When a Rake Falls (17 page)

Mr. Mountfloy leaped to his feet. “This young man here obviously lacks the seriousness required to present such important information. I say we—”

His aeronaut stood to face her father. “Lord Boyce has a firm grasp upon the facts, and since he has never spoken publicly before, any hesitation on his part is likely due to lack of practice before a real audience. Let him finish, please.”

Boyce beamed at Eve.
Bless
his
aeronaut
. For the required tone of utter seriousness, he must now alter his strategy and resume his speech with the same solemnity Vicar Wigby used when he mentioned the local Quakers. “Right, here goes. The barometer, hygro…I mean several o-meters read thirty-four and sixty. The parhelia, or two mock suns, danced…appeared in an immense halo. These were first seen at half past seven in the evening, when the sun kissed…touched the horizon. The halo's two Brobdingnagian…” He glanced over to Eve to find her brows knit.
Right, no waxing lyrical.
He must be ruthless and avoid all those frowns by not using pesky adjectives. He never realized how a little thing like an adjective could be so dangerous to a fellow. “The halo's two giant…large arcs of light spread vertical in relation to the majestic…magnificent…the real sun.” He needed to take a deep breath.

His audience watched him intently; two housemaids wore silly smiles.

“The enorm…plain arcs were measured with a sextant and discovered to be just shy of twenty-four degrees. The halo arcs were red on the side closest to the real sun and blue-green on the farthest side. In the center of each arc shone a mock sun, perpendicular to the arcs of the halo. The two mock suns appeared within fleecy cotton…white Cirrostratus clouds, ninety degrees from the real sun. They were almost round and orange in color when at their brightest. The real sun measured twenty-two degrees in altitude. The parhelia lasted forty minutes and changed in intensity before fading away into an extremely delightful…an extreme evening. There, I'm finished with the science part of my speech.”

Eve focused on her lap, but he held the attention of the other members of his audience. Perhaps he might, for the benefit of this audience only, express what this balloon flight meant to him and how it had changed his outlook on life forever.

“Before I finish, there are a few observations about balloon flight I would like to tell you about.” He took a deep breath. “I had always gazed up at balloons and wondered if our world would appear changed when viewed from above. But our world below appeared as I would have expected—roads, woods, and cities spread out in the fashion of a chessboard. The most notable parts of our everyday life that caught my attention were the sounds reaching my ears, the racket of dogs barking and bells ringing. Even the odors we create, like cattle fields and chimney smoke, rose up to us in the balloon. Now after my flight, it is not our world on the ground from another viewpoint that amazed me, but the brilliance of the universe above us that took my breath away. I got the impression of being lifted into the heavens and my worldly cares remained earthbound. High in the sky, I felt total freedom. Hanging suspended hundreds of feet in the air, I could not hear painful words or the sounds of mankind's suffering. I became embraced by a feeling of total happiness and will always remember my flight as one of the greatest moments in my life. This memory I will cherish close to my heart until the day I die. Thank you for your attention.” He made a brief bow then studied his audience.

Most of them clapped rather randomly.

Lydia and Lady Buxton clapped with enthusiasm.

Eve clapped slowly, wearing a troubled brow and biting her lower lip.

His father's expression looked exactly similar to the one he wore immediately before giving Boyce the cut direct.

Another
failure, in front of his father too
. He sighed and stared at his feet to regain his composure without witnessing everyone's disappointment. Regardless of his negative reception, he believed the science part of his speech went quite well. Eve should have no complaints. With a little more practice, his speech would be as bright as a penny. Granted, at the beginning, in a moment of unbridled enthusiasm, he had burst out with the “inky vault” bit, and there was one time when he got an “o-meter” wrong. Thermo, hydro, baro—they all sound the same. He also forgot to mention the temperature and something else measured by whalebone instruments. However, he did remember all of the other tricky parts, even the twenty-two degrees—the most important information in his speech. In the end, he hoped his audience came away with a better understanding of the excitement of newfound discoveries and the poetry expressed in the sky above us every day.

