Like a Gentlewoman
Chapter 1: Penmanship

Copyright© 2018 by Uther Pendragon

Romantic Sex Story: Chapter 1: Penmanship - The Earl of Fenhurst found young Esther Slater a charming innocent. She found him an entrancing example of the greater world. Neither understood the other one bit. Nevertheless, he had pledged himself to treat her like a gentlewoman.

Caution: This Romantic Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Heterosexual  

“Father,” Esther Slater said, “it is a great honor. The girl with the best handwriting helps Lady Dorwich each year. She is the most important graduate the school has.”

“The most important? Or is she merely an aristocrat? Is she one of those flighty aristocratic women with loose morals? What has she done that makes her ‘most important’?”

“She is hardly flighty. The last time I saw her speak to the school she was expecting a child; her second. She is a married woman with children. She holds dinners to honor members of the Royal Society and other natural philosophers. Madame Gallienne is a frequent guest. You always say that rather than what The Lord has given you, one should ask what you have done with The Lord’s gifts. Well, she married a great nobleman. That is what The Lord gave her. What she has done with it is to raise the honor of learning in this world.”

“Our family does not need you to go out to work.”

“So, when I graduate from l’Ecole Gallienne, you no longer wish me to start keeping the books?”

“You are twisting my words. Working for me is not going out. The family should work in the family firm. Idle hands are the devil’s playground. While you are in school, that is your work. If you have time to spare, you may begin keeping the books now.”

“This is one afternoon and evening. It only gives me one pound.Madame Gallienne said that I might need a hackney from school if the weather is bad, and I probably would need a hackney home. It will be well after dark. Lady Dorwich will pay me more than enough to cover both.”

“And when will you eat?”

“I shall eat with Lady Dorwich. She says dinner and luncheon.” Actually, the note said ‘luncheon and dinner,’ which was a strange order to write those meals. “If the luncheon is less than our supper, I shall fill up on bread and cheese after I get home. It is an honor; the other girls will be asking me about it that Monday.”

“Very well, Esther. You may help her with this task. I shall ask you Sunday whether you think the life of the aristocracy is all that impressive.”

“Thank you very much, Father.” Not that she would see anything of the life of the aristocracy. She was going to be amanuensis for Lady Dorwich, not Lord Dorwich’s dancing partner. Still, that was an honor in the small world of her school, and it was a step out into the greater world. She loved her family, but sometimes she felt as though it were a prison and that chapel and school were the only escapes.

So she felt quite adventurous on Saturday when she told the driver of the hackney cab the address of Dorwich House. It was closer than the mile-and-a-half she normally walked to school, but rain was coming down in sheets.


“Rain is coming down in sheets,” George told his brother and sister-in-law. “I’m taking my coach to look for a London residence; I am well able to take Anne to Dorwich house on my way. It would be much drier a trip than in your phaeton”

“I still think it wiser to make this your London residence,” Lionel said.

“Father left Darrow House to you, Lionel. I have so much by right that I would feel greedy indeed to take a share of Darrow House.” Then, too, a landlord would wink at behavior of a bachelor tenant which would shock Anne from a brother-in-law. “A visit is one thing; I do feel welcome on a visit. Staying for the time I am in attendance at parliament is something else. If I need to give a dinner, we shall consider whether this is the appropriate place.”

It was past noon before he handed Anne into his coach. She thanked him prettily, and he sat across from her and handed her out at Dorwich House. Anne and Lady Lenora Dorwich had quite similar handwriting, and Anne was going to help address invitations to the Dorwich Anniversary Ball. The ballroom at Dorwich House held only 80 couples at most; the Dorwich couple made a virtue of that limitation and invited only the ton of the ton. Anne and Lionel hardly qualified for that description. George, after all, was the Earl of Fenhurst. Lionel was merely the younger brother -- Mr. Grant. And George was barely in the ton. Anne, however, was sister to James, earl of Dorwich. That not only earned her an invitation, it put her at the center of the planning. Having handed Anne down, George walked her to the door. The footman took them to the front parlor where Lady Lenora was sitting at one table and a young woman sitting at another. Lenora rose.

“George, Anne, might I present Miss Esther Slater? She is one of the bright lights of l’Ecole Gallienne. Esther, this is Lord George Fenhurst and Lady Anne Grant. Mrs. Grant is my husband’s sister and Lord George is her husband’s brother.” Esther rose and dropped a quite presentable curtsey. Anne curtsied in return and George bowed.

“Charmed,” he said. And the young lass was charming. A pretty face atop a supple figure. The clothes looked stodgy beside the ladies’ but the hair was magnificent. When she sat down, he saw her brush the stream of hair out of her way. Otherwise, it would have caught between her back and the back of the chair; there was even a risk she might have sat on the end. Now, that was hair - beautiful brown hair, as well.

“George,” Lady Lenora asked, “can you stay for luncheon?”

He had planned to drop off Anne, pay his respects, and go. On the other hand, his business was not that urgent. “That is very kind of you. I shall tell my coachman.” And he sent a footman to tell the coachman. Meanwhile, he took himself to the library. With the contrasting tastes of James and Lenora, the Dorwich library always had something interesting.

