Ch 1 cont. - Aldace at last

As he approached, Lady Adeline stood up, and her children followed her example. The gentleman spread his arms, widened his smile to show worn, yellowed teeth and said with great affability, 'My very dear Adeline! So you have come home to us at last, have you?' He embraced his sister as he spoke.

The lady was very touched at being welcomed where she had feared repulsion, and managed to utter chokingly, 'Oh John - how good you are,' before being obliged to search her reticule for her handkerchief.

Giving his sister an awkward little pat on her shoulder, he comforted her with a brusque, 'Well, well now,' and turned to face the younger members of the party. He sized Kit up at a glance and then turned his attention to Iphigenia, who curtsied modestly under the scrutiny. His teeth reappeared, and with bluff good-humour requested the pleasure of being presented to his sister's friends.

Handkerchief away, she replied with pride, 'These are my two youngest children, John. Mr Christopher Ffouldes and Miss Iphigenia Ffouldes. My eldest, Augden, is serving on the Continent in the Army of Occupation.'

Lord Wynleigh seemed interested at the information. 'Another military man in the family, eh? Although the navy will always have my preference, I think,' he added, in the nature of a joke, by which neither Kit nor Iphigenia were amused, but at which they found themselves politely grinning nonetheless.

His lordship extended a hand for Kit to shake, saying, 'A Ffouldes by name perhaps, but an Augden by countenance, sir! Pleased to meet you.' Kit mumbled something polite in return, and their uncle extended his hand to Iphigenia.

She was expecting a shake, but with an air of both playfulness and condescension, his lordship gave the hand a kiss in the manner that had been fashionable in his youth, and he made a bow as deep as his years and his groaning corsetry would allow.

Retaining her hand, he said, quizzingly, 'Ah but you are surely more a Helen to launch a thousand ships than an Iphigenia to be dedicated to virginity and sacrifice, my dear.'

Pleased with this effort, he stood looking at his niece, who briefly repeated her curtsy, and he smiled again, before making a great show of releasing Iphigenia's hand. 'You have a very fine daughter, there, Adeline. Very fine children,' he amended.

Lady Adeline was full of appreciation for this compliment. His lordship waved off her gratitude in what seemed to Kit a most proper way, and offered his arm to his sister. 'I was just entertaining a young friend of mine in my book room. I shall introduce him to you, and you will take refreshments.'

He began to lead the way back down the corridor from which he had originated, and the two younger members of the party followed. As Lord Wynleigh's attention was given in inconsequential chatter with Lady Adeline, Iphigenia and Kit were able to look around as they passed, and whisper between themselves.

With a low whistle of appreciation, Kit remarked, 'Never saw so many columns and pilasters and rubbish like that anywhere other than in illustrations in a Latin text from my school days! Someone must have been willing to drop the devil of a lot of blunt to bring this place up to scratch.'

Iphigenia smiled out of one corner of her mouth. 'Yes, I imagine they must have, but don't let Mama hear you using such vulgar expressions, whatever else you do!' As her brother rolled his eyes, she added with thought, 'I have no recollection of Mama describing Wynleigh as being decorated in the Classical style. I had somehow formed the impression that it was more a Jacobean place.' This last was almost a question.

Kit turned the matter over in his mind for a moment. 'You know, you're right. I think,' he added, uncertainly.

Iphigenia prompted him, 'Yes, yes I am, because don't you remember that story she was so fond of telling about that silly priests' hole in the dining room that her father had decided to use as his secret wine cellar because he suspected the butler of being secretly fond of imbibing?'

Recollection dawned. 'Oh yes, I do remember that! I also remember thinking that if that was what passed for a joke at Wynleigh then I was deucedly well pleased not to be expected to go there for my entertainment.' He thought a hideous thought. 'You don't suppose that with our grandfather dead the standards of fun here might have improved?'

Smiling and giving his shoulder a quick squeeze, Iphigenia replied consolingly, 'Considering all of that rot about me being "a Helen", I would advise you against raising your hopes, Kit.' He shook his head in thoughtful disbelief at what he envisioned befalling him. Iphigenia continued, 'Let's look on the bright side. If renovations have been made here at Wynleigh recently, perhaps our uncle has extended himself as far as his assets will allow, and mama will see little point in remaining long where there is nothing for her to gain.'

Shrewdly Kit rejoined, 'Or, more likely, our uncle has only spent a small part of his total fortune and our mother will not be happy until he has transferred a substantial part of the remainder into her keeping.'

Iphigenia was much struck by this perspective. However, her notions of proper sisterly guidance prompted her to say, 'Perhaps. But if you keep on talking in that vein, you will have everyone persuaded that our mother is some kind of Card Sharp.'

They had reached a doorway into which their uncle went, gesturing the rest of them to follow. As they entered the door, Kit hissed a last aside, 'Not a card one, I grant you. But our mother certainly ain't a flat!'

This obliged Iphigenia to exert a great deal of effort to appropriately school her features upon entry of the book room.