Mr. Mountfloy rose and turned to address the others. “I refuse to let this man ruin all of our reputations. His mind is too unfocused for serious study. Hysterical ascents, fleecy cotton clouds, irrelevant nonsense—”

“Father, please.”

“That is the second time you have interrupted me, my girl.”

The marquess stood, his consequence providing unspoken gravitas. “My son has disappointed me in the past. His efforts seem to do nothing but bring embarrassment to our family name. We do not need additional shame created by a botched speech before England's brightest men of science. The failure would create a scandal equal to his lurid books. I forbid him to speak to any institution until he has more practice. Then, perhaps, he might be able to present a responsible speech that would be considered adequate.”

After his father's censure, Eve was his last hope of someone who would defend and support him.

He stared at his aeronaut, but she remained silent.

Mr. Mountfloy almost yelled, “It's clear he possesses almost no significant knowledge on the subject whatsoever. In fact, I strongly believe that, if asked a question, he would not be able to give a coherent response. He'd likely wave his hand, twaddle on about inky vaults, and end the answer with bad poetry or a lamentable simile. ‘Freedom from words that hurt,' no sane person could understand the meaning of that phrase.”

Eve glanced at her father. “We cannot take the risk of letting him present our data in a speech like the one we have just heard, since any failure before a learned institution might end funding for our research forever.” She glanced at Parker. “I had previously warned Lord Boyce on the seriousness of the matter, but he did not follow my advice, so he might not follow it again in the future.”

The coup de grâce delivered by Eve herself. Boyce swallowed with difficulty. No one truly understood him. He firmly believed that every human accomplishment contained some poetry. His audience even failed to realize that all “bad poetry” sprang from intense, poorly expressed emotions.
How
can
they
condemn
emotions?
For the first time, he questioned his ability to pull off an acceptable scientific speech. Perhaps if he tried again, he'd be publicly mocked, as he had been too many times before.

Lady Buxton slapped her fan shut and stood. “I've had the good fortune to attend many scientific speeches. However, none of them proved as interesting and enjoyable as the one delivered here tonight. I shall seek out my old friends from the Royal Institution and relay the importance of this discovery. Well done, young man. You accomplished one of the most difficult balancing acts of speaking before an audience, the balance of learning something new, coupled with the amusement of wit and poetry. I must say, I was not bored in the least. With a little coaching and assistance from Miss Mountfloy here”—she gave Eve a nod—“Boyce's speech will be even better.”

He smiled at Lady B. and took a small measure of pride from her support. He had to; it was all he would receive, apparently.

Eve fussed in her chair, then gave an almost imperceptible sigh. “If it would please you, your ladyship, I will assist Lord Parker in preparing the speech again. He did have a fine grip on some of the important scientific parts, and with more coaching on removing the subjective parts of his speech, he might be a success. But—”

“I disagree,” Mr. Henry said with a tone of terse finality. “This wastrel will never do. Lacking the seriousness and rigor of mind needed for a gentleman of science, he will embarrass and bring ruin to us all. I have no intention of letting my good name be associated with this hulver-headed poet.”

Boyce spoke before he could check himself. “That's a bouncer coming from a man who embarrassed himself by stealing the
Results
book.”

“The praise falls upon the servants who searched the woods,” the marquess said, in a clipped voice. “I had hoped you learned a lesson from your previous boasts.”

Boyce froze, pained by his rash claim. “Please forgive me. Neither Mr. Henry nor myself found the book. My father is right. The priory's servants deserve the credit.”

“Enough!” Turning to address his daughter, Mr. Mountfloy said, “You will coach your fiancé, Charles Henry, to give the parhelia speech instead. That way, we can depend on an accurate representation of the data.”

“Father!” Eve jumped out of her chair. “You promised to let me announce my engagement.”

Mr. Mountfloy ignored his daughter's stricken expression. “You should only be concerned about the advancement of your future husband.” He turned to the wide-eyed, startled audience. “While we planned to announce the official engagement before we left, my daughter has formally accepted the hand of Mr. Charles Henry. I hope you will all join me in wishing the couple happy.”

Eve hung her head on her chest, as though her spine had turned into aspic. After a single wipe of her eyes, she ran from the room.

