Flirtation & Folly Read online

  Marianne had learned tricks of saving tuppence here and there from the housekeeper, but she sensed her aunt meant something different. “I would be very happy to learn,” she said.

  Her aunt chose a few thick volumes from the bookshelf and began flipping them open, selecting passages for Marianne to read. After each passage, Aunt Harriet explained what it meant in her own firm language, sometimes using Marianne’s father as an unpleasant example, sometimes remarking on a well-known gentleman and explaining a principle with an anecdote from his life. Although the material itself seemed dry to Marianne, it was leavened with her aunt’s gossip about members of the ton whose fortunes rose and fell over the years.

  There was so much going on that Marianne had never dreamed of. She felt like a heroine who had discovered a hidden language of signs among magicians placed in plain sight in a shop window. It was not just the technicalities of ledgers that her aunt drew forward and explained like a card sharper fingering hearts and spades to display her tricks; she also revealed how one’s attitudes about money manifested in their life—the grungy, dismal beliefs Marianne could spot in her mother’s talk, the painfully bright glimmer of daydreams of unreachable wealth, the felt certainty of grimy pennies in her palms.

  Aunt Harriet laid out her own financial philosophy, then compared it to that of Mrs Mowbrey, and what she suspected of Marianne’s philosophy, as if spreading out three hands of cards and showing their advantages and insufficiencies. Although Marianne did not see how she could change her ideas or remember her aunt’s teachings enough to reform quickly, the new perspectives seeped into her.

  From the rumble in her gut, Marianne knew the time for dinner had long since passed, but somehow no servant had come to summon them. She supposed someone had decided not to disturb them by interrupting their activity. Once, Aunt Harriet did ring a maid for tea and biscuits. She even smilingly told her to use the new tea Marianne had bought, which Marianne took as a sign of circumspect forgiveness. But as soon as the tea dishes were removed, they once again dove into the weighty books and neat, ordered lines of credits and debits in her aunt’s precise handwriting.

  By the time the candles melted into mere stumps, Aunt Harriet declared they were finished for the day. “We will not spend so much time all at once in the future,” she said, “now that you have the basics. But a few times a week, we will discuss these matters further. And I expect you to be present when my lawyer and steward call.”

  “I will. But how did you learn all this? I do not know any ladies or gentlemen who know things like this. You said Mama has never learned them.”

  “Indeed she has not.” The ripple of resentment on the sea smoothed out again. “Your mother and Matilda had opportunities for marriage I never had,” Aunt Harriet said, her tone gentle, even sad. “My own mother was a poor widow for a long time. When my stepfather married her, he set many things to rights. When he saw that I was unlikely to marry, he taught me everything he knew about money. I was a companion he could be assured would share his pursuits and not leave, which he especially needed after my mother died. And when he saw his own health declining, he made sure that I would inherit enough to support myself in comfort, applying the principles he gave me.”

  She sighed. “Your mother resents that he left me more money when he died, but in truth the difference was not much if you account for the dowries she and Matilda had already received. What she ought to resent was the gift of his knowledge, for that has been of far greater value.”

  “You grew what he gave you.”

  Her aunt nodded. “I have tried to teach my sisters a little, but they were never inclined to learn. Mostly they referred me to their husbands. I confess I have no desire to set myself up as a tutor to two grown men, even if they would allow it. So things remain as they are.”

  She reached out a hand and smoothed Marianne’s hair. It was the first affectionate gesture she had received from her aunt since the perfunctory hug when she arrived. “I am happy, Marianne, that you will let me teach you a little. It would be sad if my stepfather’s knowledge died with me.”

  Although she could not explain why, somehow the little splash of her aunt’s happiness made the whole night seem sad to Marianne, like an ocean that was calm but could not reflect the moon.

  March 1812

  Marianne held herself stiffly upright and beamed another well-practised smile at the guests ducking out of the cold night air into the warm brightness of Aunt Harriet’s house for a dinner party. This time it was Martha Brophy and Lady Angela together. Mrs Stokes and her daughters had long since arrived and sent back their carriage for Martha, the persistently unwanted cousin, and Lady Angela, who had somehow finessed Mrs Stokes into offering a ride for her as well.

