Proper English

by K.J. Charles

Jimmy was with them, looking as if he’d been squeezed into his evening dress, and on his arm was the loveliest girl Pat had ever seen. Miss Fenella Carruth was irresistible. She had brown hair that the candlelight picked out in glints of copper, bronze, and gold, and big sparkling pansy-brown eyes in a heart-shaped face made for laughter. She wore a gown that even Pat could tell was desperately fashionable and which had obviously been tailored to display a delightfully plump figure to its best advantage without squeezing her into a wasp waist, a task to which no whalebone could have been equal. The gown, of a soft pink, was adorned with a profusion of bows and lace that would have looked absurd on Pat and suited Miss Carruth to perfection. She had plenty of bosom on display, and plenty of jewellery on it, a three-stringed necklace of rose-coloured stones that glittered over her fair skin. Her hair was beautifully dressed in artful ringlets, her rounded arms were adorned by bracelets; she looked like the kind of woman that angular, plain Pat could never have been, and had never particularly wanted to be. She’d never aspired to turn heads; she truly didn’t think she was jealous of those who did.

But oh, she ached at the sight of Fenella Carruth, lovely in the candlelight.

“Well, someone has to shoot those partridges before the sauce goes on, and I see no reason it shouldn’t be me.” Pat sounded a little aggressive in her own ears, but Miss Carruth let out a chirp of laughter.

“Maybe Miss Singh could teach you to shoot a bow,” Pat suggested. “If Miss Carruth is interested. Although it can be more difficult for ladies with substantial embonpoint.” “Oh, I know,” Miss Carruth said. “Amazons used to cut off their bosoms, didn’t they? I shan’t be doing that.” She glanced down at her impressive bust. Pat couldn’t help following her gaze. “No, it would get in the way, wouldn’t it? I’ll stick to guns, I think.”

The men had joined the ladies after half an hour or so, and instantly ruined the comfortable atmosphere they’d developed.

It seemed greedy to demand perfect compatibility if one’s prospective spouse also had a kind heart, overflowing coffers, and that bosom. Not that it was any of Pat’s business, because the woman was marrying Jimmy. Lucky bloody Jimmy.

“Now hold on,” Pat said, suddenly roused on Miss Carruth’s behalf. “If a woman is brought up to do nothing except get married and mix in society, it’s hardly fair to blame her for carrying out the job she was given. If you didn’t want that sort of woman you shouldn’t have proposed to one, and having done so, it’s hardly fair to criticise her for it.”

Pat knew she should encourage him to put some effort into his engagement. She didn’t.

She didn’t think Jimmy would serve her such a trick, but he was a man, so her expectations were low.

She took hold of Miss Carruth’s plump arm, feeling a slight tremor—that would be the unaccustomed muscular effort, nothing else—and adjusted her stance. If that meant a certain amount of standing very close to Miss Carruth’s warmth, inhaling her scent, it couldn’t be helped.

“I should love a next time,” Miss Carruth assured her. “I might cry if you denied it to me. I actually think I might be able to do this and I cannot tell you how good that feels. Thank you so much for giving me your kindness and your time, Miss Merton— Oh, but that sounds so formal when you’ve told me off and taught me to use a gun. May I call you Patricia?” “Nobody is permitted to do that, but please do call me Pat.” Miss Carruth positively glowed. “And I’m Fenella. Fen. Don’t we sound brusque? Pat and Fen.”

She smiled then—not the blinding beam full of merriment, but a smaller, quieter expression. It was a serious smile, if such a thing were possible, and Pat stared at her and found no breath in her lungs and nothing to say.

And she was lovely, too, with those bright eyes and soft, generous curves, which wasn’t relevant to her moral character but undeniably occupied quite a lot of Pat’s attention.

“To be honest, if I had to marry, I’d far prefer a husband who was mostly unaware of my existence.” Fen gave a yelp of laughter. “Pat!” “Well, I don’t see the appeal,” Pat said, grinning.

“You’re awfully down on yourself, and I don’t see why,” Pat said. “There’s nothing in the world wrong with you, including your laugh.” She didn’t mention the bosom, with which there was absolutely nothing wrong at all. Quite the opposite.

“I don’t understand how anyone could not see you,” Pat said again. “I don’t see how they couldn’t look. I don’t see how they could stop.”

“Outstanding?” Fen shifted round, facing Pat, and moved her hands to cup the sides of her spectacular décolletage, giving it all a gentle, slightly jiggly boost upwards. “Would you say so?” Pat couldn’t look away. Nobody could, from that expanse of creamy skin. “I... well, it’s certainly standing out. In that dress, I mean. Yes. Not—it’s not just the dress,” she added hastily. “It’s definitely the bosom.”

Fen gave a laugh that might have been a sob. “Oh goodness. Sitting on a bed in satin and jewels, with beer and sandwiches.” “Better a dinner of ham sandwiches where love is, than a stalled ox and hatred therewith,” Pat misquoted.