For a moment, Esther had thought that she had entered into the life of the aristocracy, as her father said she would. Lord George looked handsome and spoke quite courteously. Then, he left; and she went back to writing and addressing invitations. Lady Lenora checked and signed the ones that Esther and Mrs. Grant wrote as well as writing her own. It was dull work when the interesting visitor had gone. The mention of “luncheon” worried her. Dinner at school and at home were at noon. She was getting hungry, and seemed to have missed dinner if her hostess were speaking of some light snack of a “luncheon.”

“Esther, dear,” Lady Lenora said, “luncheon will be more than an hour from now, and I know that you usually eat at noon. I was a boarder there for three years. Would you like some bread and butter?”

“Please Milady.” Lady Lenora rang and ordered the bread for her and tea for them all. When the bread arrived, it was already lavishly buttered, and the tea came with sugar. They used honey at home, in protest of slavery, but she would not mention this at home. The bread and butter slaked her appetite for a while, but she was hungry again when luncheon was announced. She worried that she would look a glutton, but she had missed dinner.

She need not have worried. Luncheon was a heavy meal with more formality than her family used for dinner, although there was no prayer at all. Instead of a maid bringing in the food to be distributed by father, there was a footman to seat her and see to her needs. The food was soup followed by fish followed by roast lamb, followed by sorbet. She barely had room for the sorbet. The first two courses had one wine, and the next two had another. She kept her drinking moderate, and the others stayed sober. If Lord James took two glasses for every one she took, he might be twice as large. The conversation was an experience in the life of the aristocracy. She was seated between Lord James, her host, and Lord George. The meal lasted for more than an hour, and she would have been content to sit there and listen to the strands of conversation for another hour. As her father said, youth was given mouths for eating and ears for hearing the wisdom of their elders. They should speak only in answer to direct questions. Lord George, however, expected her to speak. He kept asking her questions.

“I have always admired the education that Lady Lenora received,” he said. “You are learning the same things? French and natural philosophy?”

Lenora noted the interest of the Earl in her guest. It might well be innocent flirting; the ton flirted more than they danced or gambled, and they did both to excess. Lord George often flirted with her, and he would have been shocked if it had led to anything. On the other hand, the flirting had never extended to expressing the admiration he now professed for her education. She would watch over Miss Slater; the girl was her guest, her employee, a student at l’Ecole Gallienne. On all three accounts, she was under her protection.

Esther told Lord George and the table about her education. She knew that she would describe the luncheon to friends at school the next week. They would be wildly curious about the aristocracy and Lady Lenora, Countess Dorwich, in particular. Perhaps these polite aristocrats were really curious; perhaps they were only expressing polite interest. Certainly, Lady Lenora could have told them almost all Esther could. The school had not changed that much in five years. Lord George, however, kept asking questions after other subjects had arisen.

George found the young miss attractive. Her information gave a window into a different kind of world. His education at Eton had been purely classical, if you ignore the sports aspect which was classically based. The very idea of a school for women was original, although he had known that Lady Lenora had attended this school. The information Miss Slater conveyed was, however, less than half the charm of her exposition. Her voice was musical despite the traces of London accent. When they rose from luncheon, George took his leave. Lady Lenora walked him to the door.

“George, about Miss Slater.”

“Yes?”

“She is a gentlewoman and under my protection.”

“Have I offended her in any way?” he asked.

“You have offended no-one here. You have, no doubt, charmed her. You are a charming man. I simply want your charms to go no further than a gentlewoman should be charmed.”

“I respect her. I shall respect your protection. I simply find her attractive. I apologize for concentrating on the experiences which I find enlightening, but you must find dull.”

“No apology needed for that,” she said. “I enjoyed hearing of the school again. Anne is staying for dinner. Can you come back for that? Eight o’clock? It will be just us and quite informal.”

“You are too kind. Eight o’clock it is.” He went about his business of finding a residence for his time in London. Finally, he settled on the third place on the list compiled by his man of business. It was a suite of four interconnecting rooms in the house of a gentleman whose children had moved away. He contracted for breakfast every day and would pay for other meals when he requested them. He would have the use of the servants and fee them himself. The rent included stable room for his carriages and room for his coachman and valet among the servants of the house.

He returned to Darrow house to bathe and change for dinner. When he got to Dorwich House, he found that the others had not changed. Of course! Miss Slater would not; and the others did not wish her to feel singled out. The women were having tea in the parlor where they had worked when he arrived. Dorwich joined them a few minutes after George did. Chastened, he let the conversation cover other subjects than Miss Slater. Since she provided few words to please his ears, he must content himself with the pleasure she provided for his eyes


Esther was copying virtually the same message over and over. Only because she crossed out each name on the list after she addressed that invitation was she certain she had not copied the names over and over as well. She thought it would never end, but -- finally -- Lady Dorwich spoke.

“This is my final one. Do either of you need me to work on your list?”

“Not I,” said Mrs. Grant. “Two more addresses, and three for you to sign when the ink is dry.”