  Lady Angela’s crinkled face was a whiter shade of yellow than usual this evening, likely the work of some powder or ointment. Marianne could smell the chalkiness from Lady Angela alongside the sweet scent of the lotions Marianne had mopped over her own skin. Marianne still did not look any less brown yet, but maybe if she learned what Lady Angela was using…

  Martha snapped Marianne’s attention back with a quick curtsey. Her heavy limbs did not match well with the speed of her dips. It made the Irish cousin look more as if she had stepped into a pothole and stumbled up again.

  Marianne curtseyed in return, trying to mimic the smoothness of Miss Emily’s curtsey, and then returned to stiff uprightness. If a veteran could learn to hobble around with a crutch rather than a leg, surely Marianne could learn to move with better deportment. At least, that was what she told herself whenever her neck and back began to ache. Her white silk gown hung well enough with her posture. The gown was one chosen by the Stokeses, and although the past few weeks had made Marianne more accustomed to the quieter colours and unremarkable designs, she still felt a small loss every time she put on one of her newer dresses. It was nice to fit in, but she missed putting something of herself into her gowns.

  “I am so pleased to see you both,” Aunt Harriet said to the newcomers. And she was. For once, Aunt Harriet’s face was positively glowing with pride and happiness. When her aunt had scolded the servants day and night preparing the already spotless house into an even greater condition of pristine beauty, Marianne assumed her aunt was simply anxious to prevent any noticeable defect in her dinner party. Tonight, as guests filed in and praised the softness of the Turkish rugs, the gleam of well-tended chandeliers, and the muted mahogany silkiness of the polished banisters, Aunt Harriet’s face broke into wide, genuine smiles alongside Marianne’s politely forced ones.

  Aunt Harriet was not a nervous hostess anxious to ward off critique. She adored having people admire her home, and she had no real fears that they would fail to do so. It put her aunt’s willingness to let Aunt Cartwright host most of the time in a new light. It was truly sacrificial to let the invalid’s home be the place for most of their friends’ gatherings when Aunt Harriet clearly loved entertaining. Tonight, Uncle Cartwright had come to join in the fun, while Aunt Cartwright remained home and managed her little treasure-chest of medicine bottles.

  Marianne said the proper things to Martha and Lady Angela, but her attention darted to the next arrival, who waited patiently for the butler to announce him. Captain Pulteney was again in his neat regimentals, doffing his cockaded hat to the footman and smiling at all. When he caught Marianne’s eye, he winked, and she flushed with pleasure.

  “We are so glad to see you here, Captain,” Marianne said when the butler finished presenting him. Captain Pulteney took her hand and bowed over it with a smart military air. His gloved hand held hers an instant longer than necessary, and even more thrilling—he squeezed it.

  “I could not be happier to join your festivity,” he told her, before turning to her aunt. “I can see the treasures of all Greece have been hauled off to this house. Where is your Spartan nature now, Miss Adams?”

  Aunt Harriet beamed and clasped her hands together. She looked almost girlish in her happiness. “As I never c
laimed to be a Spartan, the burden of maintaining the metaphor is all your own,” she said, an impish gleam sparkling in her eye. “I daresay even stern Spartans can produce elegance, when it comes to entertaining friends.”

  Since the captain was the last to arrive, Aunt Harriet and Marianne walked with him into the drawing room. Aunt Harriet divided the guests into couples for the procession to dinner, and Marianne found herself agreeably partnered by the captain.

  “What a pity your other aunt could not be with us,” he said as Marianne took his arm. With his closeness, Marianne began to hope that the perfume she had dabbed on would cover the scent of Wilkins’s Almond Cream. Or would men prefer the scent of almonds? She almost wished her sister Belinda were there so she could ask her.

  “Perhaps Aunt Cartwright will someday get well enough to go out more often,” Marianne said. “In truth, I doubt it, but there is always hope, is there not?”

