The Manners of Gentlemen

by idleflower

Summary:

There are a great many wrongs in the world. It falls to a woman to set things right.

Notes:

• For sigaloenta.

Chapter 1: Anne

The woman waiting in the small room was not a beauty, though she might have been pleasant-looking in happier times. It was charity that clothed her now. Her gown was a coarse grogram which could hold its shape even under great mistreatment, insisting to the eye that the wearer was the wrong size rather than the dress. Her hair was tucked modestly out of sight beneath a dingy bonnet, and the few strands that escaped were limp and colorless. Her thin cheeks whispered that she had neither eaten nor slept well for some time, and yet there was a hint of roundness in the way her woman-shape pressed against the confining fabric which might suggest something of the story that had brought her to this place. Still, though she was not beautiful and no longer possessed the glow of an innocent child, she was not ill-featured. Ordinary. An ordinary woman, unremarkable save to those who knew her well, and one whose smiling face might bring warmth to her family and loved ones, when she had occasion to share it.

She was not smiling now.

When the door opened, the occupant rose immediately to her feet, a flush of anticipation across her cheeks. "May God bless you, my lady, for your - " she began, and then her voice slowed, the fierce light in her eyes diminishing. "Your great kindness in visiting us here," she finished, with less conviction, and lowered her gaze.

The warden at the door cleared her throat. "My lady, this is Helena Barstowe, of whom you expressed some interest. Barstowe, this is Mistress Anne Wildairs."

"I am honored, madam," said the unfortunate Helena, and bobbed a curtsey.

She who had been named as Anne Wildairs was clearly a gentlewoman, dressed in a robe à l'anglaise with wide skirts and patterned silk, though of a modest cut and color. Her face and hands were thinner even than the cell's occupant, though her skin was soft and unmarked by labour. The only color in her face was that of her natural complexion, unfashionably olive, and her eyes were dull and soft. She stood with her shoulders slightly hunched, and her words to the warden seemed more a suggestion than a command. "Please, leave us now."

"As you wish, my lady."

The warden's heavy bootsteps receded, and Anne inclined her head. "Let us sit and talk for a while."

"I - Yes. Thank you. You're very kind. I mean, I'm grateful." Helena pressed her lips together to cut off the flow of words, and lowered herself back into her chair, watching to ensure that her benefactress was not displeased.

Anne folded her hands in her lap. "You have heard whispers, haven't you? You have heard of the great duchess who shines like a goddess, a woman who is almost as generous as she is beautiful, and one who walks among the fallen seeking for lost souls she can lift up. You are disappointed to find that it is only me here with you, aren't you?"

"Oh, my lady - "

Anne's plain and simple face twinkled with unexpected mirth. "Come now, Miss Barstowe. We must be honest with each other, or there is no point in this visit."

Helena sighed, and looked away. "I, of all people, should have known how tales grow in the telling. Fantasies and promises shine bright as stars, but in the light of day, they're gone to nothing." She raised her head, eyes pleading. "But I am grateful beyond words that you would come to me, madam, even if you are not the sainted duchess of legend. I should have known she did not exist."

"She exists," said Anne, and her smile grew even brighter. "She is my sister, her Grace the Duchess of Osmonde, and if you have heard that she has more height and strength than many men, while still the slender figure of a young woman, it is no more than the truth. Her hands are open, and she has ventured into many dark places to bring comfort to the poor and needy. And if she is not here now, it is because she is engaged in good works elsewhere, and has sent me in her stead to be her second pair of hands."

"Ahh," sighed Helena, and passed her hand over her eyes. "Then, for her Grace, I am sorry I doubted. But it might be the better she's not here. Them such as me don't deserve her attentions, after what I've done." Her hand slipped down to rest atop the slight curve of her belly.

"You have sinned," Anne stated as a fact. The other woman nodded. "You have committed fornication."

"That, and worse," she agreed. "Lies. Betrayal. Things which cannot be forgiven."

A pause. "Terrible circumstances sometimes breed terrible acts by necessity. But they can be forgiven, redeemed - "

"If I'd not forgive the one who betrayed me, what forgiveness can there be for my own betrayal?" Helena said, her voice harsh.

"Tell me your tale," Anne prompted. "Where do you come from, and how did you find yourself here?"

