The New Orleans Way

By Liz Newman

On the day of her debutante ball, Rosemarie Kuhn is heralded at "The Next Great Lady of New Orleans." Despite her love for the lowborn private detective Michael Hennessy, she is betrothed by her mother to marry General George C. Boas. Spurned by the general and a false marriage certificate, she guns him down in front of his favorite tavern at St. Anthony Street. With her family's income in jeopardy, her home is turned into a casino for high class patrons funded by the first families who brought The Mafia to the United States. As her love for detective Michael Hennessy grows, she is torn from her desire for him and the promise she made to her dying mother.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Liz Newman
• Release date: Aug 8, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215342343

Liz Newman

Author's Biography About The Author Liz Newman is a doctor of psychology. She also has earned an MA in Clinical Psychology, and a BA in Mass Communications with a concentration in Broadcast Journalism. Liz Newman worked as an intern at KTVU Broadcasting Station in Oakland, California. Liz has also worked as a crisis counselor, a community health counselor, and a staff psychologist at a local elementary school. Liz also contributes anonymously to several texts published to assist children and teens struggling with social and domestic issues. Several articles by Liz Newman have been featured in magazines and journals such as San Francisco Socialite, Spirit Song, Highlights, and The Sacramento News and Review, Chic Mom Magazine, Under A Harvest Moon, and Our USA Magazine. She lives in Los Gatos with four teenagers, her cat Zeus, and her French Bulldog names Lola.

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Contents

The New Orleans Way FINAL

Chapter One

THE NEW ORLEANS WAY FINAL

The New Orleans Way

By

Liz Newman

Chapter One

September 15th, 1889

Face the mirror, Sherilyn said as she unwound thick strips of fabric from Rosemarie’s dark brown hair. Sherilyn fussed over her, pinning the front sides of her hair up to create a stylish bouffant. The sound of clomping hooves upon the road carried into the mansion on St. Philip Street as the first carriage pulled up.

As your governess, Sherilyn said as her bright green eyes danced in the mirror, I implore you to hold still and not fidget the way you did yesterday during the portrait sitting. She placed her long fingers upon Rosemarie’s shoulders, her soft mocha skin just slightly more almond in tone to Rosemarie’s golden hue exuding the scent of fragrant powder. The portraits were delivered today and my Lord, they are breathtaking. She placed a small portrait in a solid gold frame on Rosemarie’s vanity table. What a beauty you are, child.

It is a lovely rendition, Rosemarie said. Indeed, the artist was skilled as I sweated during the entire sitting, and mother looked as if she would stab me with her needlepoint if my body made another cracking noise whenever I dared to move. Rosemarie’s hazel eyes with flecks of gold drifted to the street below, watching a stout, dark-skinned coachman hop down and place a step stool on the ground beneath the carriage doors. The dirt on the ground was packed, the remnants of a torrid hurricane season slowly drying and leaving the roads smooth and dust free.

Look forward, Sherilyn ordered. Her hand groped about on a silver tray stacked with atomizers, powders, and brushes. Where is that gardenia essence?

Sherilyn strode around the room in search of the bottle of perfume that was not on top of the silver tray where it belonged. Eager to read the elegant script engraved on the side door of the coach, Rosemarie craned her neck downward. Michael Hennessy, Private Detective, Est. 1885.

Head forward. Sherilyn placed her hands on the side of Rosemarie’s head, tilting her so she faced the mirror head on. Now Sherilyn glanced out the window. Bad form. Extremely bad form, she muttered through the hairpins clenched in her teeth. To arrive early to a debutante ball. A sure sign of the lower class. Overeager. She gently laid a curl upon Rosemarie’s shoulder as she reached up to turn on a gas lamp.

A young man emerged from the coach, face clean-shaven and eyes gleaming such a bright blue they seemed to be made of water reflecting the clear sky. He looked up at Rosemarie, removing his hat and tipping it to her. He placed the hat back upon his head, tilting his body back to admire her. She peered down at him, the outside corners of her mouth itching to smile.