  “I myself cherish hope as the best of virtues,” Captain Pulteney replied. His voice dropped lower, and his expression became deliciously intent. Marianne felt giddy with the force of his attention. “What kind of hopes would you encourage me to have, Miss Mowbrey?”

  Marianne tried not to giggle. She could not lose control of herself over a bit of flirting. The captain might not mean anything by it—and yet, his tone seemed significant. She endeavoured to say something witty and offhand.

  “Oh, I am such a dreamer myself, I couldn’t give advice to another. Hopes are like unruly dogs. If you have raised them up yourself, you find a way to live with them and love them, even if they cause you pain. But if someone else gives them to you—what a nuisance!” The analogy was imperfect, but it was the best Marianne could do given the insistent pounding of her heart and the terrifically poignant sensation of her fingertips pressing on his warm, strong arm. There were easily three layers of fabric between her skin and his, and yet Marianne was sure she could detect the exact curve of his bicep. She struggled to focus her thoughts. Luckily, seating themselves took attention away from conversation for a moment, and by the time Marianne had settled in between Captain Pulteney and Mr Hearn, her nerves had steadied. When Mr Hearn gave her a small smile, she felt herself relax further. Her aunt was hosting the party, so Marianne was sort of a hostess second-in-command. This made her more of an object of attention—which meant that surely tonight, of all nights, she would outshine the others in wit and beauty.

  Mr Hearn made the same polite comment of regret that Aunt Cartwright could not be with them. “A pity she cannot experience her sister’s triumph tonight,” he added. The olive tint to his skin from his time in India had not yet faded away, but his dark hair was cut far back, as if not ashamed to be darker than the rest of the men. “I daresay both your aunts have more to celebrate than usual. They do not often see their nieces.”

  “Yes, we have not seen my sister Belinda the whole time she has been in London,” Marianne said. Although she forced her features into a polite disappointment, inside her feeling of extravagant excitement swelled. She had not had to contend with her sister’s beauty even once in over two months. With just a little more polish, she would demonstrate her own style, affability, and charm, and then perhaps she would never feel threatened by her sister again. “But you are right, my aunts have been very kind to me. They have given me more than—ˮ It would be inaccurate to say they gave her more than she had ever dreamed of, not when her dreams had always been so big. “—More than I had any right to expect.”

  Mr Hearn smiled his approval, and he turned to the dishes in front of him with an enjoyment Marianne had not seen in him before. She wondered if his ease sprang from the fact that Mr Lowes had not been invited. As he helped Marianne to a curry, he told her more about Indian cuisine and how it had changed when introduced to England. Marianne listened with half an ear. Next to her, Captain Pulteney was rallying Lady Angela.

  “If all the young ladies arrive at Sir William’s ball attired as elegantly as you, how will we gentlemen endure it?” the captain said. The lightness of his tone suggested either flirtation or jest, but Marianne was not sure which. Lady Angela apparently took it as the latter.

  “If all the young gentlemen offer useless blandishments, the ladies will have more to endure,” she said flatly, but pinkness peeked through the powdered whiteness of her skin. Lady Angela pretended her roasted chicken required intense concentration and appeared to ignore the captain’s further compliments, but her eyes darted up at him when he took to complimenting another woman, especially if that woman was Miss Emily.

  “Miss Emily, that is a very just statement. You are right—Sheridan’s latest play is hardly worth the crush of going to see it. I went myself, and despite all my combat training, my coat was nearly ripped from my body, and my head was so battered I fell into my seat half-stunned,” he said, laughing.

  Miss Emily giggled back. “If a dashing military man cannot invade the theatre properly, what hope do the rest of us have?” she said. The emerald earrings that bounced against her throat caught the light admirably, but even more light shone in her eyes as she smiled at Captain Pulteney. “We will have to hope Almack’s is better when it opens. At least there, only the select are invited. Almack’s is too well fortified to be subject to invasions.”

  “I know I am very lucky to be admitted, but it does not surprise me that the committee gave you and your sister tickets,” the captain replied. As Miss Emily turned to tell her neighbour about what she intended to wear at Almack’s first, Captain Pulteney threw a small smile at Miss Stokes, who was too far down the table to make a suitable response and only pressed her languid lips into a slow smile in return.