She glanced around and noticed that it was a snug little apartment, the walls lined with leather-bound volumes in their dustless shelves, some of the tomes beginning to crack and fray with age. The crimson-draped windows looked out over the park, and despite the sunlight streaming in, a branch of candles was lit on a small side table near a chaise-lounge and some easy chairs. She also noted that the table supported a decanter of wine that was all but empty and two glasses. Iphigenia congratulated herself on having taken her uncle's measure upon meeting him.

A small fire was alight in the grate and leaning one arm on the marble mantle and warming his feet one by one in their top boots was a tall gentleman, slender and broad shouldered, his back to the door. The new arrivals were afforded only a view of his thick, dark hair, pulled back and secured with a modest black lace, and of the good cut of his well-fitting dark blue coat.

In his loudly jovial tone, Lord Wynleigh threw out a greeting, 'Look lively there, Aldace! I want to present you to my youngest sister.' He smiled expectantly at the Ffouldes, as if in the middle of a wonderfully amusing practical joke, waiting for them to share it with him. Unable even to smile, Iphigenia quickly averted her eyes from her uncle and laid them again on the stranger.

He turned around at the sound of his name, momentarily discomposed. For just that instant, Iphigenia saw unhappiness flicker on his face before he irritably pushed his fringe back from his brow, schooled his expression, and stood ready for the introductions.

Iphigenia was intrigued by what she had perceived in that unguarded moment. She studied the stranger further to determine what else she might discover, and although she noted that he had a pleasing countenance ... was, perhaps, even good-looking with his chiseled cheekbones and strong jawline ... and was controlled almost to the point of reserve, she was rewarded with no further insights.

Lord Wynleigh strode forward with exuberance. 'Adeline, my dear, may I present to you Commander Anthony Aldace of his Majesty's Ship Wind Lass? I find his company at present invaluable to me.'

Iphigenia was not certain, but it seemed to her that Aldace's features acquired an even stonier aspect at these words.

Her uncle continued, 'And Aldace, this is my long-estranged sister, Lady Adeline, er, Ffouldes. Yes.'

Lady Adeline extended a hand politely and curtsied as the commander took it and made his curt bow, murmuring, 'Servant, ma'am,' before quickly releasing her.

Lord Wynleigh next gestured to Kit, who stood with his hands be4hind his back. 'And over here we have my, why my nephew, so we do!' He laughed heartily at the thought of how amusing it was to discover new relations. 'That's right, that's right,' he encouraged as they shook hands, 'We approve of easy ways here! Christopher Ffouldes, there, Aldace, of course,' he added, as an afterthought.

Directing the Commander towards Iphigenia, he said with an air of relish, 'And this is Miss Iphigenia Ffouldes,' Montroy's face was as unreadable as a statue's, which disinclined Iphigenia to display any friendlier aspect herself. She found this fact mildly irritating. They shook hands firmly and without eye contact.

Wynleigh added in a stage-whisper, 'No doubt Miss ffouldes here will meet with your approval, eh Aldace?' He barely suppressed a chuckle.

Aldace replied blightingly, 'No doubt, sir,' in a tone calculated to allow much room for doubt.

Although Iphigenia was no more desirous of being approved by Aldace than she would any other new acquaintance, she felt a certain amount of pique at being snubbed by him. She found that, without thinking, she had drawn herself up a little taller. Looking at Aldace, standing there with all his discipline and haughteur, she began to wonder how she could earlier have made the mistake of thinking his looks anything other than displeasing.

Chapter One - Arrival at Wynleigh

The facade of the building was dazzlingly white, so much so that the reflected sunlight made it painful for Iphigenia to scrutinise Wynleigh House. She moved her parasol a little so that her eyes were shaded, and by squinting was able to make out large slabs of brilliant white masonry; long, fluted columns that rose ever upwards like fantastic trees made of sugar paste; and vast expanses of windows whose transparency was lost in mirroring the grandeur of the park in which the house sat.

Lady Adeline Ffouldes was still enraptured as they stood upon the snowy gravel drive. She gestured to a nearby topiary shrub in a classically styled pot. 'Marvellous! How neat and well-groomed! There is such satisfaction in seeing the coarser aspects of nature tamed into propriety. And nowhere will you see a finer example of it than at Wynleigh.' She turned to her daughter, 'Unlike at Elford where everything is allowed to grow wherever it likes,' she waved an irascible hand, dismissing the rustic attractions of the small estate that her children had grown up on. 'There is certainly nothing ...' she searched for the right word, savouring it when at last it came to her, '... cultivated to be found there.'

Iphigenia forebore to voice her own observations on the matter. What her mother considered as cultivation, she considered as a species of deceit. Everything was beautiful in its own way. Would it not be simpler to allow for variety in the forms of beauty? However, this was clearly not a view to which her mother was sympathetic, and all she could expect to receive for expounding this sentiment would be her mother's anger and to be, once again, reminded that she was a strange and vexatious child.

