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THE RITUALS OF ROMANCE

S arah Bentley left her friend’s house full of shock, bemusement, wonder, and another emotion—one so seldom experienced that it took her some moments to identify it.

Envy . She was envious of Lilly. Oh, she had always adored her, of course, but she had never envied her, regardless of the fact that Lilly was far prettier and wittier, more fashionable, more graceful, and infinitely more daring. Sarah had not needed to envy her in a life so full as her own.

She lived in London in a big old house called, foolishly, The Pillows, because of the twin white brick chimneys—Papa had them painted religiously every summer—perched against its topside like two fat cushions.

Papa was the younger brother of the Earl of Hampton, and still his heir.

Her uncle, the earl, had produced two daughters he doted upon, and was perfectly content that his title be passed along to Papa at some date well in the future.

Papa, in turn, hoped his brother retained the title as long as humanly possible.

It used to worry him, once upon a time, because management of the Hampton properties took a great deal of organisation and attention, none of which could be spared from his scientific studies.

But the birth of his son—Sarah’s younger brother, Percival, and the apple of her eye—nine years past had eased these concerns significantly, even as it had taken her dear Mama’s life.

And though the loss of Mama was tragic, and she missed her dearly, taking over the running of the household at the age of fourteen had formed her character. She could now take pride in a household expertly managed, confident her servants would never cheat her.

However, the earl had taken over Percy’s education this past year, lest Papa’s bent for the scholarly be allowed to bloom within his son, and the future of the earldom be neglected amidst dusty libraries and musty papers.

It was wonderful for young Percy, who adored his uncle, and riding magnificent horses across huge properties, and being spoiled and made much of by his elder cousins, both of whom were now happily married and producing grandchildren, much to the earl’s delight.

But it left a hole in Sarah’s soft heart.

She handed her wrap to Bertie, the shorter of the two footmen guarding the entryway.

Sarah knew the fashionable set liked their footmen to be handsome men of great height, perfectly matched, but she firmly held with giving her home’s best positions to the kindest servants, and those were seldom the tallest, handsomest ones.

Bertie, more freckle than face, would never be handsome, and she had had to change the colour of their livery when she promoted him, for the plum velvet uniforms of old clashed horribly with his red hair.

“Has Papa returned safely from the British Museum?” she asked.

Papa had been known to lose track of time, and once had actually been locked inside when it was shut up for the evening and no one noticed him.

She had spent a horridly anxious night, while he had come home the next morning not a bit worse for wear, chuckling at the whole episode and hoping aloud it would happen again.

“Oh, yes, miss. He’s in his book room. Hasn’t touched his tray yet, Mrs Figg says.”

Sarah sighed. “Thank you, Bertie. I shall see to it.”

She found her father, as expected, poring over a thick volume while his stew had gone cold. “Papa, you must eat! You promised you would not neglect your dinner if I went to Miss Goddard’s for the day.”

Wendell Bentley looked up, blinking as though he had just awakened. “Princess, you are home so soon! How do all your friends do?”

Flopping down in a somewhat inelegant manner, she sighed. “They do well enough. Except Lilly has a desperate tendre for Lord Saye, which worries me exceedingly. He is not always polite, if you take my meaning. I know enough of the world to never take safety for granted.”

Mr Bentley’s brow furrowed. “Saye, hmm. Matlock’s eldest? Aglais io , I believe. Not a predator. Matlock would not stand for him hurting females.”

Sarah giggled. “I wonder if Lord Saye would appreciate his comparison to a peacock butterfly?” It was what she liked best about Papa. Having little idea how to be a father, neither did he realise the numerous subjects he was not supposed to discuss with her.

Mrs Figg tapped on the door and was admitted, carrying a new tray with a steaming bowl. Adeptly, she exchanged it for the old one.

“See that he eats his stew, mistress. Cook will have his hide if she has to make him another, and it’s tired I am of hearing my own self speak as though I’m alone in the room,” she complained.

“I shall, Mrs Figg,” Sarah assured. The housekeeper was stick-thin with iron grey hair and a crusty disposition—and because the kindest servants were not always the pleasantest ones, Sarah paid little attention to her grumbling.

Mrs Figg was also her right hand when it came to overseeing Papa, and simply because she had been too busy to compel him to eat earlier did not mean she was incapable of managing him.