I cannot wait until that newfound electricity starts working, Sherilyn said. I can barely see the strands poking out of your head, and if there ever was a day to mind the details, today’s the day. She stuck the last pin in Rosemarie’s hair and pulled the window shade down swiftly. The opaqueness blocked the view of the street. No sense in wasting time admiring that one. Your mother has better plans for you, child. Sherilyn stepped back to admire her work. Absolutely stunning. New Orleans has never seen the likes of such a beauty.

Rosemarie turned her head to the side as she gazed into the mirror, pleased with the way her hair was pinned in just the right spot in the center of the back of her head, while the curls framing her face made her look like a portrait in the society pages. Her hands reached up to the choker of fine pearls encircling her neck, trailing down to the smoothness of her collarbone. Her fingers grasped the bust line of her dress, and she pulled it down ever so slightly as Sherilyn busied herself gathering the laundry. Sherilyn gave Rosemarie the once-over and reached over and pulled up the neckline of her dress .

Her mother threw open the door, fanning herself. Good Lord, she cried. It’s hotter than a hilltop in Hades. A frown hung over her brow as she approached the vanity where Rosemarie sat. Sherilyn, more powder, please. She’s sweating like a sinner in church.

Mrs. Kuhn, Sherilyn said. If we put any more powder on this girl’s face, she’ll look like she saw a ghost.

Better pale than shiny, Ambrose Kuhn said, dipping a powder puff into a jar of talc. Where is your hat?

Miss Ambrose, I cannot with good conscience, wear that scalloped white hat. Sherilyn positioned herself formidably. Her uniform was stark white and polished, and the stiff bodice hugged her slim frame, flaring out into a delicate bell shape that reminded Rosemarie of a budding tulip. A mere servant in a hat with no purpose is not the position I spent years in school to sink to. I am the manager of this estate as you know. You need me for more than just posturing.

Almighty God! I have only asked you about fifteen times. Only when company arrives, Sherilyn. Now please put on that hat.

Lest I be chained to the stove making biscuits and cornbread? Sherilyn murmured. I know what happened at the LaLaurie mansion. That’s not happening here.

Ambrose’s eyes widened at the comparison. Madam LaLaurie was a vile creature! her mother retorted. A lady of my caliber would never resort to such macabre behavior, Ambrose ranted. To think they bore a French surname.

Suppose you don’t mind me not wearing that hat then, Sherilyn said.

I cannot imagine why you’re so strongly opposed to a hat. If it were not for your excellent rearing of my children...and yet this one is still so shiny and dark. Ambrose dipped the powder puff in talc again, coating it heavily. She dabbed the puff all over Rosemarie’s face. A cloud of talc flew around Rosemarie’s head and she sneezed. The force of her head moving forward popped some of her hairpins off.

Good God, child! Ambrose shrieked. She drew back her head and sneezed violently as well. There are already guests here! Her hands flew up with irritation. Gathering her skirts, she covered her nose with the back of her hand, sneezing as she made her way out the door.

Rosemarie and Sherilyn laughed together as they locked eyes in the mirror. Just like a beignet, Sherilyn said. You look good enough to eat. We’re going to have to serve an early dinner to keep the men at bay. Rosemarie’s complexion was muted by the layers of powder. Her skin was a deep olive tone, like her late father’s.

Do you suppose I’ll meet my husband today? Rosemarie asked, her eyes lighting up.

Sherilyn drew up the fallen locks of Rosemarie’s hair, pinning them back. If you don’t, then he’s a nobody living out on the bayou because any man who can call himself one will be downstairs in your ballroom. Rosemarie wiped a layer of powder from her face.

What on earth do you think you’re doing?

I’d rather look flushed. I like the color in my cheeks.

You know I won’t disagree with the allure of color. Rubbing cottonseed oil between her hands, Sherilyn smoothed her palms over Rosemarie’s hair. She stooped down to the girl’s level and looked into her eyes. You must choose today who will court you for the purpose of marriage. Know this, that whoever you choose should be the one you desire the most, for any other will know they were not your first choice, and might have a great deal of trouble with that later on. When you offer your hand, note the gentleman’s grip. A man who grips too roughly will see you as a horse to command in the bedroom. A man who grips too softly...well, just understand that after a year or so of marriage, you’ll likely pay a visit to a voodoo priestess or the white doctors will have a good laugh at you and your husband every time you pass them in the French Market. Or you’ll just end up celibate altogether. Find his eyes, and search for the truth. Will his eyes close the door to his soul the minute you look into them, or will they look back at you with honesty.