Esther looked at her list. “I only have one more on my list, but not all of these are addressed.” Lady Dorwich rose and shook her right hand vigorously before walking over to take the unsigned invitations from each of them. She sat at her table, signed them, and sprinkled them with sand. She rang for a maid and ordered tea. Soon after the pot arrived, all of them had finished. Esther took the tea she was offered. Lady Dorwich drank tea more often than Esther’s family did, but that could not be an insight into the aristocracy. Everyone knew that the typical beverage of the aristocracy was brandy.

Lady Dorwich asked after teachers she had known, but then the conversation turned to discussion between the two older women. Esther was surprised to hear that the subjects were similar to those her mother would indulge in with friends. Instead of gossiping about the last ball, they mostly told stories of their children, especially Mrs. Grant’s young boy, “the cub.”

Lord Fenhurst returned, dressed somewhat differently than he had gone out after luncheon. He still wore black trousers and a white shirt, but he wore a dark blue coat over a light blue waistcoat. He looked even more handsome dressed like that. Mrs. Grant appealed to him:

“Now, George, Is young Lionel not the spitting image of his father?”

“Spitting? I would not say so. Most of the water emerges lower down.”

“Oh, George.” Mrs. Grant looked disapproving. Esther had to struggle to suppress her laughter, and Lady Dorwich smiled. Indeed, she grinned.

“You have to accept parentage, my dear,” Lord George said.” The cub’s hair and eyes are brown. He is not a Grant blond. Miss Slater, have they spent the entire afternoon talking about their children?”

“No, Milord. The subject, indeed the conversation, only just came up. Writing invitations is not something you can do while you are talking.”

“Before I forget,” Lady Dorwich said. She handed Esther a sovereign.

“She only paid you a pound?” Mrs. Grant asked Esther. “The first time I did it, I got to invite the man I fancied to the ball. The pay scale has fallen in two years.” Esther suddenly saw the sort of scandal one always heard about engulfing the ton. A married woman was talking about the man she fancied. And Lord George was her husband’s brother. He looked amused when he should be shocked.

“Yes, Anne,” Lady Dorwich said. “But I had not agreed to that wage. You cozened it.”

“On the other hand,” Lord George said, “Lionel was not invited alone. Sophia and I had to be included.” That comment relieved Esther. Apparently, this had been a jape rather than a sin. It had been a single woman fancying a man she later married.

Dinner was announced. Except that Esther was on the other side of the table from before (as were Lord George and Mrs Grant, for that matter), the seating was as it had been at luncheon. Again, there was no prayer. This time she resolved to eat lightly; nobody had told her how many courses there would be, but she could expect as many at ‘dinner’ as there had been at ‘luncheon.’ The soup was quite different from the previous one, but equally delicious. The fish was also differently prepared from the one at luncheon; it seemed to be a different breed, although it was minced and spiced beyond recognition. Meanwhile the conversation went on around her without Lord George trying to draw her in. She followed it and stored away her impressions. She could regale both school and family with tales of her adventures with the aristocracy.

George participated in the conversation without giving it his whole attention, an easier task than participating in the conversation with one’s partner while following what was said around one -- the task at a large dinner. Anne and Lord James were trading barbs, a conversation common at a Tarleton dinner. George kept out of it. Tarletons only fought each against each for practice; were an outsider to attack one, they all would retaliate with unbated tongues. Miss Slater seemed amused with the byplay, perhaps amused with all of them. She had a rare presence. This had to be her first dinner chez le ton, informal as it was. He had dined with dozens of debutantes all of whom had had more experience. They had all evinced nervousness, ranging from mild up to desperate. Miss Slater was enjoying the meal, enjoying the conversation. She was clearly not concerned with drawing out her companion, not concerned with shining. And, in her unconcern, she shone indeed.

While they were eating their roast beef -- excellently cooked but quite standard fare -- mention was made of a dinner that Lord and Lady Dorwich had held for several of the members of the Royal Society. Lady Dorwich explained some of the latest research which had been expounded there. Esther was grateful for the insight into new discoveries; the lessons at l’Ecole Galliennne tended to be on discoveries made in its proprietress’s youth.

A salon des savants, last month” said Mrs. Grant, “and a ball for the ton this one. Some times, Lenora, I wonder at the two worlds you inhabit. This Season’s girls have less in their minds than the ones of my Season did -- and I would have thought that impossible.”

“After all, Anne,” Lord Dorwich said, “empty heads count little. Father reminded me often enough that nurseries are filled ‘pas de la tete mais de la queue.’”

“Please, Milord,” Lady Dorwich said. George who had Miss Slater full in view during the enirety of Lord James’s comments, had not noticed the slightest response. She had neither looked down as a shy maiden -- or a maiden pretending shyness -- would have nor smiled at the mild ribaldry as a fashionable jade would have.

“And James,” Mrs. Grant said, “you ignored that advice as you did all of Father’s advice. Although even Father admits that the result of your ignoring this piece of advice was fortunate.”

“You know, M’love,” Lord Dorwich said, “Anne approves of you. Makes me doubt my decision.”

“You could go and live with the children in the south wing,” Mrs. Grant said. “I’m certain that Mother and Father would rather have you there than James.”

“Now, Anne,” Lady Dorwich said, “I am quite happy with my present arrangement. James may be annoying on occasion, but he is never dull.” At that point, a goose was brought in. Esther congratulated herself on not having taken any seconds on the previous courses. The conversation turned to politics. Lord George intended to attend the sessions of the House of Lords regularly.