  Marianne’s heart squeezed uncomfortably. She dropped her gaze to the pile of potted mushrooms on her plate and struggled to find her equilibrium. She was supposed to make herself the centre of attention, but she had no ticket to Almack’s and therefore could not risk saying anything about the place. And Captain Pulteney! Of course he must be polite to all the ladies, but there was no reason to make Lady Angela look ridiculous by pretending to flirt with her. Or was it pretending? The lady was not that old, and she did look better with her yellow face pasted and powdered over. Miss Emily chased him day and night, so perhaps he could not help flirting a little with her. But smiling in that way at Miss Stokes?

  The fervent press he had given her hand in the hall now seemed pathetic. It probably meant nothing. How could Marianne ever compete with so many other ladies?

  “Some olives, Miss Mowbrey?” Mr Hearn offered her a dish, and Marianne served herself from it without thinking. When she bit down on the first olive, the tang stung her mouth like a stimulant. She had eaten olives many times since she had first come to Aunt Harriet’s, and now they no longer seemed strange and unpleasant. She had learned to like them. That proved she could change—would change, and for the better. If she could not capture the captain’s heart, she would find some other way to shine in London forever.

  “Do you plan to stay long in London, Mr Hearn?” she asked him.

  He huffed in response. “Not if I can help it. I am going to go back to Ireland.”

  “You prefer a country lifestyle, then?”

  “My family had an estate there, Hearn Hall. But it was not entailed, and it wound up in other hands. I intend to get it back.” His dark eyes had grown fierce, and Marianne was glad his gaze had drifted off, as if he were scrying some distant land rather than sitting at a richly laid table in a London townhouse. When he finally seemed to remember where he was, his voice turned gruff and almost apologetic. “Admittedly, my family never had it long, but I would like to have it again.”

  “It seems a worthy goal.” It was a pity he intended to immure himself in Ireland, since he might be marriageable otherwise. But she could hardly fault a man for pursuing his childhood home.

  “The man who owns Hearn Hall at present is in London. That is why I am here.” He turned to the savoury dish before him, and Martha’s head peeked around him like a red sun emerg
ing from behind a mountain.

  “Are you going to buy it from him?” Martha asked. Marianne had not realised she had been listening, or that she was on Mr Hearn’s other side.

  “Not exactly.” The matter dropped, but Marianne found herself mulling it over as the first course was carried away and the second course brought in and placed, dish by dish, in the exact formation she and her aunt had determined. The footmen acted more like cautious bricklayers building a wall than bearers of river trout, poached eggs, tarts, and other dainties.

  In the lull of conversation, Marianne heard her name further down the table. “Miss Mowbrey is wearing one of my creations,” Miss Emily said. Her voice dropped into an undertone to the captain, but Marianne could still hear her distinctly. “What a fright she looked before! I can do nothing to improve her essentials, unfortunately, but the fact that she looks presentable at all is my doing.”

  “What a fine mother you would make, Miss Emily! I can fairly see a parade of daughters behind you, all dressed in exquisite taste. You know such a bevy would be a fine addition to the ton.”

  Captain Pulteney raised his voice a little and turned to Marianne. “Miss Emily has been telling me she had the pleasure of shopping with you recently. You must be so happy.”

  Marianne flushed. “Of course I am. Miss Emily is very kind.” Her fingers plucked at the thin silk over her thighs, feeling it slip effortlessly over her fingertips. She did look well, and she owed that to Miss Emily. She hated it. She was beginning to wonder if she hated Miss Emily. The captain must have sensed her discomfort, because he turned back to Miss Emily and renewed conversation on other topics. Marianne stared at her plate and rubbed her thumb over the silk of her gown, over and over. Her eyes felt hot, but she refused to let any tears fall. Marianne could say she felt unwell and excuse herself, but then she would lose a pivotal chance to garner acclaim at her aunt’s party. She could not give up this chance, but she could not bear to remain silent and polite, either.