Kit had paid off the postillion and had overseen the unloading of the baggage. He had come up to his mother and sister by this time, and stood for a moment at the foot of the great snowy staircase that left to the entry doors. A moment was all it took for him to consider the imposing edifice before him and to remark to his parent, 'Well, perhaps not ma'am. What ought to be found here is someone to let us in. Shall we ring the bell?'

Lady Adeline was diverted from her admiration of her ancestral home by the horror that she felt at such an unbecoming suggestion. What would the Wynleigh party think of the Ffouldes if she allowed Christopher to do such a thing? It would make it seem as though they were too poor to bring any servants with them.

Wryly, the young gentleman observed, 'In that case, they would form a pretty accurate picture of us, then, because we are.'

Affronted, Lady Adeline drew herself up to her full height and frostily announced, 'We have Sally,' imbuing this modest and ageing lady's maid with sufficient grandeur to be the equivalent of a whole wing of servants.

Glancing around to where Sally stood awkwardly with the trunks and bandboxes, which she had accompanied in the second post-chaise, Kit concurred, 'So we do. And - not that I desire to appear to be a nitpicker, I hope - but from what I remember of all that schoolroom rot about grammar, in order to qualify as having servantS we need at least one more Sally.'

Lady Adeline could hardly speak for indignation.

While she was composing herself for speech, her son blithely continued, fanning himself with the beaver hat he held in his hand, 'And while one more Sally would do to serve Fij, that would still leave me high and dry. I'll be dashed if I'll have a female to shave me or shine my boots. Or to help me in and out of my coat, for that matter,' he added, much struck by the vision of being obliged to do just that. Then, further horror presented itself to his imagination, 'And what about my bath?'

Kit's brow wrinkled as he continued, 'I'm not at all sure how you persuaded me to come all the way down here without Dawlish. How the devil am I supposed to shift for myself? Why did nobody think of that when we were all adding up the pennies and paring the cheese, eh?'

Quietly, Iphigenia remarked, 'I seem to recollect Mama's assurance that our uncle would be pleased to spare us any and every expense that he could, and that we might rely on his being able to supply us with whatever kind of servants we might require.'

In an undertone to his sister, Kit replied, 'Yes, well! Very nice of her to make such assurances on his behalf. Did our aunt make this offer when she invited us?' He glanced at the house. 'Bet they'll use blacking on my boots and not champagne', he determined, glumly. Kit sighed, resigned to this probably fate, and smacked the curled brim of his hat against his hand.

Lady Adeline waved a hand for silence from her children, and for Sally to attend her.

With a brief glance at her mother, Iphigenia caught her brother's eye and shook her head in answer to his earlier question.

He rolled his eyes and, thrusting his hands in his pockets, began to scuff at the gravel. 'We're in it for sure,' he mumbled, in annoyance.

Poor, countrified Sally was required to make her way up the palatial staircase and to bravely ring the bell at the imposing entrance. She quailed when confronted by Waulmsley, the haughty butler of Wynleigh; but by considering this task just as much her duty as emptying her ladyship's pot each morning, and that Providence sent these trials to prepare us for the hereafter, and that she didn't have to enjoy it, only to obey, and who was she to question her betters, when all was said and done, she retained her courage.

Unfortunately for her, credit for this heroism was not to come Sally's way either from her employer or from Waulmsley. Being quite used to depressing the pretensions of even the most persistent and charming persons desirous of intruding on the Augen family at Wynleigh, it became apparent that admittance was not going to be granted.

Waulmsley had almost succeeded in closing the door in Sally's protesting face when Lady Adeline came striding up the stairs most purposefully. With her silk shawl and the feathers in her bonnet streaming out behind her, and brandishing her furled parasol most alarmingly, the erstwhile daughter of the house exclaimed, 'Now see here my good man! I am unaccustomed to such a reception. Be so good as to alert my sister-in-law, Lady Wynleigh, to our arrival. You will find that she is expecting us.' Lady Adeline concluded, her tone implying her expectation of instant compliance with her orders.

However, her ladyship had under-estimated Waulmsley. 'Lady Wynleigh has not indicated to me that she expects any visitors, ma'am. A fact to which her absence from home testifies.' He began to close the door.

Stubbornly, Lady Adeline continued, 'Nevertheless, we have been invited. I desire you to present my compliments, then, to Lord Wynleigh.'

With very cool politeness, Waulmsley replied, 'His lordship is currently busy.'

Visibly on the verge of losing her temper, Lady Adeline made her final attempt. 'I am his sister. I have no doubt that your master will spare me a few moments of his time.' She fixed Waulmsley with a determined and dire stare.

In the face of what promised to be a Scene of exactly the proportions that any genteel servant in his position wished to avoid, Waulmsley bowed - or, more accurately, inclined his head and shoulders to the smallest degree that civility would allow - desired Madam to wait in the Hall, and withdrew with all the dignity and disapproval that he could muster to apprise his lordship of the arrival of Visitors. By which, Lady Adeline understood that Waulmsley disapproved of her, and disbelieved her story of invitation.

