Bad Austen (4 page)

The girls squirmed nervously in their seats.

“When do we begin pianoforte, and the embroidery of silk ribbons, and china painting?” asked Alice Singletwit.

“Never,” replied Absinthea. “Such frippery earns you an early, unmarked grave in Potter’s Field. However, if you merely remove that paintbrush from the undecorated china plate and rub it elsewhere, you will achieve happier results, Missy.”

Prim Jenny Periwinkle’s lower lip trembled anxiously. “What exactly are we to learn here?”

Mistress Pillock continued with a rejuvenated vigor. “We teach real-world skills for survival in a manless domicile. First-semester curriculum presents Introduction to Gutter Sniping, Recognition of Items One Cannot Afford, How to Nurture Multiple Cats as Substitute Kin, and tutorials on Cottage Maintenance for Dunces.

“Second session expands on these themes with informative lectures about Staving Off the Scythe of Death by Resale of Other People’s Rubbish, Embracing Your Inner Crone, and Cuisine Derived from Things You Can Catch (which features the preparation of hearty dishes such as Rodent étouffée and Mayfly Surprise Casserole). Also, we cover Ways Not to Waste one’s Primary Childbearing Years Governing Other People’s Offspring for a Pittance.

“Trimester courses focus on the corporal delights and development of one’s Sza Sza Szu. You will leave here with the scruples of a barn cat, eager to strut the cobblestones for profit. Highlights are to include Working the Maypole 101, Overcoming One’s Gag Reflex, and Advanced Mistressing.”

“My father shan’t like these topics,” said Eliza Frost frigidly.

Absinthea tittered. “Poppycock! Your father had the prudence to send you to our academy. He understands that many a gentleman prefers a bit of tartar sauce on their cod, a little something-something that may be absent on the wife’s home menu. So, tart you up, we shall. Here, you will be kept abreast of the latest methodology for snaring a weaker woman’s spouse. Here, you will master the art of trapping a bachelor at the altar by the fabrication of hysterical pregnancy or other vile trickery.

“Today, we shall finish with a preview of the Classical Male Anatomy Laboratory, which offers scholars a rare opportunity for hands-on experience.”

Although most of the audience was gingerly weeping, Miss Pillock did not cease.

“Observe,” she said, thrusting a lever. A curtain dropped, exposing Custodian Dobbins in a state of jubilation, sporting only a grin and a hickory pointer. Little Mary Goodhead swooned and fell into the aisle, splayed in a most salaciously undignified fashion.

“Marvelous!” said the head mistress. “You’re catching on already.”

T
he
H
orrors of
E
xpectation

M
ATTHEW
P. M
AYO

Lord Dalnabbie paused, his hand trembling above the drawing-room door’s brass handle. Would she think him too forward? too brazen? Would she deign to glance his way at all? oh, he hoped not. Not on this day, no, no, certainly not today. Or tomorrow, for that matter. Oh dear, what if she greeted him with a “good morning, m’lord.” How does one answer such an offering? Day after day, always the same. It was all too much.

On the other side of the drawing-room door, Tilda, the house-maid, tidied the young mistresses’ sewing basket—the girls were such flibbertigibbets. Much like their mother, Lady Dalnabbie, who lamented daily of ever finding them suitable husbands. And daily, Tilda quelled the urge to shout that the little demons would be lucky creatures indeed to end up wedded. Given the odds, she prayed for their betrothal. tilda did not look forward to spending her future years doting on the two Dalnabbie dimwits as they fluttered into spinsterhood.

Now, Lord Dalnabbie, he was a different sort. Tilda wondered how he had ever managed to marry. Peculiarity rode him hard, as Bonn, the stable boy, said. Indeed, Tilda had spied the master alone many times in the library, smoothing his vest front, sitting stiff and straight, an unopened book beside him on the sofa. He would glance about, a half smile twitching on his mouth, seeming forever on the verge of apologizing for causing possible offense to himself.

Lord Dalnabbie bit down on a tight knuckle. This would not do. He withdrew his hand from its near grasp of the brass door handle. No, not this way. With a quick, bold gesture, surprising even himself, Dalnabbie stuffed the trailing end of his handkerchief into his cuff, but could not keep from staring at the door. He fancied he almost heard the soft sounds of Tilda neatening the room. Tilda. His breath paused, and with a sudden willfulness summoned from his very slippers, he turned in the hallway of his ancestral home and remounted the stairs. This would not do at all. …

Inside the drawing room, Tilda heard the master dithering. She narrowed her eyes and considered racing for the door, recalling that morning years before when she had opened it to find him standing there. She had shrieked, then apologized and curtsied low. But his paroxysms had lasted for days. MacNee, the valet, had told her that, buried under layers of bedding, Lord Dalnabbie had twitched and wept as if he bore the world’s shame on his shoulders.

And yet, since his recovery, she knew that he descended the stairs each morning, hovering in the passage outside the drawing room, like the shadow of a ghost, trembling, reaching, but never quite grasping …

Good heavens, thought Tilda as she tied back the last curtain. It’s his house, after all. Bonn was right—money is wasted on the rich.