“That is why I needed a London residence of my own,” he explained. “The sessions can last all night.”

“Yes, indeed,” Lord Dorwich replied. “But can you? I can dance until dawn, but I cannot listen to speeches until dawn. When I was young, MacTavish trained me to advocate on any subject in five minutes. We began with ten minutes, but he gradually reduced the time to five minutes. Then I had to expound the opposite view in equal time. Two hundred MacTavishes and the next generation of Parliament would have a House of Lords which met noon to dusk once a week.”

“Each speaker,” said Mrs. Grant, “taking ten minutes to expound both sides of each question. That is two thousand minutes. Something over thirty hours.”

“Thirty three hours and twenty minutes,” Esther had to say. After all, it was simple arithmetic. “That’s not counting the time to recognize each speaker.”

“Sounds no faster than the present system.”

“And,” Lady Dorwich pointed out, “we are unlikely to see two hundred men like Mr. MacTavish. One other would be a surprise. Another scheme for reforming Parliament goes awry.”

The goose was gone by this time, and a footman brought in a large tart. When Esther tasted it, she was happy that she had controlled her appetite during the previous courses. It was filled with pitted cherries and was the tastiest thing she had sampled in her life. She was considering whether to ask for seconds when Lord Dorwich asked for the last piece. Well, it would not have been polite to ask for more when her host was still hungry.

George saw Miss Slater’s disappointment. Rare presence or not, she was still a young chit with a taste for sweets. “Is there more tart?” he asked. Lady Lenora ordered another to be brought in. “Cut it in quarters,” he said. The butler did so. “Miss Slater will have one of those and I’ll have half of another.” They were served that way.

Esther was quite gratified that someone else had asked for more tart, and quite surprised that there was another. Did the Dorwich household have a kitchen or a bottomless cornucopia? Then, she was embarrassed that she was eating more of the dessert than anyone else. When she finished, Lady Dorwich rose. Mrs. Grant rose with her, and Lady Dorwich called to Esther. They left the room together.

“I am sorry,” Esther began to tell Lady Dorwich. She felt that the tart incident was a tremendous faux pas.

No reason to be sorry. We always leave the men together, even when it is so few of them. George and James will smoke a cigar. When James and I dine alone, I get up before he does, although he takes only a minute thereafter. It is an old custom, sensible at large dinners.”

“I am afraid that I know too few of the customs,” Esther admitted. “It seems strange for you to call your husband ‘Milord.’”

“That is not a common custom of the ton. I use that when I tease him or to express annoyance. Occasionally, as I told Anne, he can annoy me.”

“That, Miss Slater, is love talking. Truly, James is annoying only occasionally. The rest of the time, he is infuriating.”

“Do you have a brother, Miss Slater?” asked Lady Dorwich. “Do you ever quarrel with him?”

“I have two younger brothers,” she answered. Did she quarrel with them? She had. Not as openly as Mrs. Grant quarreled with her brother, though. Was it something that she wished to share with these two ladies, friendly as they were?

“I have two brothers, as well,” said Mrs. Grant, sparing her the necessity of either answering or declining the rest of the question. “I wager that they are more vexing than yours.”

“At least,” Lady Dorwich said, “you are more vexed with them. Is that difference because of their natures, or your nature? Perhaps Miss Slater has a more equitable temper than yours.”

“That is quite probable,” said Mrs. Grant. “Unless she dosed on laudanum this afternoon, she has a remarkably equitable temper. And, I must admit, mine is not particularly placid.”

“One Tarleton has a not particularly placid temper,” said Lady Dorwich, “and one river bottom is not particularly dry.” There was a stirring in the hall, and the Earls of Dorwich and Fenhurst came in the room.

“James,” said Mrs. Grant, “your wife implies that members of our family have not particularly placid tempers.”

“Lenora,” asked Lord Dorwich, “we have been married what? five years?”

“Five years come the ball.”

“And in all those years, you have never recognized my placidity, my reasonableness, my amenability? How could that possibly be?”

“Because they do not exist.”

“George,” Lord Dorwich turned his attention to the other man present. “Would you say that that was a reasonable answer to this conundrum?”

“Only,” said Lord George, “were I to be honest.” Lord Dorwich collapsed into a chair, luckily a quite sturdy one. He roared, the roars turning to loud laughter. It was minutes before he quieted and wiped tears from his eyes.

“Admit it, m’love,” he said. “That answer was better than yours, miles better. George, that is the comment of the evening.”

“If so,” said Lord George, “It would be foolish to try to top it. If Anne and Miss Slater are ready to leave, I shall take the two of them home.”

Mrs. Grant expressed her willingness, and Esther pinned up her hair before the footman helped her on with her hooded cloak. The evening showed no rain although the streets were still wet. Lord George helped Mrs. Grant into the coach and then helped Esther in after her. His touch warmed her hand even through the glove.

“Darrow House,” said Lord George. Then he climbed into the coach and sat facing them. Mrs. Grant and Lord George continued the conversation without any effort to include Esther. She was well content with that situation.

