Rose had read a good number of Mr. Shaughnessy’s columns. She had an idea of the sort of things he wrote. She doubted anything he could write would shock her—and if Patricia only knew the sorts of things he was saying to her face, she’d know that she would need a more powerful arsenal than a few lines in a newspaper. Still, Rose dutifully picked up the paper.
Dear Man, she read. I am sorry to say that I have spent the last five years in a madhouse. My uncle and guardian had me put there when I refused to marry my cousin. I passed my time in that horrible place by making a list of all the things I would do if ever I were released. Now he is dead and I am free, but I find I cannot bring myself to do even one of them. How does one go about setting oneself free?
—Not Mad.
Rose swallowed hard and read on.
Dear Not Mad,
Normally I approach my columns with a certain amount of jocularity. (Never tell this to my readers; they would never believe it.) But your situation has moved me to seriousness. You must work yourself up to your desires, bit by bit. Before you can dance on your uncle’s grave (I assume this to be on your list), you must first visit it and stand upon the grass. On the next visit, be sure to tap your toe and hum a ditty. Before you know it, you’ll be waltzing in the cemetery.
Should you need a dancing partner, consider yours truly.
Sincerely,
Stephen Shaughnessy
Actual Man
“You see?” Patricia said. “He’s flirting—publicly—with another woman. That’s the sort of man he is. Just keep that in mind the next time you encounter him.” She nodded as if she had proven a point.
Rose shook her head. It wasn’t flirting, no more than the time he’d done the Actual Man thing to Mrs. Barnstable had been flirting. It was…kind of him, in a sweet, outrageous sort of way. It hurt to read it, not because she thought him unfaithful, but because she could hear him in it, all of him.
I don’t have hidden shallows, he’d told her. Maybe he didn’t. She suspected that if she judged him by his column, she would see…
A man who offered to dance with a woman who had been badly wounded. A man who mocked other men when they made too much of their own importance. A man who wished to make others laugh, even when they suffered. She had never looked at him and seen a bad man, and the more she looked, the deeper she fell.
That, perhaps, made him the most dangerous specimen of all.
He liked people. He liked her. She suspected he’d told her the simple truth: He wasn’t trying to seduce her.
He was just succeeding at it.
“THIS WILL BE OUR LAST LESSON,” Rose said, when Mr. Shaughnessy had settled himself into her office two days later. “There is only so much you need to learn, and after tomorrow I shall be flooded with work. We’ll have data from the transit of Venus—and once we have that, there will be star charts to update, and I shall be up to my ears in calculations. I shan’t have time for you any longer.”
Mrs. Barnstable looked up at that, but she had a report to type for her husband, and the noise of the typewriter drowned out their conversation.
The truth was that Rose should never have made time for Mr. Shaughnessy. He was… Charming was the word she’d used, but charming sounded so sweet, so innocent. And by nature, Mr. Shaughnessy was never innocent.
He was not watching her innocently now.
That was the problem. She knew precisely what was happening to her. She could feel him coaxing her along the path to seduction. He made her forget herself every day she was with him, and one day, she would cross an uncrossable line. So long as he was around her, he would lead her astray.
His lips thinned, but he nodded ever so slightly as if he were accepting her edict.
“You’ll still tell me what you’re doing when we meet on the street,” he said. “And now I’ll understand it better.”
She shook her head. “I don’t think I should.”
No; that was too wishy-washy. The clattering of Mrs. Barnstable’s machine was beginning to annoy Rose.
“In fact, I know I mustn’t.”
“Aw, Rose.” He looked into her eyes. “You know I love it when you talk Sweetly to me.”
Her throat seemed to close at those words. She felt hoarse, almost ill. Her heart was pounding and her head seemed light. But this was no illness; she wanted more of it.
Therein lay her problem. He’d told her that her enthusiasm was contagious.
His lack of innocence, then, was a raging plague, and she was infected. The smallest glance in his direction sent her into an internal tizzy—the flash of his eyes, a glimpse of his wrist when one of his cuffs pulled up. The sight of him gave her ideas, and she didn’t need to be having ideas about him.