Boyce's legs felt wobbly, but that was nothing compared to the feeling of Gentleman Jackson delivering a full blow to his stomach. He focused on the coat of arms again and on the armorial greyhound supporters. He no longer felt rampant by any means. The pain in his torso reminded him of one of those armorial half animals, the kind with the bottom part of their bodies cut away and missing.
Demi
was the preface to the word they used in heraldry. That described him perfectly, a demi-greyhound, suffering from the loss of his lower half. His armorial motto sealed forever: “Piglet Parker.”

Eve flung open the door and ran from the recital room. Tears blurred her vision, causing her to bump into a table in the vestibule, upsetting a china vase of yellow roses. Fearing additional damage to the priory if she remained, she fled outside, heading toward the fields. She ran as fast as she could on the longest stretch of pathway she could find. Her heart physically hurt. Like some wounded animal, she needed time alone to heal; time to try and understand why Parker had disobeyed her wishes; but most of all, time to find the understanding behind her father breaking his promise and announcing her betrothal.

Her vision eventually cleared, and she found herself breathing hard, standing on the path to the turnip field. She thought she heard rapid footsteps behind her, but when she glanced around, nobody appeared. Desperate to be alone, she ran toward the stand of trees marking the beginning of the woods. She stepped about twenty feet into the cool canopy of trees and stopped, not wanting to repeat the calamity of becoming lost. All around her stood dense woods. On her right, the gold earthen pathway, bathed in sunlight, provided her with an anchor to the outside world.

She found a flat area of fallen leaves. Then with the intention to escape the damp earth, she tried to break off a large fern to sit upon. The prickly stem failed to break, so she repeatedly twisted it. This effort failed too. After a long glare at the evil frond, she stomped on the large leaf until it lay flat. Surprisingly, the exertion left her feeling relieved. She took a deep breath, sat carefully, and exhaled slowly.

She
needed
to
think—think—not feel
. In the last few days, she had been beguiled by pretty gowns and happy thoughts of a blissful life with the man she loved. Yes, she had come to realize that she loved Parker. And the heart is not an organ that can be easily silenced once given free rein. Hers seemed to be speaking louder than ever this past week. For her own future happiness, she had to ignore these enchanting feelings, be ruthless, and only think. Somehow, someway, she had to forget Parker—consider her allegiance to her father's needs, not hers. She had to decide upon real, achievable choices from now on. Either marry Charles Henry or become a governess or companion. Perhaps Lady Buxton required a companion? No, she dismissed that thought, because it did not solve the problem of her father's constant need for research funding and failing eyesight.

“Yes, yes, hiding from us all. Don't blame you myself.” Ten feet to her side, Parker stood, illuminated by the sunshine, both hands on his hips. He appeared to be breathing hard. “I need to hide too. May I join you?”

Like most women, she suffered from being overly polite. No, she didn't want his company, but she couldn't be cruel enough to tell him to go away. His presence would only upset her sense of balance. She'd end up fighting her own feelings as he tried to talk her out of marriage to Charles Henry. “How did you know where to find me?”

“I saw you run in this direction.” A tentative grin crossed his masculine face. With long strides, he stepped over several shrubs until her reached her side. “I also know you have a fondness for hugging trees when you are in difficulty.”

The unseen hand squeezing her heart released its grip a little.

He easily pulled and arranged several large fern leaves before sitting opposite her, face to face. His long, elegant legs in gleaming black top boots stretched along her side. He bit his lower lip, perhaps hesitant to speak first.

She welcomed the silence, since she had no desire to speak either. She needed time and solace to allow her brains to take charge. The minutes of silence stretched. She picked up a fern, kept her head down, and started pulling small bits of the fronds off, trying to formulate the words to kindly ask him to leave.

Finally, he scooted closer and reached for her hand to stop the frond's destruction.

The touch of his warm hand melted the immediate worries clouding her mind. She took another long, deep breath, realizing she welcomed his touch.

He squeezed her hand softly. “That's better, more like my fearless aeronaut.”

While her anxieties had lessened, she still had nothing of importance to say. Or if she did, she could not summon the words.