“Was my answer all that funny?” asked Lord George.

“Nothing is that funny. James enjoys his stubbornness, as I enjoy my own. He likes to think that he is the most stubborn man on earth. Perhaps he is the most stubborn man, but Lenora is as stubborn as he when she wishes to be. The woman is a saint for bearing the pains of marriage to that loon, and she greets the world with a smile so often.”

“Now, Anne,” was Lord George’s only answer to that. The coach soon came to a standstill. Lord George climbed down first and helped Anne down.

“Walk me to the door?” she asked. He did so. “George, about Miss Slater,” she began when they were well away from the coach. He merely pulled a questioning face. “You should not plan any haymow incidents with that one.”

“Haymow incident? Does Lionel tell you everything? Lady Lenora has already told me that Miss Slater is under her protection.”

“And, rightfully, under mine as well.”

“I intend no ill towards the chit. I merely find her voice pleasant. What is wrong with taking her home? You speak as though the good deed is something nefarious.” And, besides, the haymow had been Margaret’s idea. At fifteen, he had yearned for many; but he had possessed neither the skills nor the coin to seduce any.

“The good deed would have shone brighter were you to have taken Miss Slater home first,” Anne said. She knocked on the door and was admitted.

George returned to the coach and opened its door. He looked at the pretty chit sitting within.

“Miss Slater,” he asked. “What is your address?”

“Thirty two half Moon Street.” The coachman did not know the street.

“What is a large street that crosses that close to your house?”

“Piccadilly”

“Piccadilly he told the coachman. “And do not strain the horses.” He climbed into the coach and sat beside Miss Slater. “You are going to be late. What time do you usually get back on Saturday?”

Esther found the man sitting beside her slightly disturbing. But, after all, it was his coach. She could not expect him to ride backwards in it. But she was alone with him in the dimly-lit interior. And she could feel his thigh alongside hers. It must be the possible impropriety of this which disturbed her. It could not possibly be any attraction to him that made her heart beat faster. Well, he had asked a civil question. He deserved a civil answer.

“Yes, I shall be very late. I missed the class meeting this week. I normally get home perhaps half after noon or a little later. Classes end at noon, but we day girls take our time leaving. Then I have to walk home a mile and a half. The school is only about a mile away from our house as the crow flies, but I am no crow.”

“More of a meadowlark,” he said. Esther -- a London girl -- had no idea what one of these looked like or sounded like, but she knew she had been complimented. She blushed, hoping that this earl could not see it in the dimness. She needed to talk! She asked a question which had been bothering her.

“Are all aristocratic families like that? The arguments?”

“Not all aristocratic families are like any one thing. Your father is?”

“A cloth merchant.”

“And some cloth merchants cheat their customers, while others cheat their wives. If you doubt this, ask your father. That does not mean that he acts in that manner. Everything that you have heard about the ton does happen. That does not mean that everyone in the ton behaves that way. As for the arguments, you heard Dorwich about his training. He was taught to argue, and he thoroughly enjoys it. He laughed too loud at my quip, but he genuinely enjoyed it. The entire family enjoys argument and verbal duels. When first I heard Anne and James argue, I was tempted to take Anne’s side. She is, after all, my sister in law. Then, I learned that she will protect James as fiercely as she attacks him. She merely enjoys sparring with him. After all, she was there to help the Dorwich family by choice.

“To get back to the question, no! Few aristocratic families are like the Tarletons. Perhaps no other is. And the Tarleton sparring is not something to take seriously.”

“How can that be? I do not like arguing, even when it is over something important.”

“Nor do I, but others do. Do you play games with your friends? Do you ever run races?”

“I have. Every summer, my sister and I go to the park and race each other. I used to race my brothers. But Danny thinks playing with girls is bad now; and Sam is really too young. He is only eight.”

“Well, you like to run, and you like to win. Even when you like the person you are racing against, you enjoy beating them. Anne likes to argue, and she likes to win. She especially enjoys beating James because he is the most argumentative person she knows. It is not so far from your preferences, and it is not the ton. It is one large family.”

Some time in the midst of that speech, the coach had rolled to a stop. George threw open the door. “Your house?”

“Across the street.” He threw open the doors on the other side, and climbed down. He handed the lass down and watched until she had entered the door. A pleasant evening to end a productive day. A pleasant relationship over, definitely over. He had enjoyed listening to the lass, watching her, explaining things to her, and sitting with his thigh against her sweet thigh. Anne and Lady Lenora, however, had exaggerated, imagining that this liking was some sort of lust. It was an entirely innocent pleasure.


“Back at last?” Father asked Esther. “Why were you so late?”

“They had supper late and long. They called it ‘dinner.’ We finished our work before eight, but then they talked and ate supper and talked. Did you know that ladies leave the lords at the table so that they may smoke cigars? The lords smoke, I mean.”

“I knew something about that. You had fare for a hackney. Why did you not take one?”

“Nobody said to me that it would go on so long. Nobody told me the time.” All this was true, but she had not considered coming home earlier. The sovereign was payment for the evening, but so was the insight into another world -- and the lovely cherry tart was payment as well.

“We saved some supper for you.”

“I ate very well.”