It was fortunate that this knowledge deprived Lady Adeline of her powers of speech, or doubtless she would have attempted to disabuse the butler of his extremely unflattering notions regarding her consequence. As it was, she limited herself to an outraged sniff, and she and her entourage spent a few moments in the chill quiet of the entrance hall, admiring the landscapes and marble busts that decorated the plastered walls, as they divested themselves of hats, gloves, pelisses and overcoats.

At length, just as Kit was beginning to notice how uncomfortable was the bench he had chosen to sit on, and Iphigenia was beginning to wonder what drove her Augden antecedents to create everything out of any material as unforgiving as stone, the sound of footsteps approaching commanded the attention of all those waiting.

Around a corner, striding at a vigorous pace came a portly gentleman of late middle years, smiling heartily and rubbing his sausage-like hands together in an appreciative way. He was dressed in a cream-coloured waistcoat that was rather too tight for him, its gold buttons straining and its embroidered fruit trees distorted grotesquely across his paunch. His neckcloth was unfashionably plain, his collar-points almost embarrassingly modest and unstarched beneath the plump roll of his jowls. He was wearing blue knee-breeches, plain white stockings, and simple black shoes. Despite these Spartan touches, his over all impression was one of indulgence. The quaint cream-coloured wig that he wore sported several rolls of curls all over, and the pigtail at the back was tied with a gold lace. His complexion - very hectic in colour and very weathered in texture - suggested someone who enjoyed spending a great deal of time out of doors but who, when indoors, enjoyed spending their time seated by a roaring fire with a bottle or two of something red.

WHO IS THIS GENTLEMAN? FIND OUT SOON.

London, during 'the Season' Continued

Patiently, his sister explained, 'Those enticements are likely to induce a man to make me offers of a certain kind, but not an offer of marriage. And that is what we need if we are to receive both financial aid and respectability as a family. The kind of man we are hoping to find is looking for certain qualities in a wife: birth, fortune and beauty,' she said, ticking off each of the three requirements with her fingers.

Kit gave up on his tie – the Trone de Amor was beyond repair, and would have to await his valet's resourceful touch. However, Mr Ffouldes was pragmatic enough to know that the conversation with his sister was of even more moment than was badly creased linen, and returned his attention where it was most needed.

'All that you're lacking is the fortune,' he countered. 'And plenty of men have been willing to overlook that if the lady in question is enticing enough. There are precedents,' Kit insisted.

'Indeed there are,' Iphigenia agreed cheerfully. 'But the reason that these exceptions stand out from the rule is that men of Quality are seldom willing to overlook these niceties.' Her eyes twinkled – she knew that he was beginning to find his position untenable, and while the noble art of fencing was denied ladies, Iphigenia had a devotee's taste for verbal thrust and parry.

'What about the Gunning sisters?' Kit asked, somewhat sullenly. He was, indeed, a little concerned that Iphigenia's case was sound; and so he allowed the distraction of wondering whether he should ring the bell for Dawlish's assistance with his neck-cloth immediately – it put one out of countenance so to be aware that one looked a fright.

Airily waving a hand, Iphigenia blithely dismissed these famed ladies. 'Over a generation ago, and stood out in the popular memory because the circumstance of their marrying so well was so unusual. I ask you, dear heart – how many girls have come to town, hoping to use a pretty face to gain an impressive title, and have gone home again poorer for the experience?' She was struck by a thought: 'Or have not gone home at all,' she alluded, darkly.

'Yes, well. I still don't see why you couldn't make a go of the thing if you put your heart into it,' Kit insisted, petulantly, neatly avoiding all of the logic that his sister had presented. A man shouldn't have to ring for his valet – the fellow ought, somehow, to know when he's wanted. The best ones probably do just that – breeze in as needed without a fuss, restore a chap to his best, and breeze out again. Rotten Iphigenia – if there was more money to go around, it could be used to entice one of these prized servants away from the magnificent employer currently enjoying their services. It's a thing that a female simply could not adequately appreciate.

Blissfully unaware of her brother's resentful tone of thought, Iphigenia attempted to continue her argument with painstaking logic. 'We have already allowed that it is extremely rare for men of rank and fortune to marry only for a pretty face; so let us now move on to the next point. No one will marry me for my fortune because I don't have one.'

Kit shot an expression of distaste at Iphigenia. She smiled back.

'That leaves us our third eventuality,' she continued. 'In that case, it will be expected that my birth will atone for what I lack monetarily.' She waited, barely hiding her amusement, for a response from her brother.

He didn't see her point. 'I don't know how high your notions of good birth extend, Fij, but one of our grandfathers was an Earl. Surely that counts for something. After all, it could only get better if our mother were the daughter of a Duke, or the King.'

Iphigenia wrinkled her mouth ruefully. 'Not quite true. If we were the children of an Earl it could be better. And, of course, if any of our mother's illustrious relations were willing to claim acquaintance with us, it would also be better.' She moved aside the curtain to peer out at the street again, as she remarked a little peevishly, 'What use is an Earl in the family, if he is not willing to acknowledge one?' Iphigenia twitched the curtain back into place and fixed her candid eyes on her brother once again. 'And our father is a nobody,' she pointed out.