Helena sighed. "My name, you know. Born to a common family and bound to service young. Worked belowstairs at a fine house, and moved up from the scullery when my years advanced. 'Twas not an easy life, but neither were it too much to bear. I had my work, and none were cruel to me so long as the work was done. I got no wages, save the chance of vails, but room and board and good clothing on Boxing Day. It was a good position, but there seemed no chance of any change in my fortunes."

"And you wanted something more?"

"A home. A family. Children. Companionship. There's little enough time e'en for fellow-feeling, in service, but I had no savings to pay my way to a better place." Her face soured. "Was offered coin, once or twice, for a gentleman's entertainment, but I didn't take it. I didn't!"

"Others have made that choice, to survive," murmured Anne.

Her head hung. "Aye. And I'd been pressed, I might do no diffferent. But I had a place, a good place, and I weren't greedy, madam. A coin or two, that was no temptation. Only love - the more fool I."

"A gentleman?" Anne pressed. It was a familiar tale. Many young women were ruined by men of supposed good breeding who thought nothing of discarding them afterwards.

"Nowt of the sort, not as I knew him. An 'honest servant', he said. Worked at the Hare and Hounds, a coaching inn on the road to Essex, where we stopped when traveling." She wrung her hands. "I went along to tend my lady's laundry, you see, when she went to visit her cousins in the countryside. We were always a large party because the roads can be unsafe through the forests, and we would stop at the inn for fresh food and to rest the horses. I would have to wait with the baggage, and he came to see the horses, and smiled at me. Called me by name. He remembered me, you see, even before I took notice of him."

Anne, who had herself once been amazed that anyone might take the time to know and remember her name, nodded.

Her workworn fingers picked at the fabric of her cuffs now, rubbing and rolling. "He wooed me, then. Filled my head. Said he was saving his wages, said we could go off to a village and marry there, settle in a cottage, nothing grand, but a roof of our own. Servants in the house I served weren't allowed to marry, you see, and I weren't sure what would happen if I tried to give notice. He told me that we should elope in secret, ride off to some far place where no one knew us. He said he had a friend with the use of a horse. It sounded romantic. All I had to do was send word of a time when few would be in residence at the house, so there would be no pursuit, and then open the door to him when he came." Her fists clenched. "He lied. He lied!"

"He did not come for you?"

"Aye, he came, but not alone," Helena said. "Came with a horse and a cart and a companion with crates and sacks to plunder the house! And 'twas I who had unlocked the doors, I who had chosen the time, I who had arranged for others to be away or deep asleep so that none would see my departure. I betrayed my post, and my 'sweetheart' and his brother robbed my masters, took whatever they wanted - and took me as well, carried me off as a lark and a trophy. I could not stop them. I could only submit. What else could I do?"

Anne's mild face betrayed little. "You might have fought. In a moment of desperation, some have found great strength granted to them."

"Against two men, and them seasoned robbers?" Helena shook her head. "I might have screamed to wake the house, and hope they didn't quite kill me 'fore the alarm was raised. But then I still might be hanged as an accomplice. Even if the mistress took pity and gave me mercy, I would be sent away without references, and how would I find another place? How would I deserve one? It was too late. I was a traitor without virtue. I saw no hope for me."

"How did you find yourself here?"

Her head hung, now, but her back remained straight. "I went away with my false sweetheart, believing I was his. I gave myself to him. I tried to make myself a wife to him. Cleaned his lodgings, warmed his bed, served drinks to him and his friends as they boasted of all they had robbed on the roads. I amused him for a while. But the banns were never posted, and when I found there would be a child, he turned me out." Helena's lips pursed as if she were preparing to spit, but perhaps in deference to her gentle guest, she subsided. "It did not take a gentleman to ruin me. But you see, I do not deserve aid, because I am a traitor and a fool."

"Why did you wish to meet with her Grace, then, if not to beg her aid?" asked Anne. "What did you hope for?"

"I wished, most of all, to tell someone the truth, madam," Helena admitted. "Especially to a woman of good breeding, like the mistress I betrayed. I wanted to tell my story, the good and the bad of it. I didn't mean harm, but I brought harm nonetheless. I have done wrong, and should be punished. But this baby, if it is born, is an innocent still, and I must protect it."

"Confession brings blessings to the soul," said Anne, and her eyelids lowered.

She sat a full minute in silent contemplation, while Helena watched and wondered if her visitor might perhaps be falling asleep on the spot. Nothing and no one disturbed them. There was only the room, and the quiet, and the chill of the floor against her feet. Eventually, Helena saw that Anne's lips were moving, shaping words that made no sound. Was she praying? Speaking to someone who was not present?