“And why did the coach sit still out there for minutes before you got out?”

“Lord George, who brought me home, was explaining something. I was his guest. Would you have me interrupt him?”

“Lord George? Pretty familiar language. What did he call you, ‘Popsie’?”

“That was how he was introduced. The others all called each other by first names. They all called me ‘Miss Slater.’ I doubt whether anyone but Lady Dorwich knows my first name.”

“You missed your class meeting.”

“Yes, I knew I would.”

“And now what do you think of the aristocracy?”

“They have some strange habits. But those I met were unfailingly courteous. They did not have to bring me home, you know.” The courtesy, although she would never dare say so, was a remarkable contrast to the interrogation Father was putting her through. The hour was late, and she needed her sleep.

The next morning, she had to stifle her yawns all through the service at Chapel. It was the short sleep, but Father would have interpreted it as boredom with the sermon. At Sunday dinner, he renewed his questions about the aristocracy.

“Lord George, the Earl who brought me home in his carriage, said that I had only seen one family of the aristocracy. They are as different as other groups. He said that some cloth merchants cheated their customers, and I should ask you whether that were true. He said that this does not mean that you cheat your customers.” She dare not mention cheating their wives, not at Sunday dinner. “He said that everything I had heard about the aristocracy was true of some aristocrats, but not necessarily true of all of them.”

“An interesting argument,” Father said. “Did he mention His Majesty?”

“Nobody did. Aside from those present, the person most discussed was a baby. Mrs. Grant, who was there with Lady Dorwich, talked about her young son. Lady Dorwich spoke about her children, as well. And they spoke about the members of the Royal Society who had been present at an earlier dinner at Dorwich House. Mostly, though, they spoke of people who were present. The have what they call ‘luncheon’ at dinner time, except later than we have dinner. And they have what they call ‘dinner’ as a late supper. When they have finished eating dinner, the women all rise and go into a parlor so that the men can smoke a cigar. They serve one thing at a time, soup, fish, roast beef, goose, dessert. They certainly eat a great deal.

“Is what Lord George said true, Father? Are there cloth merchants who cheat?”

“There are cheats in every trade, Esther.”

“Then,” she pressed on, “his argument was that you should not judge those I met because other aristocrats live bad lives.”

“Perhaps. And what does Lord George do?”

“He plans to attend the House of Lords. Apparently, he just came up from the country.”

“So, he does no evil that we know about, and has done no good that we can imagine. How old is he?”

“I am a poor judge of that. I would guess about thirty.”

“Daniel is little more than half that, but Daniel has his chores as well as his studies. Daniel is a boy,” Father finished, “but I think him more of a man than your aristocrat.”

Peter Slater considered himself a merchant of woolen cloth, as Esther had reported. His grandfather had been a weaver who sold first his and then his friends’ product directly to tailors. His father had been a merchant who invested some of his profits in a weaving mill. Peter would readily have admitted that he had many more employees in his mills than in his wholesale establishment.

In reality, he was something new in the world, something for which the name ‘capitalist’ had not yet evolved enough to cover adequately. He kept his family in a degree of comfort that he sometimes had to defend at class meetings, but a large majority of his profits were being reinvested in expanding his business. His sort of people had only a fraction of the income of the aristocracy, but they would invest so much of it over the next century that they would build the first industrial state.


At l’Ecole Gallienne, the other girls had a much better opinion of Esther’s report than her father had expressed. They were fascinated with her stories and asked for more than she could give.

“Lady Dorwich was carrying a child when she last spoke here. It must have been born months ago. Did you see the baby?”

“No. I did not.” Which was understandable. What was more puzzling was that Lady Dorwich had not left her presence long enough to spend any time with the child. She spoke of her children, but did not seem to have spoken to them.

“Is Lord Dorwich as tall and handsome as they say?”

“He is tall. I seldom have seen a taller man. He is good looking, I grant, but not as good looking as the other earl who was there.” They were much impressed by her tale of being brought home by an actual lord. For a while, some took to calling her ‘milady.’ That embarrassed Esther and led her to apologize to Margaret, a year younger and daughter of an actual baronet.

“Why say that you are sorry?” asked Margaret. “It is far from your choice. I am just happy that they have decided to tease you and not me. And, really Esther, they tease because they are jealous about your getting chosen for your handwriting. You do have a lovely hand. There will soon be another contest or an examination. Someone else will come in first, and everybody will tease her.”

If Esther strained to remember each detail of her time in Dorwich House to share with her schoolmates, she exerted even more effort to forget the disturbing ride home beside Lord George. And she never mentioned her feelings that night to anyone. He had merely been sitting beside her. If their thighs had touched, it was quite innocent and through many layers of cloth, including two cloaks. The only touch of his hand had been on hers -- both of them gloved against the cold -- when he had helped her into and out of the coach.


