Chapter 4
It was hot, frighteningly so, and Ruby found herself deeply grateful that fashions were changing.
Yes, skirts were still large, hair was still curled high, but there were not the wide panniers that were popular five years ago.
It seemed as if the current political state in France and, well, in the world, meant that ladies were able to get rid of layer after layer.
And she liked the idea of stripping down, perhaps even to nothing!
How exciting would that be?
And as she strode into the grand entrance of her father’s townhome, Lynchfield House, in the most affluent area of London, she pulled out her long bejeweled hat pin and tossed her befeathered chapeau upon one of the elaborate French chairs tucked against the striped wall.
She passed grand mirror after grand mirror surrounded by golden filigree, painting after painting done by the grand masters, and she didn’t think a moment of it. Why should she?
After all, her entire life had been one in which she had been bathed in the opulence of wealth, abundance, and great art.
Oh, she still appreciated it. She was more than painfully aware of the difference between her many homes and a worker’s cottage. Most of her set had never even seen a worker’s cottage.
But unlike most of the ton, she and her father were not monsters. They had no wish to go the way of the lords in France, who did not give one fig for the people of their country or their struggles to put bread in their children’s mouths.
She and her father worked very hard to make sure the lives of the people on their lands were good. There was no damp, no mold, and there were certainly no rotten roofs. No one went hungry on her estates, and they never would.
If she had her way, there wouldn’t be a hungry mouth in the world. She thought that the more one had, the more one was obliged to give away, to ensure that those who did not even know that there were stars could at least one day see them.
Too many people were born under the cloudy hue of industrial towns. Because of this, many had never seen clear air and clean water.
She had grown up in the beautiful, bucolic countryside where crystalline streams had reflected crystal-blue skies. Green fields waved, ripe with grain. And she? Well, she had had her choice of horses to ride amongst the cattle and sheep that made her family so very wealthy.
Land was not the only thing that gave her family wealth, but it was certainly a good part of it.
As she strode out to the pavilion her father had had erected in a rather opulent style, she couldn’t stop her lips from twitching because she could hear her father engaging in one of his favorite and most eccentric pastimes: conversing with his parrots.
“Yes, darling,” her father cooed. “Do you like this new treat?”
Her father had been feeding the parrots various kinds of fruit, trying to decide which they liked best.
Her father liked parrots better than people, and she supposed she understood why.
The parrots were beautiful. The parrots paid him attention. The parrots did not cause a great deal of difficulty, though they could be quite cheeky.
Whatever made her father happy made her happy. And if he wished to feed the parrots all sorts of things, she would not cry foul, unless he fed them pineapples. That would be a step too far.
Even she thought that the idea of feeding something as shockingly expensive as a pineapple to a parrot was a step beyond the pale, especially in today’s times. One had to understand just where one was at, lest they end up with a recurrence of the riots that happened not so long ago.
“Papa,” she called. “Are your birds pleased today?”
Her father whipped around at the center of his beautiful pavilion decked in red, blue, green, and golden flags.
He was dressed in a banyan that was positively magnificent and cape-like.
It wrapped about his tall figure, for her father was six foot five, an absolute towering man, and he lifted his hand covered with jeweled rings.
He waited for his favorite bird, Philippe, to come and land upon it.
Philippe did.
Philippe was an impressive red fellow with all sorts of colorful plumage, and the creature let out the strange caw that was its own before saying, “Ruby. Ruby. Horse. Ruby. Horse.”
She let out a bemused laugh. “Papa, are you teaching your parrots that I love horses?”
“Ruby loves horses,” Philippe said.
“I don’t know, my dear,” her father said with a grin. “Whatever makes you think that?”
And then all the parrots, for there were quite a few, seemed to go off in a crow of delight, saying various words, some of them rather rude.
“Papa,” she exclaimed. “You made me learn manners. You should make them learn them too.”
“I did make you learn manners,” her father allowed, stroking Phillipe’s crimson plumage. “But that doesn’t mean that you don’t use rude words on occasion, my dear. Isn’t that true?”
She rolled her eyes playfully. “I suppose, Papa, but I am a fully grown woman. I’d be allowed to use whatever words I want, if society wouldn’t be so foolish.”
He rolled his eyes, mocking her kindly, and then gave his bird a quick peck on the bill.
She couldn’t blame her father for giving so much affection to the birds. After all, her mother was gone most of the time. She herself was out most of the time, and he preferred to be alone.
There was no one to soothe his feelings except his daughter, and she had much to do.
Her father’s isolation meant that he liked to be in the pavilion, doing his work. She liked to be out in the world. And her mother preferred to be in every spa town in Europe. Or in tents in the far-flung regions of the world, depending on her whim.
The countess had recently been in Paris, but she had departed since the city was exploding with danger. Ruby’s mother had arrived just the night before, under the premise, of course, that she was going to help launch Ruby with her first Season.
The idea was ridiculous, of course. Her mother had not given much attention to her education or the Season that she was going to have, but Ruby couldn’t begrudge her mother.
Her mother was an unsatisfied, extremely intelligent woman who probably would have been much happier governing the country.
But she had not been born a man, and so had gone from place to place, gambling away as much money as she possibly could, taking on lover after lover.
Her father had not gone from spa town to spa town, but he too had taken lover after lover.
