13. 1812 From Another Direction

13

1812 From Another Direction

A Beached Whale and Other Tales

Ballenger Estate, English Countryside

As the promise of the new year came upon them, scant days after the house party—the kiss—that threatened to alter her very existence, Aphrodite Primrose knew three things with utter certainty:

1. She was fortunate that the Christmas Incident, which is how she thought of it, had not jeopardized her livelihood. To her surprise, both Lord Ballenger and Lord Redford came to her defense. Lord Ballenger the following morning and Lord Redford, upon learning of the contretemps (through chatty, related butlers or some such), who had returned to Larchmont Hall posthaste, claiming the entire—inappropriate—event lay firmly at Lord Warrick’s door, and “most certainly not Miss Primrose’s”.

Emboldened by the unexpected support, Aphrodite nevertheless suspected it was more how she dealt with Harriet—not to mention the child’s threat of “dire mutiny” should they assign her yet another governess—that extended her employment. And if Aphrodite noticed Lady Ballenger eyeing her occasionally, with a slight pinch to her brow and sour pucker to her mouth? Well, ’twas likely no less than she deserved.

2. As the eventful year went on, Aphrodite became increasingly confident in herself and her comfortable position in such a pleasant household (discounting the occasional shrieks). Thus, she found her rigidly held wariness of men continued to mitigate. Along with a lessening of the constant tenseness with which she had become used to guarding her surroundings and safety, she slowly stopped trussing herself up so painfully tight every day. Had considered, though not yet acted upon, the notion of exchanging her heavy and uncomfortable garments—both inner and outer—for something less…restrictive… Mayhap even something slightly more becoming?

3. Though she valiantly tried to stifle her wayward thoughts, her mind—and other aspects—persisted on returning to a certain, totally indecorous, lord— and his lips . Blast him and his hold over her memories.

What she remained completely ignorant of was his fate, after their fateful encounter. She’d not seen him again. Had awoken to learn of his and Lord Frostwood’s precipitous departure. Of a certainty, she could not inquire. Could never inquire.

For after being caught in flagrante upon his lap, any curiosity must forever remain unquenched.

Drat.

All throughout February, Aphrodite remained exceedingly grateful she still had a generous position in a kind household. While she still bound her breasts, to minimize their unseemly size, she did so with a little less vigor. Laced her stays with a little more care. Could breathe easier as a result of both.

In March, her charge proved once again that while lines may work in helping curb Lady Harriet’s wayward behavior, they certainly did not stop it altogether.

Take Note—The Beached Whale Incident:

Aphrodite stood outside Lady Ballenger’s personal morning room (cluttered with a plethora of valued ephemera handed down from her mother and grandmother and the like), waiting until her charge was dismissed.

Though she could not, at this moment, see anything beyond the beach idyll framed on the wall opposite the door, she could hear every word…

Lady Ballenger huffed before she ranted anew. “Wilson might be losing his hair as he ages”—this sufficiently loud that now every individual within the manor walls knew about poor Wilson’s departing hair—“but one does not offer up in company that their family butler’s balding pate looks much like the underside of a piglet .”

“’Tis the truth, Mama. ’Twas not meant to hurt. I like piglets when they are small and adora?—”

“ Harriet Jane! ” Ah. There it was. For the fourth time this particular session: The Screech. “Nor does one state their father’s gaping belly resembles that of a beached whale!”

Aphrodite bit back a snicker. One of several since the utterance in question.

Lord Ballenger, not feeling all the thing, had lazed about in the gardens one pleasant afternoon, with tea and a volume on hunting. He’d had the misfortune to fall asleep whereupon his loosened clothing had gaped—er, edged—open to reveal the…um…pale, rounded belly now being compared to that possessed by its much larger mammalian brethren.

“But—”

“Nothing!” Screak number two. “But nothing ! How would you like it if Lady Fairfax or one of her impeccable-mannered daughters remarked how my youngest has the manners of a rantipolish chuff and the tact of an axe ? For that is what you do when you spout hurtful things without any consideration for anything other than hearing yourself speak!”

That ironic observation brought about another chuckle, barely suppressed.

“Mama, I do not mean to be vile or hurtful. Can I help it if words just venture forth quite before I know they are on their way?”