George was remembering the same ride, with less effort to forget. He was, as he had intended, attending Lords each day, and he was finding it deadly dull. To become law, a bill had to pass both houses. If the importance of the debate was equal, the quality was not. The two best speakers of the times, Mr. Pitt and Mr. Wilberforce, were in Commons. The real distinction, though, was not at the top but at the bottom. Despite the complaints about ‘rotten boroughs,’ where one landowner named the MP from a once-thriving district which was now unpopulated or even under water, most of the members had to address the electorate in order to sit in Commons. Frequently, the better speaker won; almost never was a truly enervating speaker elected. Aside from a few bishops, membership in Lords required only perspicacious choice of a father. Lack of oratorical skills did not lead to lack of oratorical ambition, and peers droned on making their points, or missing them, for hours.

When one of the lesser lights began to drone, George set his face to reflect that he was listening intently -- were the speaker a Tory -- or disapprovingly -- were the speaker a Whig -- and actually thought of something more pleasant. Appearing to pay attention was the first and most important skill one learned in the ton. Over the week, his memories of Miss Slater recurred as one of the thoughts which was most pleasant. Her voice, her hair, her composure in a situation utterly new to her, the gusto with which she had enjoyed the sweet. The debutantes of the ton affected a blase ennui; here was a girl of that age -- apparently a year or two older than a debutante-- who took pleasure in a simple cherry tart, and expressed that pleasure. Perhaps the high point of these memories was having his thigh rest against the soft curve of hers. George could imagine stroking that thigh without all those intervening layers of cloth.

He could imagine it, but the child was under Anne’s protection. He was bound to treat her as a gentlewoman. Still, that did not prevent him from extending his acquaintance with her. On Wednesday morning, he ordered his valet, Ian, to obtain a map of London streets and find where l’Ecole Gallienne was located. On Thursday morning, he consulted his coachman, Nicholas, on the location of the Slater house. A coachman remembered the location of any address he had located once; he might be ordered to drive there again. George spent Friday morning tracing the most likely route from the school to the home. At ten minutes after noon on Saturday, he drove his curricle past l’Ecole Gallienne on that route. There were several girls walking along, and none of them wore the hooded cloak he remembered. It was difficult to pick out Miss Slater from among the cloak backs and bonnets on the street.

“Miss Slater,” he called when he passed one cluster.

“Esther,” several of the girls called at once. “Esther,” a single loud voice continued, “he wants you.” A figure from further ahead turned. It was she.

“Yes?” she answered in her lovely tones. He flicked the reins and drove the carriage near her.

“Miss Slater, may I take you home?” She walked out into the street. He pulled back the lap robe before she climbed in the carriage. He covered her with the robe and carefully tucked it around her hips. This could not be considered taking liberties. He imagined what it would be like to stroke that hip without the robe, cloak, and many other layers of cloth; but ‘The thought of man is not triable.’ He straightened and flicked the reins again. The curricle started out. He drove towards Piccadilly instead of turning the corner.

“This is not the way to my house, milord,” she said. He had her voice in his ear and her hip against his again.

“Probably not the shortest way, but you directed the coach by way of Piccadilly.” He was an honest man. He would not deny that he had studied the map were she to ask. If she did not ask, how was he obliged to tell her? He felt her relax beside him. “You will be home earlier than you usually are.

“Is that your name, Esther? Is that what your friends call you?”

“Yes.” The feeling in his thigh, not only the touch but the comfort of spreading warmth under the lap robe knowing that it was warmth from this young miss, was pleasant. His ears, however, would not share the pleasure unless he received longer answers than that. He turned onto Piccadilly and inobtrusively slowed the horses.

“What is your schedule of lessons on Saturday?” She responded quite readily and quite musically. “And on weekdays?” This differed from one day to the next, but she told him each day. The school did not have sports, perhaps girls’ schools did not. “Which brings you out when?”

“Classes end at six o’clock. That means walking home in the dark most of the year.” He took her ‘six’ with a grain of salt. He realized that she had told him that classes ended at noon on Saturday, and the school sat down to dinner at noon. Even if schoolgirls moved more rapidly and less rowdily than schoolboys, both could not be true. But this information was a boon beyond the simple sound of her voice.

“I live in an apartment quite near the school,” he said. “If I am out at that hour, I might drive by and offer you another ride.”

“Oh, milord, that is quite unnecessary. This ride was more than I needed.”

“The pleasure was mine.” Which was an inoffensive platitude, however true it was in this particular situation. He turned into Half Moon Street. “Call when we near your house. I only saw it in the dark.”

“There it is, milord. third from the corner,” she said soon. She pointed. He reined the horses in right in front of her stairs, and pulled back the lap robe. He was going to offer his hand to help her get down, but she did not even look for it. He watched her climb the stairs while he memorized the appearance of cloak and bonnet. With any luck, she would wear one or the other on Monday. He would hear fewer of the debates in Lords, but it would be a great loss neither to him nor to that august assembly.


Esther’s mother noticed that she had arrived earlier than usual on a Saturday. “You may help Alice set the table,” was her only comment. The Slater’s had servants, but the family members were not too good to work. Work was part of life, for both women and men; boys and girls should get the experience. When they sat down to dinner, the last word that Esther spoke, the last word she was expected to speak, was ‘amen.’ Father and mother spoke little, and the children less. That left Esther thinking about the food and the class meeting scheduled for that night.

