The Rake's Handbook (9 page)

The boy tugged on his forelock. “Thank you, mum.” Then he held up his pants with one hand and ran toward the row of cottages.

She glared at Mr. Thornbury.

Slapping his gloves on his thigh, he raised his voice. “Don't give me that female how-could-you look. In some families, a son may be the only source of income, so mining is better than starving.”

Her thoughts became disordered and distracted. “Is it? Yes, of course it is.” She resolved to spend more time considering the consequences of steam engines upon others. She then attempted to formulate the appropriate words to explain she was incapable of reaching a decision today. “Will children work in your foundry?”

“Boys are usually employed as ironstone-getters.” He gave her a hard squint. “Maybe someday children will not have to work to put food on the table. Then everyone will live in wealth. Our steam engines will lead us to that future, I'll wager.”

She made no comment, and they stood for several minutes without speaking, the distant rhythmic sound of the engine surrounding them. She noticed a piece of sod that he had absentmindedly kicked was blackened only on one side. What first appeared to be uniform dark earth on the surface, revealed itself to be coal soot on top and brown dirt underneath. Two years of this colliery's operation had smothered the ground in a blackened mantle. She wondered if her lovely garden would become blackened too. He noticed the black sod, and her spirits lifted a little. He must now see the impossibility of building his foundry close to her home.

He pulled his hat's brim lower upon his brow. “The mine is exciting, is it not?”

She swallowed. “Exciting? No. Look around. Smell the air. The expression on people's faces. Are you blind?”

“I do not understand. The smoke is tolerable. Perhaps if I show you some figures of the estimated profits, the number of men employed—”

“Children, you mean.” She experienced one of those moments when women instantly look around for an object to throw. Since they were alone in a field, nothing presented itself. She stomped back toward the carriage.

He hurried after her, caught her arm, forcing her to face him. “Excuse me. You are refusing my lease then?” His voice choked on the end of his question.

Elinor resisted kicking his shin. “Sir, please.” She begged him with her eyes not to continue the subject.

He panted and said nothing.

“My home is everything. You have a future. Family—”

“Madam, a house is a house.”

“No!” Her anger escalated, a knot forming in her chest. “My home is a place to hold my memories of William, a place for Berdy's future children to play around my hearth.”

“A house is a pile of stones. It's not a family or a future.”

“How can you say that when your mother feels the same about her home?”

“You mistake me. If you knew my mother better, you would understand. She's heartbroken over your refusal. To her it's not the house, it's a way to stop…” He paused and removed his beaver hat to brush the nap smooth with his elbow. A muscle in his jaw tightened; he looked down.

Sadness?
Did she truly see sorrow in his features? Instantly mortified, she asked for his forgiveness. “Sir, we have both said enough. Perhaps I do not understand you, and I had no intention of causing Lady Helen distress, but let me make myself clear. My husband died over a year ago now. A mourning brooch, a marble bas-relief in the church, and our home are all I have to remember him by.” She paused. “All I have, except for Berdy. I cannot agree to your lease, and I prefer we leave here this minute. For Berdy's sake, I wish to put this unpleasantness behind us. I offer you an olive branch, Mr. Thornbury. Will you take it?” She offered her hand and held her breath.

“No!” He stared at her, his stormy blue eyes as turbulent as the plume of billowing smoke. “I've the right to justly develop my land as I see fit for the happiness of
my
family. I will build my foundry as planned, and you are correct, madam.” He pointed to the distant chimney. “This chimney flue is too small. My stack will be bigger—much bigger.”

Ross stood on his portico watching a mud-covered traveling chaise pull into Blackwell's circular drive. Inside the carriage, two of his closest friends could be seen in profile. One of them caught sight of Ross and attempted to lean out the window, but stopped when his hat was knocked off.

After the carriage came to a full stop, a tall, lanky man with curly brown hair and jesting green eyes jumped out first. Lord Boyce Parker violently shook Ross's hand before slapping him on the back several times. “Yes, yes, hallo, hallo.”