He filled the silence first. “I apologize that my speech let you down. Buxton asked to hear about my adventures, so I attempted to please him, but that was a mistake. I truly planned to withhold the subjective parts when I presented it before the Royal Institute.” He paused.

“I'm sorry my criticism was so harsh,” she said. “You presented the data rather well for a beginner. And I really shouldn't blame you for the desire to please your audience.” She lapsed into silence.

He took the hint and carried on the conversation by himself. “Created quite a rumpus with our fathers and Mr. Henry. I guess fleecy cotton clouds is not appropriate scientific terminology.”

This time an audible chuckle escaped her.

“Yes, yes, you sound much better. I enjoy your laughter; you don't do enough of it.”

She grinned wistfully. “I should have expected you to embellish your speech a little, but emotional descriptions would never do in front of a scientific audience. Still, you actually did remember most of the scientific details, so I guess my anger was unjustified.”

He grinned.

“I said
most
of the details. Several important facts like the hygrometer readings were omitted. I cannot say my attempt would be any better.” She smiled. “Perhaps I would mention less ink and fleecy cotton.”

“Thank you,” he said softly, squeezing her hand again. “Seems Lydia insists on your party's removal again. Do you want me to smooth the waters?”

“Thank you, no. It's just as well we are on our way back to London.”

“I'm on my way too. Pater brought my horse, Charity, with him. I plan to head for Dover immediately. Only after your party leaves, of course. I cannot bear the thought of facing him ever again without some grand accomplishment. Besides, if I return with him, he might insist I help run the estate or do some other occupation under his eagle eye. I like the publishing business and have plans to continue editing and composing. My efforts also benefit my brother, and there is nothing like entertaining, informing, and amusing people. You know, lighten a mood with a song or two. So once I arrive at Dover, I'll continue my journey to Paris, ready to tell my amazing story.” He smiled and nodded.

His obvious relief, brought on by the thought of victory, spurred a question she had always wanted to ask. “Tell me, I understand at the beginning how important it was for you to win the earl's race. Once we discovered the parhelia, the goal of winning was replaced by speaking before a learned institution. So it is clear that gaining your father's respect is important to you, but I do not fully understand why. He obviously cares for you; otherwise, he would not be here. Most of us get horrid nicknames when young, so I don't understand why your unfortunate moniker drives you to seek fame. Lydia told me something went wrong in a piglet race, but she didn't know the details. Just why, then, do so many people remember Piglet Parker?”

He remained silent for a minute or two, looking in the direction of the golden sunlit field. He sighed deeply. “It was meant to be a lark—a piglet race to amuse my sisters-in-law, nephews, and nieces.” His smile returned. “With seven older brothers, I'm a wealthy man in the nieces and nephews business. Anyhow, everyone enjoyed a pleasant day in the park. The piglets squealed as they raced around a small circle lined with bales of hay. The ladies clapped and the children seemed to squeal as loudly as the piglets.” He started to pluck a frond to pieces. “Then one piglet escaped the hay wall. His tiny hoof slashed the leg of an eight-year-old boy who happened to be watching with his mother.” He looked directly at her and shook his head. “You would not believe the amount of blood.”

She nodded, biting the corner of her upper lip. “Yes, I can. Hooves are quite sharp.”

“Thank heavens, my brother Richard was there. He's a war hero, fought the Americans in New Orleans, then in a blink, found himself at Waterloo, imagine that. Richard knew precisely what to do. Stopped the bleeding in no time.”

She exhaled. “What happened to the boy?”

He gave her a radiant, broad smile. “Small scar on his leg, but I think his mother is permanently scarred the most. She lost her husband in the war and Alfred is all she has. I've called upon him every year since the accident. We go boxing or fishing or whatever masculine pursuit he chooses. Of course, I keep him away from all hooves. Sometimes Richard comes along too. Alfred has heartily forgiven me by now, but his mother always sends a footman along. I don't think she'll ever forgive me. Yes, yes, I suppose I don't blame her.”

“So that's the reason you're called Piglet Parker and the trouble started with your father.”