At last, Anne's eyes opened. "There are other blessings in life," she said. "I must summon my sister."

Chapter 2: Clorinda

The party which set out through the woods of Essex was not large. There was the carriage, of course, elegantly decorated and laden with chests and baggage. A noblewoman simply could not travel without carrying a sizable wardrobe, as entertaining or being entertained would require multiple changes per day. Therefore, the carriage and its burdens.

A carriage required horses: four, in this case, a matched team of dark bays whose glossy coats were completely unmarked by white. Wild spirit, while desirable in many a gentleman's favorite hunter, would not be desirable in horses who were required to work closely and patiently together. Still, their eyes were bright and their hooves lively, not the plodding beasts found dragging cabs around London. This was horseflesh in its prime.

Horses, then, required a coachman to direct them. This one was an elderly specimen, short and slight with a worn face and powdered white hair pulled back in a queue. He balanced the reins confidently in his gloved hands, no doubt relying on experience and charisma rather than brute strength to control their journey.

A carriage with gentle passengers required a footman to denote status and to open doors for those within. This one was young, with the look of a gangly youth still about him, and a wig that seemed it must have been inherited from some previous position-holder who had been in possession of a more bulbous head. Still, he was comely and long-legged, which made him an excellent ornament for an aristocrat's coach.

And what of the passengers? There were, it seemed, only two, three if one counted the infant. That child, too wrapped in long white gowns and blankets to reveal any hint of whom it favored, was held in the arms of a woman who might have been either a lady's maid or a poor relation. The difference, in some households, was not large; the role of companion was the best that many women of gentle birth who had neither fortune nor beauty could hope for. This woman, whatever her rank, shrank back into the shadows with the swaddled child clutched to her chest, whispering unheard reassurances.

However, there was no need for her to hide in order to escape notice, for her companion outshone her by such an order of magnitude that any observers could not tear their eyes away. Her skin was as cream, bringing a moonlight glimmer even into a darkened room. Her hair was as dark as a crow's wing, twisted in thick curls that it seemed might fall even to her feet if left unbound. Her eyes, like black sapphires, held stars within their depths. Her throat was long and fair, a silken cushion as rich as the diamond which adorned it. Her bosom was high and proud, exquisitely rounded, and yet it felt like a sacrilege to envision its charms too closely. Her dress of blue flowered satin and lace might be considered too fine for a cross-country carriage trip, but such porcelain limbs did not belong in stiffer traveling habits. Perhaps that need contributed to her sparse accompaniments; with so few companions, her attire was less likely to take damage from crushing.

Two women, an infant, a coachman, and a footman. Surely the smallest that a respectable party could possibly have been, and they traveled the swifter for it. This was the party of her Grace, the Duchess of Osmonde, once the Lady Dunstanwolde, once Mistress Clorinda Wildairs.

They came at length to the Hare and Hounds, an inn along the road where they stopped for refreshments. The women and their helpless infant were given the use of a private parlor, where they dined on roast goose with honeyed parsnips and pear tarts. The men, below, were given simpler fare: thick bread with soppings of beef and pints of small beer. The coachman took his meal and left without a word to tend to the horses and their tack, while the young footman remained to swap tales with the local servants. His master and mistress were the finest in all the land, save only for their blessed Majesties! So sumptuous an estate! So generous that even their lowest hangers-on lived in luxury! And those who listened nodded and smiled at his youthful enthusiasm.

After an hour's repose, the carriage door was once more held for the ladies to climb inside, and the journey resumed. The pace was slower, now. Perhaps the horses were unhappy about leaving the comfortable shelter of the inn. Perhaps the coachman had managed to obtain a sip of something stronger than beer, for there was something odd in his face. His hands were tighter on the reins now, his face greyer, but his eyes remained fixed straight ahead. The young footman perched comfortably on the back of the coach, as he was not needed to run ahead until they came nearer to town. Within the carriage itself, the companion leaned her head back, out of sight of the windows, in an afternoon drowse. Only the fine lady remained untouched by the change of time, still seated bright-eyed and upright, dress in perfect order, watching the trees slide past with every hoofbeat.

Hoofbeats! They came now, not the sound of the team, but harder, faster, sharper. Riders on intercept! An urgent message, sent by express?