“Good to see you,” Ross said. His friends had arrived in time to join Lucy Allardyce, her father, and her younger sisters for a dinner party the next evening. Later in the week, more guests were expected, then a large house party would formally get under way. The monthlong festivities would end with an extravagant ball, the entire county invited to attend.

Parker glanced up to Blackwell's imposing facade and whistled. “Nice pile of stones here, old man.” He stretched his arms high with exaggerated movements. “Never thought I'd live through the journey. Did we miss the ceremony? Banns read, vows spoken, breakfast ready?”

“If the negotiations with Allardyce are successful, first of the banns read in a month.” Ross anticipated he and Allardyce would negotiate a marriage settlement agreeable to all parties within the next week. Then once Ross and Lucy got to know each other better—and both consented to their betrothal—he would officially announce their engagement at the end of the ball. He returned Parker's enthusiastic backslap.

Parker rubbed his belly with both hands. “How about an early sample of the wedding breakfast then? I'm famished.”

Behind Parker, Mr. George Drexel exited the carriage. Of sturdy build and darkly handsome, Drexel wore a frown that suggested the type of man who would not step aside on a narrow street to let you pass. Today, however, Drexel strode forward with a wry grin.

Ross had known both men for twenty years, so he knew the smallest of grins on Drexel's sardonic face equaled the brightest smile on any other man.

Drexel extended his hand. “Thornbury.”

“Drexel.” Ross grabbed Drexel's forearm and pulled him forward to slap him on the back. “Good journey?”

Drexel nodded in Parker's direction. “By North London, I thought I'd expire from that fart machine.”

Parker leaned close to Ross and purposefully moved out of Drexel's reach. “Remind me to tell you all about Drexel, the honey, and the serving wench.” He looked at Drexel. “Failed there, my lad.”

Drexel's dark eyes narrowed. “Bracket-face.”

Parker straightened. “Diddle-poop.”

“Squeeze-crab.”

“You're the baby.”

“Ha!” Ross exclaimed. “I'm overjoyed to see you both.” Ross initiated another round of masculine back pats. “Mother is delighted over the festivities, and with all the excitement, she seems like another woman. I can't tell you how pleased I am that you are all here.”

***

The following day, Ross and his friends spent the day shooting. Ross laughed, told jests, and his peace of mind succumbed to the healing power arising from the company of his friends. When his mind did stray, he thought about his readiness to meet Mrs. Colton at his supper party. The disastrous incident at the coal mine had been his fault, of course. Hindsight revealed his stupidity in showing her a smoky chimney at a relatively close distance. He should have taken her to a house a similar distance away from the flue, as her home would be from his foundry. Then she could have seen for herself that the smoke was not a nuisance.

So for the immediate future, he must devise a new proposal to change her mind, a seemingly impossible task. But first he needed to dampen his resentment and return their relationship to the friendly ease of their earlier meetings. The day after their disastrous visit to the chimney, he took the first step toward reconciliation by sending her a letter in which he politely requested her forgiveness, a simple act any proper gentleman must do. This evening he planned to be polite, nothing more, hoping to hide his residual anger enough to be friendly, so as not to offend her.

That evening, Ross and his mother stood in the hall and greeted Mrs. Colton upon her arrival for the supper party. The widow looked particularly fine tonight, Ross noted. Her hair, styled in a Grecian goddess-like fashion, tumbled in ringlets upon one shoulder, while a gilt, close-fitted gown revealed her comely figure. A shape more comely than he remembered, if truth be told.

Mrs. Colton gave an apprehensive glance toward his mother. “Thank you for your gracious invitation, Lady Helen Thornbury, Mr. Thornbury. I am delighted to hear your guests this evening will include Mr. Allardyce and Mr. Drexel, both successful engineers. Mr. Deane will appreciate the chance to question them about gears and steam engines.”

Ross caught his mother slighting the widow by failing to acknowledge her comment. Holding out his arm, he nodded for Mrs. Colton to join him to the side. In a low voice, he said, “Please say nothing to Mother about our journey to the coal mine. I do not want her upset tonight.”