“I don’t want to go from my father’s household to a husband. I want to find out more about what I can do, which is more than who I can persuade to marry me. I want—I don’t know if you realise what you look like when you shoot, Pat. Utterly focused, and confident, and your whole body and face and everything caught up in it, and you radiate knowing what you’re doing. That’s what I want. To find that balance that you have, that certainty. Everyone says a woman has to get married to settle down—to have someone else possess her—but you’re self-possessed. That’s what I want.”

Sitting on this miserable dress.” She tugged at fabric to no avail. “Take it off,” Pat said, and clapped her hand to her mouth as Fen’s eyes widened. “I meant, take it out. From under you. I really did mean that.” “How disappointing.” Fen’s eyes were sparkling bright. “Would off be bad?”

Fen stood, shaking out the sadly crumpled dress and holding up the tendrils of hair. Pat stood behind her, unfastening each in the long row of tiny buttons, one by one, exposing a V of creamy skin and then the lacing of a corset, cinching Fen’s flesh. She ran her finger along the top of it, felt Fen shiver.

“I think you should probably assume I’m a novice. You?” “Finishing school,” Fen said elliptically. “Can I be the instructor now?” “Please be the instructor.”

“So, just to be sure, you definitely don’t want me to not stop continuing?”

“No, odalisque. You know.” Pat wasn’t sure of the definition herself, now she came to think about it. “A voluptuous barely-clad lady in a painting looking no better than she should be. Except you couldn’t get any better.” “On the contrary,” Fen said with a luxurious stretch. “I could be dramatically better. Try it and see. And don’t forget, you want me to squeal.”

“Actually, Jimmy ended it.” Bill blinked. “He did?” “With the admission that he was entirely at fault, of course. He told her Haworth was right and that he’s been in love with someone else all along, which is of course dastardly, but at least Fen knows that it isn’t anything to do with her. Not that it must be very nice to be sought after for one’s money, but—” “Sorry, sorry,” Bill said. “He told Miss Carruth what?” “Oh, a lot of romantic stuff about how he hadn’t realised he was dreadfully in love with this other girl until it was too late. You must surely know about her? Or is he keeping this a deep dark secret from everyone?” Bill cleared his throat. “I’d an idea, yes.”

ITS BILL

“I really don’t know why you’re all making such a fuss,” Lady Anna said. “None of you care for him in the slightest. He’s probably fallen asleep on a sofa and he won’t thank you for drawing attention to it.” “He’s probably stuck a needleful of some garbage into his arm and passed out, is what he’s probably done,” Jimmy said, with sudden savagery.

“Good. Get along now. Miss Merton will be in here tonight, so she can unbutton me, if you shouldn’t mind, Pat.” “Not at all.”

Lol

Jack’s well-shaped brows rose steeply.

“Did you stay here alone?” Pat pressed. “I’m afraid I’m not willing to comment at the moment.” “I beg your pardon?” Bill said.

“Was anyone else with you?” Bill asked. “No, dear fellow. That was the point.”

“If he and Jimmy get their stories straight before the police arrive, it would be a jolly good thing,” Fen said, with breathtaking disregard for the rule of law. “And I’ll tell you something else, too. It’s nonsense to say Haworth ended my engagement. You did that.”

You’re beautiful and kind and—champagne, everything about you is champagne.

“Like Oscar Wilde,” Pat said. “Or Mr. Grisham in the village with his old Navy colleague. I understand that perfectly well.” Bill gaped. “Who the devil told you about Oscar Wilde?” “Daddy, of course. I asked him. I was reading the papers to him around that time because his eyesight had failed, and I wanted to know what all the veiled allusions were about. What I meant was—well, for pity’s sake, Bill, Jimmy got engaged to Fen!”

Pat suspected that covered a great deal of desire, desperation, love, and pain, none of which she wanted to hear about from her brother.

“Oh, you’d have been perfectly sensible. You aren’t at the mercy of the sex feeling, with emotions flying all over the place. It must be marvellous.” “Just a moment,” Pat said. “The fact that I don’t make a God-awful fuss about everything doesn’t mean I don’t have a private life. I simply conduct it with a bit more dignity than some people I could mention.”

the sex feeling

Bill stood unmoving for a moment. Then he said, slowly, “So we—brother and sister—came here to visit an engaged couple, and now—” Pat felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “Must you put it like that?” “Oh dear God. Dear God almighty. Who the blazes cast a pair of Mertons in a French novel?”

“Oh, Pat,” Fen said. “You are wonderful.”

Jimmy as family representative and Bill as intellectually competent adult

“I hope it is,” Pat said, which was as close as she could reasonably come to You had better love my brother and cherish him, James Yoxall, or the next person I hold at gunpoint will be you.

“How many country-house murders do you think we’re likely to encounter?”

lol