied, “Fooled you, there is no rhyme for orange.” With a glorious smile, he dropped his head back and rolling laughter overcame him. That's why she still played her rhyming game; with every silly rhyme she could hear William's laugh.

“What is the next disease?
Acor, it is sometimes used to express that sourness in the stomach contracted by indigestion, and from whence flatulencies and acid belching arise.
No!” He slapped the page. “Last week, I suffered Acor after eating mutton pie, remember?” Lines of concern appeared on his forehead, and he quickly turned the page. “I have Agheustia. I have Aglutitio. Without doubt I have Agonia.”

“Berdy, please.”

“Elli. I have every disease mentioned so far, and I'm not out of the
A
's. At this rate, by the time I reach the
D
's, I'll be—
D
—for dead.”

Tossing her needlework aside, she leaped up and snapped the book shut. “There, a simple cure. Now you will have to live.” She smiled like a mother witnessing the shock on her baby's face after his first failure to stand. “If you have every disease in the book, it must be a great comfort to know you cannot get any sicker than you are today.” She gave him a rocking hug. “With your good nature, I'm certain you will live for a long time.”

“I'll certainly do m' best to live.” He covered his cravat knot with his hand to protect the folds from her hug. “But if I am called to Edinburgh, I must let the physicians give m' diseases a poke or two for the betterment of mankind.”

She ruffled his hair. “Are you interested in the practice of medicine? Maybe a physician would be a good profession for you to consider, if life in the church doesn't suit your tastes. Next week, when Dr. Potts and his daughter come to dine, we can discuss medicine as a possible living.”

He pulled away from her embrace and restored the random curly locks framing his face in the Venetian looking glass. “You promised me we would live in London for the Season, before I choose my living. Come to think of it, maybe I'll marry well and won't need a profession to become a gentleman of great consequence.”

She exhaled a long here-we-go-again sigh. His ever-changing expectations of future success caused her many restless nights. At seventeen, he could support himself on his living of one hundred pounds, complemented by whatever winnings his father sent when his purse strings were loosened by guilt. But this amount would never support a large family. So she could be a desperate mother and parade him around local young ladies, fishing for a sizable dowry, or steer him into a profession. One glance at the apple-green waistcoat confirmed the wiser choice was to find him a suitable living. “Please, love, gamesters like your father don't win forever. Someday your additional funds might be cut off. You must obtain a profession to support yourself and not depend upon marriage.”

He turned sideways to check the hair on the back of his head in the looking glass above the fireplace. “Yes, but if I marry well, I won't be stuck in some boring profession. I'll be able to use my wife's fortune to become a gentleman of leisure and style.” He tucked and untucked a single curl in front of his right ear.

The expected professions for an impoverished gentleman included the army, navy, church, or law. The first two would take him far from Cheshire, so they were out of the question. Instead, she would ask Henry to recommend law, and Dr. Potts to suggest suitable positions in medicine.

She silently tallied all the other gentlemen of her acquaintance, who might be of assistance, when Mr. Thornbury came to mind. His interests were varied and included the construction of canals, turnpikes, and manufactories. He was also rumored to be financially successful in the City on the exchange. But somehow she didn't trust him enough to give an impressionable young man practical advice. Even if his handbook was written solely for the amusement of gentlemen in their London clubs, the vulgarity of the presumed content brought his taste into question. So while she couldn't wait to watch all of her female friends fall under the spell of his masculine charm, she certainly did not want Berdy to emulate his successful flirting. Mr. Thornbury was therefore out of the question. “I have asked Henry to show you around the magistrate's offices sometime next week. Please, you must refrain from using the word ‘boring' in his presence. And remember, a respectable occupation will give you options, and options are always a good idea.”

“Yes, yes, don't worry. Once I spend the Season in London, I'm confident m' future will be a great success.” He resumed reading the lexicon.

Returning to William's chair, she let her restless gaze move to the tall bookshelves before it continued upward to the white plasterwork of the ornate Gothic ceiling. Her sight locked on a line of the ceiling's tracery. She followed the line under and over the other plaster lines until its path became lost in a jumbled Celtic knot.

She might lose Berdy after his stay in London. He'd fall in love, marry, and reside in the City close to his wife's family. Since she would always remain at Pinnacles, close to her memories of William, she feared her future might be spent in isolation. She'd return to endless hours of “keeping busy” or staring outside at the rose garden. Doing her best to fight overwhelming melancholy whenever she spotted a drooping rose, its petals gone and the bud bare with age.

Berdy must have noticed her despondency, because he strode over and gave her a peck on the cheek. “I'm sure you'll be delighted with m' new surprise. Guess what it is?”

She used the small amount of her remaining optimism to grin.

“I knew you would never guess my surprise. It's a new
dandy
horse
.”

“What!” She clutched his arm. “Pedestrian curricles are dangerous.”

“No, that flummery is just a rumor. I mean, what is the worst that could happen?”

Now she could no longer manage even a grin. “You might be killed.” The words escaped in an unsteady whisper.

“Oh, please forgive me.” He swiftly hugged her. “I did not mean to distress you with old memories. Besides, the dandy horse is not a real horse, so it won't behave like an unpredictable brute that can kill a fellow. The dandy horse is a
machine
. And gentlemen like m'self can control machines.”

***

Once Berdy finished lunch, he fled the house in the direction of the village to retrieve his dandy horse. Custom-made to his exact dimensions by Mr. Rosson of London, the vehicle failed to arrive yesterday, so he knew it would arrive on today's mail coach.

A brisk wind blew grim clouds overhead, but he believed providence would not let it rain until he had a chance to ride his new pedestrian curricle. By the time he reached the inn, the coach had arrived, and a large box bearing his name rested on the courtyard's cobblestones.

For two agonizing hours, he paced to and fro while Smithy assembled his machine. Then the most technological conveyance made for a single gentleman—a gleaming yellow-and-black dandy horse—beckoned him to mount. The machine had two large in-line wheels, with the front wheel and attached handlebar pivoted for steering. The lucky owner straddled the center bar and sat upon a leather seat. He then propelled himself forward using his feet, rather like running while sitting down. Not even the largest stallion could compete with this two-wheeled machine as fashionable transport. The dandy horse was not a mere animal, but a machine crafted by man and made for gentlemen like him—a man who appreciated style and machinery.