“Yes, of course.” Mrs. Colton twisted the chain of her reticule. “You've inspired Berdy's interest in engineering, so he wants to discuss gears and engines tonight. Am I correct in using the plural? Are there more than one type of engine and gear?” She flushed. “I want to thank you…excuse me.” She hurried to join the other guests milling close to the drawing-room door.

Once the assembled party had been seated for supper, Ross observed his mother's strained countenance every time she glanced in Mrs. Colton's direction. Lady Helen's continued resentment had not abated after the widow's refusal to grant their lease. As a result, his mother placed her as far from him as possible, close to Dr. Potts and Drexel. She had even ordered a wide arrangement of flowers in the silver epergne, so if he wanted to catch sight of Mrs. Colton, he would have to perform a noticeable lean to the side.

Conversation amongst the guests was sporadic before the first remove, as many were becoming acquainted with the person next to them. Ross caught the tomfoolery of his friends, Lucy's nervousness over being separated from her younger sisters for the evening, and his mother's pointed glares at Mrs. Colton.

After the guests were served the roasted fillet of beef à l'anglaise, he found an excuse to lean sideways—to grab the saltcellar—but he quickly looked away. Mrs. Colton, while lovely, seemed subdued. Missing was the bubbling laughter that simmered under her barely contained propriety. He downed another two glasses of claret. He regretted the loss of the laughing widow fishing in his lake, or the happy lady in his carriage, blithely sitting on his lap and lecturing him about her imaginary handbook of marriage.

Meanwhile, his mother failed to remember that his engagement to Miss Allardyce had not been officially settled. She must have been so pleased by the thought of his marriage and grandchildren that she forgot about her promise to keep the subject private. Lady Helen asked Lucy numerous veiled questions to gather information in regard to their future engagement. “Where is your official parish, dear?”

Lucy's unwavering stare at the wineglass in front of her meant she probably had never been served wine, so the experience of dining in the company of adults, other than her family, might be new. “Our parish is Merton, mum,” Lucy answered, glancing at her father for approval before returning to stare at her glass.

On his left, Ross spied Deane adamantly following Drexel's Banbury tale of the day's shoot.

Ross asked the young man, “How would you like to join us tomorrow? Your leg should not be a problem. A footman can give you a hand outside. We will have some good sport, and you can tell us about your interests.”

Mrs. Colton leaned sideways to look at Ross, forcing him to concentrate on carving his beef joint.

Young Deane turned toward him and smiled broadly. “Yes. I'd like to join the gentlemen tomorrow. I'd enjoy watching the shooting, even though I cannot participate. It's of no concern anyhow, because I'm not much of a shot.”

“Neither am I,” Ross said, leaning to his other side to catch a glimpse of Mrs. Colton's widening eyes in the mirrored looking glass above the sideboard.

Lady Helen ignored him and addressed Parker. “Mr. Deane will likely mature into a singular young man, quite the surprise really, when you consider how he is raised.” Her deprecating words were matched by an exaggerated shake of her fork.

Mrs. Colton's head lowered a fraction of an inch, and she appeared to have difficulty chewing her food.

Now his mother's resentment had gone too far. The lad had nothing to do with their troubles. “Yes, Deane
is
a singular young man,” Ross announced to his guests. “If you need to know anything about cravats, he's your man. He is also forward thinking and has a stunning appreciation for machines. You should see his dandy horse—amazing, really.”

“Is that one of those rider thingamabobs?” Parker asked, followed by a loud gulp of claret. “Saw a half dozen the other day in Hyde Park. Don't think it will replace the horse. Too much physical exertion for me.”

Deane swung around to face Parker. “It is strenuous exercise, but the challenge is worth it. Too bad it's not steam powered though. Then the work would be zero.”

Most of the company chuckled at this remark. Except for Dr. Potts, who fixed Mrs. Colton's attention by bragging about his latest winning strategy at the local races. His mother also remained unamused and took several additional opportunities to glare at Mrs. Colton.