Kit bristled at this disloyalty. 'The Ffouldes are an extremely respectable family,' he argued.

Undeterred, Iphigenia replied, 'I shall allow the honour of the ancient name of Ffouldes to be above the common generality. Not a titled family, not a powerful family, but it is a respectable one.' She paused, considering, 'Or was one. Until our father drew it into disrepute. If his elopement with our mother, and the scandal attached to it had not drawn the Ffouldes' respectability into question, then the very public life of dissipation he has led since that time must have done so.'

Kit, sadly, had no reply to make, other than scuffing the edge of a Turkish rug with the toe of his boot.

'Like it or not, Kit: a child is tarred with its father's brush,' Iphigenia smiled grimly.

Kit frowned, and thrust his hands into his pockets once again, causing the tails of his dark coat to flap. 'You make it sound all very difficult!' he complained, petulantly, before glancing at his reflection in the mirror over the mantle, tugging at a fold of his cravat with one finger and frowning.

Torn between laughter and anger, Iphigenia exclaimed, 'It is very difficult! How on earth can I be expected to succeed at this madness?' Her dark eyes sparkled with emotion and a spot of colour tinged her cheeks becomingly.

Kit edged some stray cinders back into the hearth with his toe. 'It's going to get a lot more difficult soon when all the money runs out and we have nowhere to turn to,' he remarked candidly.

Iphigenia contented herself with replying, 'True.' She stared thoughtfully out of the window again, while Kit tried to poke his shirt points back to their former height.

Interrupting these mindless pursuits, Iphigenia soon leaped up from the window seat again, her skirts crushed in a frantic grasp to keep them from entangling her legs in her haste. Kit looked at her quickly for an explanation, and she replied with dire meaning, 'It's the mother!'

Uttering an oath that Iphigenia pretended not to hear or understand, Kit dashed, coat tails flying like ribbons behind him, for a seat furthest from the fire. Iphigenia picked up the volume of verse from where she had abandoned it – Lord Byron's newest literary effort, and something that all the town was agog to discuss – and began leafing through the pages with more rapidity than care. Her brother grabbed up a neatly folded newspaper from an occasional table and opened it, flopping onto the arm chair in the far corner of the room.

The door opened, and with great dignity, as was her custom, Lady Adeline Ffouldes swept into the room. She spared neither of her offspring more than a cursory glance, as the processed over to the winged armchair recently vacated by her youngest son, and sat carefully upon it, as though it was a throne. The lady was dressed as a dowager might, despite the most recent information from her husband in India suggesting that he was very much alive and well – the black crape skirts with many layers of ruffling, and her matron's cap trimmed with so much lace, combined to give the impression of a large bird of prey, on edge, and with feathers ruffled, dangerously on the verge of pouncing. She had a harsh, angular face that many years of bitterness and rancor had done little to soften.

She fixed her daughter wit a stern eye, to the relief of her son, and announced in ringing and depressing tones, 'You are most fortunate, Iphigenia.'

Feeling quite the opposite, and closing her book again, her daughter replied, 'Indeed?'

Lady Adeline pursed her lips, and continued with withering chill, 'Indeed. I have made a most valuable acquaintance today.' Seeing that she had the attention of both her offspring with these words, Kit folding down the top half of his newspaper so that he could pay attention, Lady Adeline continued, 'Quite by accident …'

At this Iphigenia and Kit exchanged meaningful glances. Accustomed, as they were, to their mother's language codes and conventions they both knew her to mean instead deliberately and on purpose.

'… I happened to be spending a pleasant hour or so taking the air and strolling the streets in the vicinity of Hookham's library this morning. After some time, I was entirely astonished and chagrined to indulge in a moment of clumsiness just as my sister-in-law, Lady Wynleigh – whom I have never before met in my life – was emerging from the premises.'

Her two children once again exchanged glances, as Lady Adeline paused in her tale to make one foot comfortable upon a nearby foot-stool.

'Perceiving me all embarrassment and apology, I was obliged to explain myself by alluding to our familial connection,' Lady Adeline remarked, casually finding her tambour frame from within the hidden depths of the chair.

Iphigenia and Kit had great difficulty in imagining their mother in a state even approximating the one she described.

'Lady Wynleigh was most obliging, and she acknowledged the connection between us, a circumstance for which I expressed suitable gratitude, and penitence for the estrangement that has had to exist between myself and my blood relations during the last twenty-five years.

'Furthermore,' Lady Adeline looked up at her audience with a keen eye glinting, 'she was gracious enough to express her willingness to welcome me to Wynleigh Park itself.' She smiled a skeletal grin of achievement at this piece of manipulation.

Iphigenia and Kit mentally inserted, she said whatever pleasantry she thought would rid her of you the fastest, and – not for the first time in their lives – were awed at both their formidable parent's audacity and resourcefulness.

'So you see,' concluded Lady Adeline, with satisfaction, 'your great good fortune, Iphigenia.'

Blankly, her daughter admitted, 'I am afraid that I do not, ma'am.'