Dear Harri. The piglet and whale comments had resulted in two missed dinners and lines—assigned by her mother this time.

Eight hundred each:

I will not demean the servants by comparing them to farm animals.

and

Father is deserving of my respect and admiration, and I shall not compare his belly any part of his body to aquatic, airborne or beached creatures.

Seated at her desk, Harriet looked over her shoulder. “Does that mean I can disparage Papa’s belly with terr… Mmmm, terrer…”

With a sigh, Aphrodite stopped organizing the newest acquisition of books and learning materials and approached. She checked the watch dangling off the chain at her waist. Mmm. Harri had managed to remain mum for ninety seconds this time.

Leaning over to inspect the first few lines, Aphrodite grimaced. (Eleven of eight hundred? At this rate, they would be here all month). “We have barely begun and already you seek to delay and disassemble?”

Bright hazel, always mischievous, eyes slid over to hers as Harri grinned, mouth closed for once .

Aphrodite tapped the page. “Continue—and no, you may not compare your father, or any part of his anatomy, to ter restrial animals either.”

“Pity.” Harriet re-inked her quill. “Have you not noticed how his smile is similar to Jollyboy’s?”

“Harriet! Shame. Your father in no way resembles his favorite hound.” But then she considered the canine’s slightly off-tilted “grin”, with just the tip of his tongue hanging out. “All right. I concur. When Lord Ballenger is tickled. But never shall either of us speak or think of this again!”

Harriet turned back to her punishment and started humming a gay tune as her pen skipped across the page.

“And, dear,” Aphrodite said with her own self-satisfied smile and mischievous twinkle, “do not start feeling overly complacent, for when your lines are complete, you will be composing seven-hundred-word apologies to both your father and to Wilson.”

“Primmy!”

Several splotches of black ink marred the page after that.

In June, Lady Harriet had the pleasure of meeting her new music tutor. A pleasant gentleman, only a year or two older than Aphrodite.

While her charge embraced these new lessons with enthusiasm, Aphrodite feared the girl might never be inclined toward musical giftedness, as her mother fervently hoped. (“Something pleasingly temperate to counter your monstrous mouth,” Lady Ballenger had told her youngest.)

Mr. Matthew Phillips, whose musical gifts seemed boundless, proved both amiable and appealing in a fresh, unspoilt way and—to Aphrodite’s surprise—took a fancy to her. While the lean, sandy-haired gentleman remained in the area, instructing several of the nearby lords’ progeny (along with ongoing attempts to unearth a modicum of proficiency from the Larchmonts’ youngest), he continued to make his interest known.

So that by August, she agreed to step out in the gardens with him more than once—always remaining in sight of the house, aware of how vital maintaining propriety was (both for herself and ongoing employment, and as an example to her charge). Twice, they walked to the village, chaperoning Lady Harriet and one of her friends—and managed to brush hands, intentionally. Three times, they picnicked on the lawn, while Harriet gamboled about with any four-hooved, -pawed, -clawed—or any beaked—creature to be found. (Harriet, who shocked Aphrodite into the next shire upon proclaiming after one such excursion, “Oh, this small tear? Do not fret overmuch about that. I can repair it myself.”)

By the beginning of September Aphrodite decided to abandon her chest bindings and horribly heavy gowns altogether in favor of a new, appropriately fitted corset and medium-weight day dresses. (“Oh, my. Primmy! Who knew you could look like something other than stuffed-and-burnt duck? But must you still wear brown ? ’Tis quite tedious, I will have you know.”)

By the middle of October, Aphrodite and Mr. Phillips kissed. Four separate times.

Before the end of October, she wondered...

What if …?

Yet as November marched on, inexplicably toward the first anniversary of the season where so much—inside her—had changed, she could not help but pine for what might have been—with Mr. Phillips.

Why did she not hold more affection toward him?

You do. You like him.

She did, true.

You look forward to spending time with him. Until he touches you.

And there it was.

Affection and desire were two very, very different things she was discovering.

Liking and lust. Mayhap they did not always go together, even when one found the exterior pleasing and the interior kind.

But the tall, slender musician with the quick smile and clever manner did not cause her heart to race or her breath to quicken. The idea of exchanging kisses (which they had) or more than kisses (which they definitely had not) caused not a thrill in her breast, but instead…a chill to her chest.