“Actually, not a bad idea,” Ross said, brushing his forelock back. “But steam engines are too heavy. Perhaps a pulley around the rear wheel to power it with your legs would do the trick.”

Parker waved his wineglass in the air. “No, no, that would never do. The work would be the same as if you were pushing with your feet, so you wouldn't save any effort.”

Deane addressed the gentlemen much older than himself without hesitation. “I think Mr. Thornbury is right. A mechanical advantage might be had by a gear. This would multiply the energy generated from the rider, allowing for greater distances to be covered with the same amount of work.”

Ross patted Deane on the back. “See, I'm right. A singular young gentleman, indeed.” He ignored his mother's basilisk stare. “You'd make a fine engineer.”

Deane's grin grew more pronounced than his overlarge cravat.

For some inexplicable reason, possibly due to the effects of ingesting a second bottle of claret, Ross wondered if he would have a son. Would his son be singular?
His
son.
He chastised himself with a swift mental kick to his arse. He'd leave the responsibility of raising a son to his wife. Otherwise, he'd more than likely muck it up, the way he had with John's life. He slammed his glass of claret down on the table, making the dishes dance and everyone turn. Wearing a false smile, he started a lighthearted conversation with Deane, while his insides turned sour.

After the dinner's final remove, the ladies withdrew to the vast drawing room, and Lucy's father took his leave for the evening. Ross watched his mother take Lucy's arm to lead her away—all but ignoring Mrs. Colton. That lady followed the others alone. It occurred to Ross that the men shouldn't sit with their brandies for too long and should rejoin the ladies as soon as possible.

Once the dining-room doors closed behind the women, the men passed around crystal decanters of brandy and claret. Everyone helped themselves to large glasses. Parker and Deane continued their discussion of the dandy horse, and before long, Ross needed to request two more bottles of brandy.

Drexel leaned back in his chair and blew smoke rings into the air. “I say, Two,” he said, using Ross's nickname, “heard you've had a run of luck lately. First you earned a packet on some canal investment. Then last month at Newmarket, the horse you bet on won. Goes without saying your horse was much better than Whip's bag of bones.”

Parker appeared offended. “That filly was a promising two-year-old. The odds of winning too high to pass up.” He slid the brandy toward Drexel, hitting several dishes in the process.

“Yes, my horse did well,” Ross replied. “Even better than Stanford's filly.”

“Too bad about Stanford,” Parker said, shaking his head. “Have you heard? Got the news last week. He got caught in a difficult situation—like John. News is he'll recover though. The wound apparently is not deep.”

Drexel frowned and wagged a forefinger at Parker.

“Oh,” Parker said, furtively glancing at Ross. “Yes, yes, sorry ol' man.”

Ross stopped himself from breaking the table with his fist. His jaw tightened as he reached for the brandy. Filling the glass to the top, he drank it all with a quick toss of his head. With any luck, within minutes he'd forget about John, forget about his past. Become drunk enough, so his only remaining memory would be his own name.

“Right. Speaking of fillies, how game is yours?” Drexel asked Ross, a subtle leer tainting his voice. “Is she good in harness?”

“Tom-m-morrow,” Ross managed with a brandy-addled tongue. “Show you her in the stables…morning.” He poured Deane another glass of brandy.

“Not
that
filly,” Drexel said with a wicked leer. “The intended. You know, the ol' lady wife to be.”

Parker unsteadily addressed Deane. “That old Two in Hand, he's quite the devil of a fellow with the ladies.”

Deane's eyelids sunk halfway across his eyes. “Two in Hand? That's a cravat knot, right?”

“No, no,” Parker said, “it's one of our nicknames we earned after the publication of our book,
Rake's Handbook: Including Field Guide
. We use these nicknames in jest, because they please the ladies no end. Drexel here wrote the
Field
Guide
—it describes female types in detail—so he's called The Jockey. Ross here penned the handbook, and he's called Two in Hand. We shortened it and just call him Two.” With both hands, Parker made a gesture of lifting his breasts. “Get it? I'm the publisher and editor of the tome, so the book is a success because of me, really. Therefore, the ladies call me The Whip.”