Upon reaching the top of the stairs, Lord Dalnabbie paused, one foot poised above the final step. Though he knew it to be carpet, and thus suitable to disguise his footfalls, he suspected that his timing this morning had been off. He had, of course, read about such things happening to perfect strangers in faraway places, but to date it had not happened to him.

He set down a tentative left foot, to act as a guide. Then, and no doubt urged forth by the very keeper of the gates of hell himself, first one, then both of the girls’ bedchamber doors wrenched inward as if forced by storm gales, and his daughters, dressed for the morning, thundered toward him, hooting like gibbons.

Tilda paused at the bottom of the stairs on her way to give Cook a hand. She heard the girls’ doors, their feet on the upper landing, their shouts.
And so begins another day
, she thought, looking up at them, her teeth tight behind a smile.

At that precise moment, Dalnabbie glanced downward, toward the bottom of the stairs, the very direction from which he had just returned. There stood Tilda, who had appeared as if from nowhere at all. There seemed no escape. Assault from below and from above. He glanced again. Yes, he was certain of it. No escape.

Lord Dalnabbie felt his mouth move, trying to form words. With all of their mother’s grace, his daughters pushed by him, braying and stomping down the stairs. Toward Tilda, dear Tilda …

Dalnabbie trembled as if he were a leaf in a gale. He could not move from the top stair, even as a new horror swept over him—soon his wife would rise. Soon, and she would expect a response to her greeting. Oh, it was all too much. …

P
roper
O
rder

M
ICHAEL
W
RIGHT

Lady Catherine opened the small leather-bound volume and read,
It is a truth universally acknowledged that a single man in possession of a good fortune must be in want of a wife
.

“Poppycock,” said Lady Catherine. In her youth she had known many wealthy unmarried men whose only interests were to slaughter large quantities of game birds and to consume even larger quantities of intoxicating liquors. She closed the book and reached for a volume of Fordyce’s
Sermons
.

The following Tuesday, when her niece made her weekly visit, Lady Catherine inclined her head in the direction of the morning-room table. “You may retrieve the novel you so kindly brought for me. I found it quite stupid.”

“Why, Aunt, you did not enjoy the story?”

“My dear Jane, I did not attempt to read the story, after encountering the absurd premise given in the first line.”

“But, Aunt, it is a most delightful tale of obstacles overcome on the way to achieving happiness in marriage.”

“In that case, I am glad I did not continue reading. It is my firm belief that literature should seek to uphold the virtues of an ordered society, not indulge the wanton emotions of parlor maids. Happiness in marriage, indeed!”

“I assure you, Aunt, that the books of this author serve not only to entertain but to instruct. Perhaps you might enjoy another of her works.”

“
Her
works? The author is a woman?”

“A lady, Aunt, as is indicated on the title page.”

“An error, no doubt, of the printer. A lady does not compose works of fiction.”

“No doubt it is as you say, Aunt. But the books are nevertheless edifying.”

“Give me an example of what you presume to be an edifying lesson.”

“Here is another novel, in which a young woman of good family is persuaded to deny her suitor because he is poor.”

“The proper course of action, indeed.”

“That is not the outcome, however. The suitor acquires glory and fortune in the navy, returns after ten years to woo his first love, and convinces her to marry him.”

“Absurd. Mature men should, and do, marry girls of child-bearing age, to ensure healthy offspring. It is apparent that the author has no experience of actual life.”

Jane appeared to sink in her chair. Lady Catherine lightly touched the back of her niece’s hand. “Don’t take on so, Jane. When you are married and have acquired some experience of the world, I’m sure you will concur in my opinion. And sit up straight, my dear; good posture is the foundation of a good life.”

“I understand, Aunt, for you have told me oftimes, that I require the firm influence of a husband to mold my taste and understanding, and I look forward eagerly to undergoing such edification. to that end, perhaps I might interest you in another of the author’s works. It tells the story of a giddy young girl named emma who is gently instructed in proper behavior by an upstanding friend of the family. In her gratitude, and with full understanding of the man’s virtues, she marries him.”

“Now that,” replied Lady Catherine, with a sharp nod, “appears to be a sound tale. How are the moral lessons portrayed?”

“Most amusingly,” said her niece, sitting up in her chair. “The young heroine attempts to arrange a marriage for her friend, with disastrous consequences. The hero shows her the errors of her schemes.”

“Quite right. An unmarried woman should not attempt to settle such affairs on her own. Once she is married, however, such activity is rightly within her purview.”

“And then,” said Jane, “she speaks sharply to a poor and garrulous woman in the village and is rebuked by the hero for her behavior.”

“Quite ridiculous. A gentlewoman is privileged to speak as she pleases to the poorer classes, without the interference of anyone, man or woman. I cannot countenance any further discussion of this ‘lady’ author.” Lady Catherine rang for tea. “I trust that you will refrain in the future from reading fiction with such subversive intent. Please take this copy of Fordyce’s
Sermons
, wherein you will learn the proper ordering of society.”