The main question was whether she should mention the two rides beside the earl. Again, Esther had been disturbed by Lord George’s presence this noon. And, yet, he had done nothing exceptionable, and she certainly had done nothing exceptionable. The problem was not that people sitting beside each other in coach or curricle touched. The problem was the feelings this particular touch aroused in Esther. And, yet, those feelings were far from what she pictured as lust. Rather than wildness, she had felt somewhat nervous from his proximity. Contradicting this, she had felt comfort. She could walk the distance any time, and she still had nineteen shillings nine pence left from the pound Lady Dorwich had paid her, had she needed hackney fare. She would have spent another half penny on candy on her way home if Lord James had not given her that ride, but she had enjoyed riding beside him more.

She went to the class meeting after supper. It was led by Mrs. Jennings, and included fourteen women and girls. Esther decided not to mention her feelings on the rides. This was less because of her embarrassment over her feelings than because of her inability to say what those feelings were. She confessed to the gluttony of buying and eating candy for five days running, instead. Even though she had shared a few pieces with Deborah, especially on Monday, a half penny bought a good deal of candy.


Monday, George left Lords early. He was driving his curricle in front of l’Ecole Gallienne when the church clocks struck six. After riding around the block, he saw the girls spilling out of the front door. He reined the horses in until he saw Miss Slater in the light spilling from the open door to the school. She was wearing the same cloak and same bonnet as she had Saturday. He kept his eyes on the shape as the horses moved the carriage up the street.

“Miss Slater,” he called. She looked up, hesitated, came over to the curricle. “May I offer you a ride home?”

The girls had teased Esther about her second ride; the third one would be the talk of the school tomorrow. She had enjoyed the ride, however. And refusing the ride would merely change the form of the teasing. Esther got in the curricle and felt him tuck the lap robe around her.

“Thank you, milord.”

“The pleasure is all mine. I shall get you home in half an hour.” The comment was puzzling. Despite the traffic, horses in the street were moving at much greater speed than she achieved afoot. She could direct him on the fastest route. Suddenly, she decided not to do so. She enjoyed the ride; why work to make it end? Besides, correcting one of her elders was rude, probably twice as rude when the elder was a belted earl.

George, with the delightful shape tucked in beside him, started questioning her to hear the delightful voice in his ear. True to his word, he let her out in front of her house at half past six.

Like his fellows, George was dedicated to pleasure. He had found a subtler pleasure than they had. He had an early supper at White’s and finished the night listening to the debate at Lords. Tuesday began the same way, but he returned home and changed to attend a ball afterwards. He was fashionably late. The debutantes were nervous, the mamas were relentless, and the other matrons were blase. His dinner partner was one of the latter. She drew him out expertly, and he thought her expression was an even better pretense at interest than the one he wore in Lords.


Wednesday, a question about Esther’s week brought a report that she had especially enjoyed Chapel because one of the hymns that they sang was her particular favorite.

“And what is that?” he asked.

“Come Thou Long-Expected Jesus.”

“That is not one with which I am familiar,” he said, not actually saying -- if implying -- that there were some hymns with which he was familiar. “Can you sing it?” So, she did. If her speaking voice was musical, her singing voice was heavenly. He asked her for another and another until they turned into her block at nearly a quarter to seven. Thursday, she regaled him with more hymns. George was pleased by her voice and by sitting pressed tight against her in the curricle. Every day, he edged slightly more toward the center before picking her up. He was displeased by her news that Saturday would be the last day of school before a long, three-week break.

Esther, on the other hand, was pleased on both grounds. Her moral qualms were quieted. What better way to spend the trip home from school than in singing hymns? Besides, she liked singing. For that matter, she liked sitting pressed up against the earl. On the other hand, she had days of rest and worship ahead of her and money in her pocket to treat her brothers and sisters to Christmas candy. The Slater family did not succumb to the nearly-pagan custom of Christmas gifts. She would miss Lord George, but she had never expected him to be there regularly. He certainly had never suggested whether she would see him even the next day.

Esther’s rides home, which had been the hottest gossip in the school once, had slowly turned into old news when she pretended indifference to the teasing. L’Ecole Gallienne was a unique institution in that students came from both different neighborhoods of London (and different areas of England) and different classes of society. School gossip never became local gossip because there were almost no girls who knew one another outside of school. She wondered whether these trips would end with the Christmas break; she wanted them to continue, but they were quite beyond her control. Would she talk about them this Saturday in the class meeting? If so, how could they be described?


George called for a supper in his apartment. Ian served him, and he spoke to nobody else. For his class and time, George was nearly ascetic. He had never been drunk enough to either fight or vomit since coming down from Cambridge. He had never had a mistress, and he had never flaunted his whores. His worst gambling loss had been two months allowance, not his patrimony. He was, however, a member of his class. He had received what he wanted in the past, and he expected to receive what he wanted in the future. Now, he wanted the company -- more than the company, if truth be told -- of Miss Esther Slater. And, he would soon be deprived of her company for three weeks. This put him in a foul mood, and he drank a bottle more than he should have. Ian brought him tea at his normal, nine o’clock, rising time. Then he left him in bed to sleep it off more comfortably. When George rang at ten, Ian carried another pot of tea upstairs. He expected an angry employer, but George was in a different mood.

George was planning. Indeed, he was plotting.

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