Fixing her daughter with a baleful stare, Lady Adeline rejoined, 'I dare say you do not, at that. Judging by the extraordinarily small amount of progress you have made in your task, despite the length of time we have been in town, and the opportunities presented to you, it seems that I am the only person willing to exert themselves to some purpose!'

Iphigenia blushed, and looked at her hands folded in her lap.

Her mother continued, slightly less ferociously, 'Since you have done nothing to the purpose here in London, other than make yourself odious to any man presented to you, we shall remove to Wynleigh.'

Lady Adeline allowed sufficient pause for Kit and Iphigenia to recover from their astonishment at this announcement, before continuing, 'We shall see what your uncle's notice can do for you. Gaining the recognition of your Augden relations will doubtless do a great deal to improve your chances.'

Iphigenia was not filled with the joy that should have accompanied being the recipient of such good news. She ran her fingers around the edge of Lord Byron's poems, and remained silent.

Lady Adeline's sharp eye took note of this strange omission in her daughter's countenance. 'Allow me to add that had we not been so fortunate as to have found a way in to Wynleigh, I should have had no recourse other than to have become exceedingly displeased with you, Iphigenia.'

The young lady knew that this threat was much worse than it sounded … and Lady Adeline had imbued the statement with such venom anyway that it had sounded sufficiently dire.

Sourly, her mother untangled her embroidery threads. Looking at her task and not at her children, she said, 'Pack your things. Both of you. We shall see what Wynleigh might do for us all.' Kit and Iphigenia began to set aside their reading materials, as Lady Adeline concluded, 'I shall very much enjoy going home.' Her tone belied the sentiment, and she pierced the fabric in its round frame savagely with her needle and thread.

There was no argument that could prevail against Lady Adeline's determination. And, if she were honest, Iphigenia had not much enjoyed her stay in London anyway. She rose, wordlessly, and went to summon her maid to assist her in packing, and Mr Ffouldes roused himself, after all, to ring for Dawlish to attend him.

London, during 'The Season'.

'Don't you think you could have tried a little harder, Fij?' asked Kit in a wheedling tone.

It made Iphigenia's answer that much harder to give. Her younger brother could remind her so easily of a puppy on occasion - all youthful exuberance and little rationality. Not that he would be at all flattered by the observation, Iphigenia added scrupulously to herself. Since their arrival in town, Kit had made rather a mission of being as well dressed as any other young buck in the Metropolis, and would receive with horror the news that he impressed onlookers as anything other than excessively dashing.

'And if I lie to you, and tell you that yes, of course I could have tried harder, and wantonly let dozens of eligible offers slip through my fingers, would it make any significant difference to our situation, dear one?' Iphigenia asked patiently as she laid aside the leather-bound volume of verse she had been reading and stood up, taking an uneasy turn about the room, the creases in her muslin round dress testament to the fact that she had been reading for some time.

Kit looked troubled. He ran an unthinking hand through his dark locks, destroying forty minutes' hard work by his valet. An idea occurred to him, and his face brightened. 'I say, Fij - there's Ponsonby! Have you considered him?' he inquired hopefully.

Over her shoulder, Iphigenia turned with a short smile of tolerance and shook her head, her own chocolate-coloured curls bobbing. 'I haven't needed to consider him,' she admitted, ruefully.

Crestfallen again, Kit remarked, 'Very agreeable fellow, is Ponsonby. Daresay the two of you might hit it off well together, if the thought was suggested. Have you tried doing that?'

After a deep breath, Iphigenia attempted explanation yet again. 'No, Kit, I have not. You see, I am afraid that I simply don't see eye to eye with the rest of the polite world on the score of matrimony. A mere feeling of hitting it off with someone isn't quite enough to tempt me into wedlock with a man, be he ever so well-connected or plump in the pocket.'

The younger gentleman opened his mouth to interrupt, but his sister continued quickly, 'I have subjected the matter to ruthless introspection and I am afraid that I really would have to feel, if not love, then, at the very least, admiration and esteem above the common rate for a person with whom I would be expected to be on intimate terms for the rest of my life. Or theirs.' She sighed. She had spoken as plainly as she could, and yet, before her brother replied, she knew that he had failed to comprehend.

Eyebrows creased, mouth compressed, Kit stood up from the winged easy chair in which he had been seated, and thrust his hands into the pockets of his buff-coloured pantaloons. 'I don't see why you can't admire Ponsonby,' he said at last. 'Fellow has the best right hook I've ever seen on anyone! Why, the number of times he's cast a leveller above his weight while sparring at Jackon's ...'

Kit cast a hasty glance at Iphigenia's unmoved countenance and resumed his argument in a slightly modified form. 'And as for cards! Fellow's not a Captain Sharp, but the amount of luck he has when playing Whist or Hazard!' Kit broke into a laugh of reminiscence before an unfortunate memory came to mind. 'Of course, Faro is another matter entirely for old Pons. Almost rolled up the last time we played, in fact! However, as long as you keep him away from that particular game, there's a deuced lot to admire about the fellow.' He tweaked his shirt cuffs, and added reflectively, 'Always has a well-tailored coat, too.'