Rosemarie picked at the cuticle surrounding her ring finger. Sherilyn gently swatted Rosemarie’s hand and sliced the cuticle off with a scissor blade. Rosemarie folded her hands and placed them on her lap. How can you tell someone is honest just by looking into his eyes?

Pain. You’ll always see just a hint because no one lives this life without experiencing a little. Not too much. The good ones are honest about it. The bad ones lie and they go on to hurt someone else so they don’t hurt anymore, or so they think. If you see too much pain, turn the other way and run as fast as you can, miss. But if you see a little bit, you know he’s a truthful man. Pain and truth go together like tasso and cayenne.

* * * *

The band played the last notes of Sweet Rosie O’Grady as Sherilyn walked Rosemarie down the upstairs hallway. Rosemarie turned around as Sherilyn stepped back into the shadows and smiled at her with encouragement. Beaufort Alderman, or Buzz as he was fondly called, cleared his throat.

Buzz, a member of the city council and a friend of her mother’s, tapped a champagne glass as the crowd below the stairs in the ballroom came to a hush. Ladies and gentlemen, he intoned. Mrs. Ambrose Kuhn, daughter of Louis and Marguerite St. Claire, and wife of the late Ernesto Arsenio Kuhn, God rest his soul, has bequeathed me with the opportunity to speak to you all today in this gathering at her fine estate. Many of you know of Mrs. Ambrose Kuhn’s admirable standing in our community as one of the greatest ladies in our fine city. The Kuhn family’s dedicated work provided the gorgeous textiles that grace many a fine home in New Orleans and beyond, bringing unsurpassed beauty and luxurious comfort to many households of the gentry. I present to you her only daughter, the most beautiful flower of St. Philip Street and beyond.

Rosemarie glided to the edge of the stairs and took each step carefully. A rush of delight fluttered up from her middle as many a pair of admiring eyes met hers. Her heart quickened as she lowered her eyes to focus on each step. Her fingertips lightly grazed the rail, and she held her dress up over her embroidered pumps as she had practiced so dutifully with Sherilyn, hearing only silence and the soft swish of her long ivory skirt as it trailed behind her.

She imagined herself tripping on the edge and tumbling down the stairs. Squeezing her eyes close together, she squelched the thought, took a slight breath, and glided the rest of the way.

Buzz raised his glass and the other guests followed suit. To Rosemarie Marcheline Kuhn, he said. The next great lady of New Orleans.

The band struck up a tune as Buzz assisted Rosemarie down the last step. He kissed her hand, leading her to the front of the crowd. Her best friend, Lorraine Hayden, wrapped her fingers around her arm and whisked her away to the hall between the grand parlor and the dining room. You look absolutely gorgeous, Lorraine gushed. I’d slap myself silly if I could bring up violet in my cheeks and gold in my skin. She gasped. Tell me you used rouge. Rosemarie smiled with her lips closed and shook her head. She snaked her body ever so slightly, bringing the chiffon neckline of her dress a half an inch lower on her cleavage. Lorraine squealed. I’m standing by you in the receiving line, although I know no one’s going to be looking at me.

A myriad of smiling faces swam before her as she greeted the crowds of guests her mother steered toward her until she couldn’t remember a single name. The air was fragrant with the smell of perfume and pomade, and cigar smoke wafted in from the back patio.

After a dinner of veal chops and mashed potatoes was served, the dancing commenced in full swing, and the act of twirling around the room in such close proximity to various men with white-gloved hands and waistcoats, caused her to stop the dancing short with excuses and take hold of the back of a chair.

The smell of fragrant wine oozed from her pores as she closed her eyes at the feeling of dizziness. A tray passed by and she reached out her hand and popped a mini chocolate pastry into her mouth. Relishing its sweet taste, she reached out to help herself to another, catching the disapproving eye of her mother. Rosemarie sighed and wiped her hand on a tiny lace napkin. She handed the crumple to a passing servant and sank down heavily into a chair. Her mother frowned at her once again.