Nay - but an urgent message indeed it was, for soon the dreadful words were shouted: "Stand and deliver!"

The trembling driver pulled back on the reins, any sound he made drowned out by the protests of the horses as they were brought to a halt. It fell to the footman to leap from the back of the coach, open hands outstretched, and plead, "Don't shoot! There are women in the coach!"

Highwaymen: two they were, each wearing that mockery of uniform that screamed brigand to all who saw it. A great coat, long and trimmed with brightly mismatched bobs that had been snatched as trophies from prior conquests. A cocked hat, three-cornered and made of wool felt. A scarf wound loosely around the man's lower face to disguise his features. And the pistols, boldly gleaming.

One drew forward and laughed in a voice that would have been a pleasant baritone had it not belonged to such a knave. "Aye, ladies and a little darling child, and not a guard in sight! We've no desire to harm a hair upon your heads, so long as you know your place! 'Tis your money we want and not your lives. Pass over your jewels and we'll be on our way."

A frightened sob came from within the carriage, quickly muffled into silence. The grand lady held out her arms to take the child, cradling the precious burden against her bodice.

The second highwayman spoke now. "Heard she's a rare beauty, too. Here! Footman! Get that door open and let us see what we've caught."

The first laughed. "That's right, come out and let us have a look at you!"

One of the horses snorted, pawing nervously. "It's all right, John," called the Duchess from within, and her voice did not quaver. "Let down the steps."

Quaking, the long youth set foot to ground and circled to the carriage door, Adam's-apple prominent with tension in his neck. He opened the door of the coach, and Clorinda stepped out, babe in arms. The sun shone down around her, reflecting halos from her diamonds. She was tall, as tall as many men, and absolutely unbowed even as her gown trailed around her. In that moment many might have sworn they saw the Blessed Virgin reflected before them.

"God be with you," she spoke in greeting, and, dazzled, the two highwaymen instinctively relaxed.

Then she dropped the empty linen wrappings and revealed the brace of pistols she held.

BANG!

A double thunderclap rang out, and the woman in the carriage screamed. Only the careful actions of the driver kept the horses from bolting.

Slowly, the bodies of two men slumped in their seats.

Clorinda allowed herself a moment to savor the triumph with a smile. But the day's work was not done. "Anne, dear," she called out. "Will you check that our visitors are no longer able to trouble us? Make them presentable, if you please."

The driver tied off the reins and rose - for that was Anne, her brown hair tied back and powdered, her unmemorable mien allowing her to pass without notice as a man of no importance in boots and breeches.

Clorinda herself stepped back into the carriage, laying her pistols at the feet of the wide-eyed Helena Barstowe, who struggled to bring herself out of the shadows and gaze at what had transpired. "By God..." Helena whispered.

"God has two hands," said Clorinda. "The right brings creation and lifts up the light. The left brings judgment and strikes down the dark." She held out a hand to help Helena to her feet. "Had they been brought to arrest, they would have been hanged."

Still pale and pregnant, Helena accepted the aid to disembark. "I would not have had the courage," she whispered.

"Not all have the same gifts," Clorinda admitted frankly. "But you were willing to take a risk to see justice done. Let that be a comfort." She looked over at her sister, received a nod, and continued. "Go and check, now, to be sure that our gambit has flushed the correct game."

"I know his voice," Helena said. "I know it was him."

"Still, go and see," said Clorinda. "Then you will know in your heart that you are free of him forever."

Anne had, by now, freed the riders from their stirrups and slapped the flanks of their horses, sending them loose down the road. She returned to Clorinda's side as Helena left it, stooping to gather up the wads of cloth which had masqueraded as a baby.

"I suppose we ought to carry the bodies off the road," Clorinda said. "Someone may come searching, once the horses are found."

"Oh, but not you," Anne insisted in her quiet voice. "Your fine dress might be spoiled. Let me help."

"You are too good to me, Anne," said the Duchess, smiling. "But you have never had the strength for such, and I am not afraid of hard work. John and I will manage."

"Yes, my lady!" said the young footman, staring in worshipful awe.

The inn was not so far away, and even if the riderless horses did not inspire onlookers, the road might bring other travelers across the heath at any time. Once Helena had verified that the fallen men were her previous sweetheart and his brother-in-arms, the bodies were dragged off the road and laid in the brush. Clorinda calmly collected their pistols, fired each one into the distance, and then dropped them beside the bodies. While a consulting detective might not believe the two men had shot each other, any constabulary happy to be rid of a few more 'gentlemen of the road' would likely accept the simplest possible explanation. Certainly, none would dare pursue a peer of the realm to demand answers.