Iphigenia tried very hard not to laugh at these recommendations in favour of her brother's choice of suitor. She succeeded in keeping a straight face, although her dark eyes sparkled with merriment, and she was unable to resist saying, 'Well, I'm not trying to talk you out of accepting any offers that Ponsonby might make to you!' Mr Christopher Ffouldes, man about town, rudely poked his tongue out at his sister. She rolled her eyes and continued, 'I'm merely trying to explain that I have yet to meet anyone whom I could accept. Be they ever so impressive a boxer or at cards.' Her mouth twitched, but she overcame the desire to laugh.

This last remark was too much for Kit's delicate sensibilities. He would not be laughed at, or his wisdom dismissed. He paced the room briskly, occasionally stopping to throw dark and loaded looks in her direction.

Iphiegenia was far too used to her brother's turbulent moods to be greatly perturbed, however. She knew that he would not remain silent for long. And while she waited for him to build up sufficient ire for the outburst that she knew was coming, she amused herself by moving to the box window and looking out at the traffic passing on the street below their unfashionable townhouse: horses and carriages, sedan-chairs, women in their bonnets and high-waisted pelisses, gentlemen in tall Beaver hats and carrying canes, a crossing sweeper, the occasional liveried footman.

Hearing Kit's tread increase in tempo, Iphigenia returned her attention to the room she occupied. She made herself comfortable on the window-seat, and smoothed her skirts.

Hands behind his back, a portrait of outrage and dignity, Kit delivered himself of his grievances in a forthright manner. 'I would have expected better of you, Iphigenia.'

I cannot think of a reason why you would have, but we shall let this pass.

'You know how things stand with us. This is necessity. Not just for you, but for us all. It is essential that you make a success here in London this Season.'

Really? Oh, but it seemed such a well-kept secret!

'You know how much this has cost. How very poorly we could afford to come here at all. You're the family's last throw of the dice, my girl!'

I do know. And I have felt all along that it was a very great mistake to wager anything in the scheme at all.

'You have had every opportunity for enjoyment here in London. Nothing has been denied you.'

What? Now that is going to make me lose my temper! Every opportunity for enjoyment, indeed! How could anyone enjoy themselves under pressure of this sort? Besides, it's all been dress fittings, soirees and social calls paid to people I barely know and care nothing about. Endless afternoons of being driven around the park - no riding, of course, what a waste of time such a solitary pursuit would be! - being driven around in circles by hopelessly ineligible and intolerable parties. Nothing has been denied me except any say in the direction my life must take!


'Surely you have enough gratitude left in you to understand that all that has been required of you in return for all this freedom is that you contract an eligible alliance. You can even choose the man! And save the family from ruin.'

Freedom. Hah! ... I suppose there must be gratitude left inside me somewhere. But it's not really at the forefront of the emotions I've been feeling lately. I wonder do the prostitutes at Covent Garden feel grateful for their lot in life? Must ask one one day. ... Oh, I'm so funny.

'So small a thing is being asked of you, Fij. So small a thing and yet such consequences for us all if you succeed!'

I suppose my honour and my happiness might be counted as small things by some.

'You must see how hard it is for us to see you...' he fought for words, 'throw away our chances of redemption!'

With control, Iphigenia managed to remark quietly, 'I am not sure how I am supposed to entice men of the kind of eligibility that will save our family from the Poor House into offering for me when I am possessed of only a modicum of beauty, no personal fortune, nor any prospects of acquiring one, and no connections who are prepared to own me.'

Unwilling to see these objections as impediments to the success of the venture, Mr Ffouldes waved an arm in exasperation. 'You just ... oh i don't know! ... You use your feminine wiles and charm them into submission, I suppose!'

Mischief reared its head inside Iphigenia once again. 'I must say, Kit - what a turn of phrase! Did you come up with that yourself, or have you culled it from the pages of some lurid romance that you've been reading?' She grinned.

A hand angrily raked through Kit's hair, creating further disorder. 'Yes, well never mind that! The point is that you don't really seem to have exerted yourself to make a match with anyone.'

Breathing deeply and composing her features, Iphigenia said, 'It appears that there is no getting around the necessity of having this conversation. Very well then, we shall - but let us first understand firstly that I have been set an impossible task.' She smoothed her skirt again, and then primly folded her hands in her lap, waiting.

Thunderstruck, Kit repeated, 'Impossible?' His jaw dropped far enough to crush his very high shirt points and carefully arranged neck-cloth. Ignoring this damage to his apparel, Mr Ffouldes waited for elucidation, and when none came, continued, 'Devil take it, Fij, all you have to do is marry a man with enough blunt to rescue us from all our money troubles, and who has enough ton to lend us a bit of credit in good society!'

'What am I to use as bait for this poor man? What enticements should I offer him?' she asked calmly, staring at her brother inscrutably with large, brown eyes, full of expression.

Colouring somewhat, he replied, 'I hardly like to say, Fij. All the usual stuff no doubt.' He put up a hand in an attempt to rectify the earlier disarray to his neck-cloth.