For despite everything that was sensible and sane, ’twas not the musician’s fair face and courteous demeanor she thought of at night.

By all that was holy and horrid, ’twas the face of a devil, with, at turns, soulful and laughing eyes or cutting, tortured ones that proved her last awareness each night. ’Twas the deep and mocking rumble of playful—and lewd—remarks that danced through her dreams… (“Sit on my lap… Without clothes , Miss Primrose.”) ’Twas a strong yet weakened, ill-suited but suitably tempting, positively outrageous lord whose fading memory still managed to keep her warm at night that prevented Aphrodite from being able to contemplate more with the affable musician.

Bless that flirty fiend’s hide to France and back.

Nay!

Not back to France—or Spain or Portugal or any of a dozen or more unsafe places where life might deal him any more blows.

She wasn’t sure his ragged spirit could take any further strikes. For certain, his battered body could not.

By December, she knew. With utter certainty and disheartening conviction, Aphrodite knew.

“No matter how much I admire you,” she told Mr. Phillips, after he asked what she had both anticipated and dreaded—for her to consider resigning her post and accompanying him when he left, “and I do, it is with true regret that I confess I do not see any manner of future together.”

He gained his feet with grace, leaving the blanket where they, along with Harriet and her friend, had enjoyed a lengthy walk and picnic on this surprisingly warm day. The girls frolicked in sight, but far enough away they could not overhear, playing with a stray puppy that had sniffed out their meal of lamb and cheese and invited itself over.

Mr. Phillips stepped back, clasped his hands behind his waist and gave her a gracious nod and an even more polite smile—but she saw the hurt in his eyes. “Alas… It is my loss,” he began slowly and she felt core rotten for spoiling the afternoon. “If I were given over to carping, I could say I hope it is your regret, but?—”

“But we both know you are not that sort of fellow. The one to wish harm upon another.”

“No, I am not.” His jaw tightened and flexed as he glanced toward the girls before meeting her gaze again. “Though I will miss you, I confess I will not miss hearing Lady Harriet destruct music with so little effort.”

A sharp breeze swept between them, as though ready to usher him on his way. “I do wish you happiness,” she told him, surprised at the heaviness weighing her heart. She’d not expected her distress over saying goodbye. “I thank you for enlivening my summer and fall.” And in a blink, every moment they had spent together, his consideration, his kindnesses, the intelligent conversations and shared laughs swirled about her as well. “Oh, Matthew, I am sorry. If—if I could ? — ”

“You think I cannot tell?” He stepped closer, lowered his voice. And suddenly the look in his usually carefree eyes seemed both older and…desolate? Had he really cared for her that much? “I know you do not feel for me as a potential lover, as a potential wife should, even though I can envision it quite plainly. I knew I would berate myself if I did not inquire. It will be my regret, that I do not possess whatever you need to make your heart want to be mine, but that is the way of things, is it not? We chance across many people during our lifetimes, a few become special. A rare few, even special more.” The more he spoke, with civility and wisdom, the worse she felt. “But those we can see ourselves spending our lives with—joining our lives with? Those are even fewer still.”

The following morning, the talented Mr. Matthew Phillips collected his fee and prepared to take his leave once and for all, proclaiming his efforts with Lord and Lady Ballenger’s youngest had quite reached a standstill that even his lauded abilities could not overcome.

Mr. Phillips would be taking a stage to his next post, leaving Harriet nowhere near where her mother had aspired on the pianoforte or with anything else. He had, at least, managed to teach Harri how to read music and how to properly hold and handle several various instruments, but she never managed to coax anything halfway pleasing from a one of them. Aphrodite’s ears, of a certainty, were relieved to bid him adieu ; perhaps now Harriet’s pianoforte pounding, harpsichord flaying and woodwind screeching would come to a blessed halt.

Yet Mr. Phillips’s absence would be leaving the rest of her lingeringly sad…

For she had attempted to have warmer feelings toward him, had been flattered by his notice and grown more confident in herself as a result. But after the first kiss, she had questioned; after the third, suspected; and after the fourth had realized convincedly she could participate no more, for they left her unsmitten.

Unsmitten and—insanely—yearning for another pair of lips. Another sort of kiss.