She waited until her mother’s eyes were averted and snuck into the kitchen, sidling up to the counter near a tray laden with puff pastries. Pinching a few onto a cocktail napkin, she popped them into her mouth, one after the other, until a servant pushed open the door. Rosemarie wedged herself into a tiny alcove between the pantry and the sinks. Her corset crushed her ribcage, the strings threatening to snap.

She reentered the ballroom as her belly expanded. Ambrose had tied her stays as tightly as always, ensuring with her expert method of bodily constriction that Rosemarie would feel as if she would pop if she ate. The tactic worked, for Rosemarie felt like she was being crushed by a boa constrictor. Struggling to breathe, she placed a hand on a wall to steady herself.

The room spun around her, all except for one person, who stood in the middle of the parlor, his head cocked slightly with interest. He was the tall man with blue eyes from the first carriage. Making his way through the crowd, he bowed in front of her and reached out his hand. She placed her gloved hand in his, and he brought it to his lips for a kiss. Miss Rosemarie Kuhn, he said. Pleased to make your acquaintance. My name is Michael Hennessy.

Private detective, she gasped. Established in 1885. She curtseyed before him daintily.

You certainly have your facts straight. Are you all right, Lady Rosemarie?

Perfectly fine. she smiled with a wince as she patted her ribcage. She tottered in her heels, stumbling, and he grasped her hand. His touch was soft, and her heart sped up as she held his fingers. His eyes were deep set and piercing, his lips gently shaped, and his face so strikingly handsome up close she felt very conscious of their proximity, so conscious that for a split second she wanted to turn and run away for fear he would not find her as enchanting. She stared into his eyes for confirmation. He gazed back at her.

My apologies, he breathed. I should not gaze upon you so intently. His hand held hers firmly, and he tucked his other hand behind his back and kissed the back of her glove. I hope that was done the proper way.

Indeed, Mr. Hennessy. she smiled. They surveyed each other for a few moments as the guests in the room whirled around them. The laughter and music was drowned into a mere echo. Rosemarie felt submerged under water.

Michael gestured behind him. I’m here with my brother David and his wife, Annika. I’m not married, in case you were wondering. Or otherwise betrothed. A lock of hair fell loose from the pomade he wore, and he flicked it back away from his blue eyes. I’ve been looking forward to this day for so long. I was delighted to receive an invitation.

We certainly could not overlook the future chief of police and his family. Are you enjoying yourselves?

Even more so now that I am in the presence of the next great lady of New Orleans. Michael replied.

Would you kindly sit next to me, Mr. Hennessy?

With pleasure, Lady Rosemarie. He surveyed her with cerulean blue eyes that shone like a sparkling summer sky, and she blushed prettily and looked down at her gloved hands. For weeks, I’ve dreamed of this moment, but I didn’t get far enough in my dream to be sitting next to you, so now I have no idea what to say. She giggled. I peeked in a window of one of the houses on St. Charles Street during a fancy ball like this. Hope I do this right. He got up and curled his hand into his upper body, seeming to unroll his arm as he crouched before her and opened his palm to the sky. His knee came close to touching the ground and he teetered, causing her to giggle again. I’ll fall if I can make you smile like that again. I just might fall anyway. He rose and pretended to waltz alone.

I just might swoon over your display and the puff pastries. Rosemarie brought her hand to her chest and took a deep breath. I have a tendency to overindulge. My corset is far too tight. Oh goodness, I shouldn’t have mentioned that. That was very unladylike.

Since you are given to compulsion today, perhaps you will humor me. May I have this dance? Rosemarie squeezed his hand and moved to rise.

Ambrose Kuhn appeared by his side. I am so sorry, she said, but I must steal my daughter from you, sir. I hope you do not mind. Ambrose’s pink mouth stretched into a wide smile, and Michael stepped back.

Of course not, ma’am, he said. Perhaps another song, he said to Rosemarie.