When the housekeeper was gone, Sarah enjoined, “Please, eat now, Papa, if you care for me at all, while I tell you all my troubles.”

Mr Bentley obligingly took a helping, smiling benignly.

“I want a mate.”

He choked a little, and Sarah was obliged to pound him on the back several times before he regained his composure.

“Perhaps you ought to tell this particular trouble to your aunt, Princess,” he said.

“I am no hand at selecting husbands. Too selfish. Would rather you stay at home, making my life comfortable.”

“Oh, no,” Sarah replied, settling back into her chair.

“Aunt would only set about resolving the issue, and I would have a line of suitors at my door within a fortnight. They would all be respectable men, reasonably handsome, but they would expect me to tidily fit within their list of expectations—and if I do not now, I should begin to do so. At once.”

“ Chrysis ruddii ,” he nodded.

She smiled again. “Cuckoo wasps, taking over the nests of the rightful inhabitants for their own mating purposes,” she agreed.

“I fear so. Lilly is in love with Lord Saye. I hope you are correct, and she is safe with him. It would be a better match than any of the Lymantria dispar constantly swarming around Georgette, making pests of themselves, while she is Hamearis Lucina —exotic, almost. But, I fear, most of the men I have met at parties, balls, and musicales are of Euphemia’s husband’s ilk.

Meloe aprilina . Bulbous abdomens from living off the hard work of bees. ”

“Grinding the faces of the poor?” Mr Bentley replied somewhat cryptically, but Sarah knew her Bible.

“Exactly. I did have a reasonably intelligent dinner conversation with Mr Balton-Sycke once, and I thought he might do. But he took one look at Lilly and was lost.”

Mr Bentley quickly took a large spoonful, presumably so he would not have to offer advice regarding Mr Balton-Sycke’s infatuation with Lilly.

“I do not mind it, I promise, and it seems a good match for both. Although I think, upon further observation, that he does not truly want Lilly. He wants the idea of Lilly— Colias croceus , pretty and golden—without ever considering her inner depths. And although he is such a lovely dancer, so light on his feet, I daresay a graceful manner is no more an indicator of a good husband than Lilly’s desire for an amusing one.

If only he was Maniola jurtina , because with an ability to survive and adapt anywhere, he could have potential for either of us.

But if she wants Aglais io , his cause is hopeless, and if he wants Colias croceus , mine is as well. ”

Sarah did not really have the entire insect world memorised. But she had discovered long ago that if she wished to have more than shallow conversations with her father, she would need to learn the language he spoke most fluently.

“I am pretty enough, really. But my figure is too generous, I cannot dance well, no matter how many masters you hire, and I have been told I have a rather odd taste in acceptable topics of conversation, especially at meals. On the other hand, my fortune is substantial, my virtue unblemished, and my lineage impeccable. All the good and all the bad seem to have cancelled each other out.”

Mr Bentley smiled fondly, finishing the last of his bowl. “You will find what is best for you, Princess. And your topics of conversation at dinner are superlative.”

Of course he would think so; she was not unconscious that her education had been a peculiar one. She sighed, gathering up his tray, and pecked him on the forehead before heading for the door.

She had every intention of invading Cook’s kitchen tonight.

What would it be, an apple tart or an almond cheese cake?

Or perhaps rice-flour pancakes. There was something so satisfying about having her hands amongst the butter, sugar, flour, and eggs, of the scent of baking wafting through the back parlours, of creating something covetous from simple ingredients.

It helped her think, and calm. And, since she always shared the bounty of her ovens with the entire household, no one minded her untidiness—she did not much care for cleaning up after herself.

Sarah was almost to the door when Papa’s voice stopped her.

“ Pyrochroa serraticornis larvae,” he said .

She turned to face him, a quizzical expression upon her face. “What?”

“ Pyrochroa serraticornis larvae are flat. Like Mr Balton-Sycke. He is flat, a fool.”

She beamed at her father. “Thank you, Papa,” she said, but his attention had already drifted back to the thick tome upon his desk, and he did not hear.

Colonel Richard Fitzwilliam left his brother and Darcy at the club, both almost too involved in schemes and plotting of this stupid house party notion to notice his departure. He had to pretend enthusiasm, of course, or be subjected to incessant teasing.