The deed was done, and the journey resumed. Clorinda reached across the carriage to take Helena's hands in hers. "You have decisions to make," she said. "But not at once. You must be absolutely certain of what you want before any actions are taken."

Helena swallowed, thinking of what consequences a lack of certainty might have had earlier that day. "What are my options, my lady?"

"You are with child," Clorinda said, "and you have no husband to support you. You have also been trained in domestic service. If you wish, we can find a position for you at one of our estates. You would be treated like any other servant, and no one will ask questions about the father of your child. The assumption will be that you are a widow." It was not impossible for a widow to find another mate, even with a child. The Duke of Osmonde owned many properties, including country estates where the pace of life was slower and a young mother could find time to enjoy nature. "If you choose to leave us for another position, your reference would be based on your work for his Grace, not anything that has come before."

Helena nodded. "That is very generous, my lady."

"There is another option. A chance to leave your past behind entirely. If you do not wish to raise this child - if, perhaps, you are not prepared to handle the responsibility alone, or cannot bear to face the permanent reminder of the baby's father - then it could be arranged for the child to be raised elsewhere."

"What do you mean?"

"As, perhaps, our ward." Clorinda tapped a fan against the side wall of the carriage. "His Grace and I are very fond of children. We are eager for more. If the babe is healthy, we can raise it as our own."

Helena's eyes were wide. "My babe - and the Duke of Osmonde?"

"However, in such a case you would need to leave the child behind you, and give up all connection. We would provide you with money and goods and transport to a distant village, where you could begin a new life on your own terms. You would never know the child, nor it you. It is not an easy choice."

"But to be my own mistress! And it would be best for the babe - "

"A woman's heart is easily turned to tenderness," Clorinda said. "You may find it a price beyond bearing to give up your own child. You may find your thoughts dwelling on fonder memories of the father, now that he can no longer harm you. Many a woman forgives the blackguard who ruined her, in time."

"I would not!"

Clorinda turned her head aside. A murmur passed her lips, so quietly that Helena was not certain what she had heard.

"My lady?"

Whatever she had said, it was not repeated. "When we reach the house, one of the maids will show you around. You should not make your decision tonight. Choices that determine one's future entire are best not reached in haste."

"Yes, my lady." Helena looked down at her hands upon her lap.

Her Grace did not smile, though her voice was warm. "Be in comfort. You are alive and free, and the mistakes of your past redeemed. This is the path of righteousness."

Chapter 3: Epilogue

If the Duchess of Osmonde was one who stood out among her sex for her beauty, courage, and generosity, then perhaps it was no surprise that she was matched to a man who was equally exceptional. He had a high brow, a Greek nose, elegant cheekbones, and eyes that blazed sky-bright. His periwig was most artfully braided, riding high upon his narrow head, and woven of long hairs in the rare shade of platinum blond. The Duchess stood taller than many men; the Duke was taller still, with a willowy build despite his broad chest. His coats were richly embroidered and decorated with many honors. He was highly educated and tireless in the pursuit of knowledge. He was a known patron of literature, art, and science, and fine scholars and musicians were often to be found visiting his estates. His voice, said those few who had been privileged to hear him sing, was a melodious tenor. He had been a known favorite of the Queen.

In the years before his marriage he had been said to be the most magnificent gentleman in all of Europe, and yet no word of scandal could link his name to any woman, and he was rarely to be seen at any of the great balls of London in which matches were commonly made. Even when he could be drawn to such affairs, never had he shown any maiden special attention, much to the dismay of their mothers. It seemed that only a match of heaven-struck perfection could draw his eye.

And now, one had been found.

He caught her around the waist, pulling her in close to brush his lips against her neck. "Your dress smells of gunpowder," he whispered.

"And you adore it, my lord," Clorinda teased.

"I adore you."

"I know."

For a brief passage of time, their lips were too involved for further conversation.

After a moment, he pulled back, gazing down into her eyes. "Do you think that, this time...?"

"'Tis too soon to tell," she said. Her fingertips stroked along his cheek, that smooth and beautiful cheek that would never grow stubble; her skirts brushed those thighs that would never sire heirs. "But we will make our future, come what may."