Her mother’s letters and the gossip that followed had been a most interesting education for Ruby, and she supposed she would do the same when she got married. Though she rather hoped not, because neither of her parents seemed particularly happy.
Perhaps she just wouldn’t marry at all. She knew she was supposed to produce an heir, but it seemed like an awful lot of nonsense and misery for one tiny, little person to carry on and produce more tiny, little people who grew up to be miserable, difficult humans.
What was it for? More wealth? More land? More jewels?
No, far better to support the artists and the scientists of this world who produced wonderful and beautiful things. And of course to purchase racehorses and cause difficulty for all the men in the world who insisted on keeping ladies down.
That would be enough for her.
Though…Viscount Skyburn was certainly interesting. If she were to marry… She shook the thought away quickly.
“Whatever are we going to do with Mama?” she said at last.
Her father’s lips pursed as if he had sucked upon a lemon. “I don’t really want to think about it. Did you get your horse, my darling?”
“No, the Arabians have not arrived,” she informed him as she flung herself down into a wicker chair covered in green cushions. She sank so deeply into them that she nearly disappeared. “The Duke of Windbourne has apparently been delayed in Calais. They should arrive by tomorrow.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry, my sweet,” the earl said. “That must have been quite frustrating for you.”
“Well, it was,” she agreed, even as her cheeks heated. “But I was entertained in other ways.”
“Oh, yes?” her father asked as he fed a bit of apple to Philippe. Philippe fluffed his feathers, quite pleased.
She cleared her throat, examined her nails, and said, “I met Viscount Skyburn. What do you know about him?”
“Skyburn,” her father blurted, whipping towards her, his banyan shimmering like a wave in the bright light pouring into the pavilion.
As he twirled, his banyan flickered behind him.
He crossed to the table whereupon a bottle of chilled champagne waited, swiftly poured himself a glass, and then lifted a brow, clearly intending to offer her one.
“No, thank you, Papa. I wish to keep my wits about me,” she said.
Her father tsked, all the while juggling Phillipe, his glass, and his champagne. “Wits are meant to be dulled. Mine are far too intense, as they are.”
It was true. Her father’s wits were very intense, as were his feelings, and he often took to drinking several glasses of champagne a day to ensure that he could find the world and the people in it palatable.
She didn’t think this was particularly a good idea, but she wasn’t about to begrudge her darling papa whatever helped him get through.
Sometimes she thought it would be best if they all just sold everything, or even ran away from it all, and headed off to parts unknown, climbed hills, bathed in streams, and behaved as ancient people apparently had, singing songs to the mountain and looking up at the god of the sky.
She rather thought everyone would be happier if they just eschewed all clothes and ran about naked, perhaps not in a cold place, of course. But then that made it rather difficult because she did tend to burn in the sun.
Much to her frustration, she needed an exceptionally large hat or she turned into a cooked lobster.
Still, she liked the idea of her fantasy, but fantasies were fantasies, and she was a pragmatist.
“Well,” her father said, “his father was a very awful human being. I can tell you what I know of his father. He was just awful. Like me.”
“You’re not awful, Papa,” she said with a gasp, horrified he’d say such a thing.
“Yes. Thank you, my darling,” he said gently. “I appreciate that, but it’s taken years of effort for me to not be truly terrible. Skyburn’s father was moody, up and down, he drank too much, gambled too much, and had a host of mistresses.”
“Dear Papa, that doesn’t sound like you.”
“Not now,” he said. He gazed off into the distance and his face tensed, haunted. “But once…” He swallowed. “Of course, I never lost when I gambled.”
She smiled, wishing she could take her father’s regret away. But she knew she couldn’t. It had become a part of him. “Tell me more.”
“Skyburn’s father was foul-tempered,” he said softly, as if thinking on a memory that rubbed salt in a wound that hadn’t healed. “He fought a few duels, killed a few fellows, and was renowned for treating his wife appallingly, and some say his child too.”
She sucked in a sharp breath. “Really?” she asked. “How terrible.”
Although she knew it was actually quite common in the ton. One would have thought that families who had abundance would treat their children far better than the working class. As far as she could see, it wasn’t true.
Men who were unhappy existed in all the classes, and they had a tendency to take out that unhappiness on those who were weaker than them, namely their wives and children.
Now, she knew how to use a pistol, a dagger, or a poker better than anyone, and so she did not consider herself to be weaker than the male sex.
She was also extremely educated, but, that said, she suddenly wondered if Viscount Skyburn, that magnificent fellow, had once been a little boy standing in the shadow of a great and angry man.
It made her heart rather sad to think so, because she had never stood in the shadow of an angry man. No, her father had always showed her a great deal of love, and her mother too, in her own way.
What a misfortune it would have been for Skyburn.
Perhaps she should try to cheer him up. Perhaps she should run the other way. But as he had observed, she wasn’t one for running, but she did love a good cheering up.
“I think I know what I’m going to do this Season, Papa.”
“Find a husband?” he asked.
“Possibly, but I think I’m going to play with the viscount.”
“Oh God,” he groaned. “Don’t do that.”
“Why not, Papa?”
“Because he has to get married at some point, and if you play with him, you’ll ruin him for everyone else.”
She beamed before she laughed. “Thank you, Papa. I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”