His smile evaporated. “You're right, that's how I got the nickname and when my troubles began.” He appeared crestfallen.

She reached out to cover his hand with hers. They both moved at the same time to sit closer, side by side, still holding hands. She dropped her head on his broad shoulder; no feeling could ever soothe her more.

“Before the race, he wrote off my peccadilloes to youthful high spirits, but the piglet race changed his mind. I instantly became the new black sheep of the family, the one to watch, the one most likely to bring shame to the family name.” He lowered his head to rest on hers. “Then three years ago, I talked two of my friends into writing a lighthearted, satirical book for my brother's publishing firm—on a lark, you understand. The book's called
The
Rake's Handbook: Including Field Guide
. It became an immediate bestseller, and my brother was quite pleased with the profits. But when my father came down on his yearly visit into town and walked into our club, one of his friends read aloud a colorful passage from the handbook. My father's face turned as red as a radish and…” He sighed, caught her gaze, and paused. “Right then and there, in our club, in front of all of London, my father—
my
father
—gave me the cut direct.” He stopped speaking. Wrapping his arms tight around her, he dropped his chin on the top of her head. “He failed to acknowledge me, turned his back to me, and walked away. My father.” He choked on a word. “Walked away.”

Both his pain and his warm breath against her forehead were palpable. “So your dream is to make him proud of you once again.”

She felt him nod, and they lapsed into silence.

“We have a lot in common then, because I too have a similar dream,” she said softly. “My father does not believe women have the rigor of mind for science. He believes that women who hope to contribute to knowledge are wasting their time and effort. And the only proper employment for a female of intelligence is to run a household well. He accepts my efforts only because my brother died and he could find no one else to assist him without pay. But even my accomplishments these past years have failed to change his mind. To him, I'm just an extra pair of hands he orders about.”

He nodded.

“Just now, when I saw you up on the podium, I realized that I too desired nothing more than the chance to prove myself, prove my worth before an audience, prove that women can contribute to society in many ways. Maybe even change my father's mind with respect to female capabilities and force him to realize both men and women can contribute to the betterment of mankind. It sounds silly, doesn't it?”

“No, perfectly reasonable.” He lifted his head and gave her a light kiss on the cheek. “I've never heard of a proper lady speaking about science before an audience.” He chuckled. “Bet that would make all of London's tongues wag.”

“Normally in front of an audience, females are only allowed to sing or play the pianoforte, and many do it well. Perhaps a few other accomplishments, but our dreams are limited to that.”

“If you spoke in front of the Royal Society, I'll wager it would create a huge scandal, what?”

“Yes, but if our paper is accepted, you will have to give the speech, I suppose.

He paused, raised his head, and widened his eyes. “Your name is Eve.”

She turned her head to look directly at him. “I don't understand.”

“Eve! Your name is Eve. You know, Adam and Eve.”

Smiling, she glanced around them. “And we are in a garden too, but I have no apple to tempt you with and get us evicted from Eden.”

He focused on her mouth. “I wouldn't go that far.”

“Pardon?”

He enclosed her in a full embrace. “No more lessons, no more kittens, no more innocence. Do you fully understand the consequences of marriage to Mr. Henry? You will be transferred from being your father's servant to your husband's. Any hope that you would be recognized for your efforts to contribute to humanity would be lost. Or even worse, claimed by Mr. Henry in the same manner he claimed his discovery of the
Results
book.” He lowered his head. “You lack understanding of the role you will have to play every day.” He kissed her. No glancing peck this time but a full kiss.

Like every time they had kissed before, she started to analyze the touch of his warm, moist lips and the heat created by their movement. But this time, she successfully stopped herself from the restrictions of logical analysis and gave her heart free rein to feel. She let go. She let her heart feel the languid joy of his kiss, feel the unusual but not unwelcome messages sent throughout her body—feel the supreme sense of well-being, silent comfort, and her sense of a growing, pleasant urgency.

They gradually leaned back onto the greenery, the leaves cooling her warm cheeks. The delicious kiss lingered and teased and quickened and slowed.

Her kisses expressed what he meant to her, that she loved him. Did he understand this message?