TO BE CONTINUED VERY SOON ...

Author's Note

I can't claim to know anything much, but I can state with certainty that I have read a lot. And I can add with trepidation that this doesn't always correspond with writing well. I have read an awful lot about the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries in Britain. In particular, a lot of Georgette Heyer and a lot of Jane Austen. In terms of books, this is what I know, and - after all - novice writers are often counseled with the maxim "Write about what you know."

While I don't claim to be as good as the ladies I named, the fact remains that they are the authors whose works remain in my head and infuse my grey matter with their colour, whose characters I greet as old friends when a dog-eared copy of a well-loved story falls off the shelf to dissolve in my palms. I can't claim to be an expert, but I certainly claim to be an enthusiast.

It might disappoint some, but what I have produced is much less Colonial Britain and much more Post-colonial Australia. Although it hardly receives a mention in the text, my savage colonial notions have given "the Motherland" a distinctly non-Heyer and non-Austen quality.

For a long while, I was concerned that I would make historical inaccuracies, and I held myself back from writing because I couldn't satisfy myself that I knew enough specifics. I can't tell you what time the Post ran from London to Bath, for example. This knowledge seemed to me an absolute pre-requisite for venturing into print.

Then, one day - proving that sophistry isn't always pointless - I came to the realisation that in my texts the Post from London to Bath runs exactly when I say it does. I wasn't setting out to compile a timetable for the benefit of users of public transport, who would have to be most resourceful anyway in order to overcome the problem of time travel necessary for the use of these services, and would, therefore, be well-equipped to meet the challenge posed to them by an inaccurate statement about when to expect the next carriage and so could safely be left to their own devices. No, what I wanted to do was to create a text in which to explore certain ideas.

The more I considered the matter, the happier I felt with the limits of my research. I knew enough to do what I wanted to do, and that was ... well, it was enough. I would never know all there is to know, no matter how meticulously I unearthed the Regency period, because I am writing in the early twenty-first century ... and I don't even know all there is to know about it! (In fact, I am ignorant of my own local bus timetable, and despite this factual omission I continue to function.)

So, the Post runs when I say it does. My characters say exactly what I put in their mouths, they wear just what it says they wore; and if, at any time you, my dear reader, are tempted to interrupt the flow of your reading by saying anything like, but this simply wouldn't have happened like that in those days, then save yourself the bother - remember that it happened just like it says it did, because it says so in the text.

I suspect that the Aldace family is connected to the Darcy family of Pemberley (obviously not too closely, or they would be wealthier and more influential). Also that Aldace probably had the good fortune of knowing Mr Hornblower in the course of his naval service. The Ffouldes are, as I have said in the text, recluses and living beyond the fringe of the haute ton, but I am certain that there are many Heyer-heroines who would have been happy to make Kit and Iphigenia's acquaintance at Almack's (had only the patronesses given them vouchers to attend, of course). And if a certain minister's daughter who is noted for her own masterly use of the pen were to notice some similarities between the attraction felt by Iphigenia and Aldace and by characters of her own, I like to think that she would have the generosity to recognise the inevitability of such co-incidences occurring where volatile people are expected to repress their emotions. She would also notice some very telling differences between the two cases, I am sure!

Beyond this, you will have to make your own inferences about the characters' lineage. Lord Wynleigh is most definitely a Wicked Uncle, so it is possible that the family has Italian connections of the Radcliffean variety. I encourage you to indulge your fancy.

Interestingly, although I mention Lord Byron, he is almost the only poet of the era whose works I have never read. The closest I have come is to watch the Errol Flynn version of Don Juan. So, instead of feeling outraged at any similarities between what you read here and what you have read in connection with him, aim instead for feelings of surprise and, maybe, a pleasant spookiness at how co-incidence really is alive and well in the world (if, indeed, there happen to be any such co-incidences). Any other similarities are also co-incidental.

I would strongly like to point out that I have not attempted to caricature anyone of my acquaintance in creating the characters who grace the following pages. In some way, everything that I have experienced has gone into creating them, of course, but any strange Oedipal, therapy-esque nonsense is entirely the product of my sub-conscience and therefore it would be paltry of me to take credit for its invention. Don't start looking into my childhood for a resemblance between my own mother and Lady Adeline. All of my uncles - indeed, my male relatives - are very pleasant men who conduct themselves with propriety toward their niece. I hesitate to deprive my acquaintance the joy of looking for themselves in here somewhere ... but there are times when some things need to be made Quite Clear!

I have deliberately left plenty of gaps (and there are, more than likely, quite a few unintentional ones as well) so please insert your own explanations wherever you feel they are needed. Your guess is a s good as mine would be (except where London to Bath Posts are concerned, of course. And local buses).

As I said earlier, I wrote this to satisfy an urge to write, to play with the forms I had absorbed during my own reading, and to create a place where I could explore ideas - specifically Post-colonial ideas - about how people and the world interrelate. If I have managed to amuse you while doing all of the above, then that is another point upon which I may reflect with satisfaction.