Perhaps, her mother said reluctantly. She led Rosemarie by the arm. I have a surprise for you, darling. A very important man has come to see you, appointed by the Secretary of State himself. The crowd parted as Rosemarie was brought to a halt in front of a decorated man with a navy-blue jacket and fringed epaulets.

General George Carlton Boas, Ambrose said, I present to you my daughter, Rosemarie.

Rosemarie looked up into his eyes and saw a shield come down as smoothly as a shutter. His cold green eyes transformed into a pool of kindness. General Boas, she said as she bowed her head and curtsied.

Lady Rosemarie, he said as he kissed her hand. Her mother gazed around at her female friends with the contained fervor of a parade doll that might break open with a blast of confetti. May I have this dance?

Ambrose clapped her white-gloved hands together, and the guests around her followed suit. Rosemarie was whisked away by General Boas, and the room spun once again. Smiling faces stared at her, none so close as the grin on General George Boas’ face. The way he ran his finger down her exposed upper arm and exhaled like a panting dog made her cringe. His teeth were large and a dark shade of yellow. The silence between them hung like the painting of a grim ancestor in a stranger’s home she couldn’t wait to depart. When the music ended, George bowed and Rosemarie curtsied, and the crowd murmured with pleasure.

As is the tradition in our household, Ambrose Kuhn said as she raised her champagne glass, Rosemarie has chosen a well-favored gentleman caller to dine at our home. General Boas, if you will honor us tomorrow as our guest. Rosemarie’s mouth fell open. Her mother shot her a sideways glance, and Rosemarie’s lips shut tight into a pained smile. A servant presented a boutonnière on a pillow, fashioned with a single ivory rose enhanced by a sprig of baby’s breath, and Rosemarie pinned it on the breast of General Boas’ jacket and curtsied once again. I bid you all a good day, Ambrose said. Thank you for gracing us with your presence.

Rosemarie scanned the crowd for Michael, but he was nowhere in sight.

* * * *

After the parting line dwindled, the muscles around Rosemarie’s jaw quivered from overuse. As the last guest left, her face relaxed into a somber expression. A thick pungent cloud of pipe and cigar smoke hung in the parlor. Although the malty smell brought back memories of her father and the nightly pipe she used to fetch for him along with his house slippers when he arrived home, the smell now seemed intrusive. She caressed the lovely, cream-colored rose fastened to her corsage and sauntered out to the back porch for a breath of fresh air.

The sound of the trickling courtyard fountain, surrounded by a low seat wall of bricks amidst climbing vines of wisteria, barely drowned out the barking of wild dogs. The creatures roamed the streets of New Orleans, multiplying unchecked, and the city had long since given up on the problem, advising people instead to stay home after sundown. Children and elderly people were often dragged from the sidewalks and maimed by the beasts. The high-pitched whimpering of a dog could be heard as a man’s gruff voice shouted. Rosemarie heard the sound of a hard object striking a solid body of fur.

Sherilyn poked her head out of the back door. Your mother is asking for you, child.

Please, said Rosemarie. Just a few minutes more. I only want to see the first star.

I’ll tell her you’re indisposed. She never asks for details with that excuse. She just turns a shade green. Sherilyn smiled mischievously, gently shutting the door as Rosemarie giggled.

As she stared at the blue-tinged sky, she thought of Michael Hennessy and the way his blue eyes darkened when her mother whisked her away to George Boas. The first star of the night glistened ever so slightly. I wish… I wish...

A man leaped over the edge of the high brick wall bordering the expansive rear gardens and she jumped, gathering her skirts and readying herself to rush back into the house. He swore as he landed in a rose bush, struggling to release his clothing from the hold of the thorns. The man flicked a lock of blonde hair away from his eyes with the motion of his neck. Lady Rosemarie, he called.

Mr. Michael Hennessy, she said in disbelief. What in the world are you doing here?

He limped toward her in tattered suit pants, with a hat in one hand and the other behind his back. Damn near got eaten by a pack of wild dogs, he panted. He brought a mangled bouquet of assorted flowers from behind his back.

Looks like they had a good bite of those flowers, Rosemarie said, as she brought her hand to her mouth to suppress a giggle.

This was a first course, served in my stead. Actually, these were more like a weapon. Always carry a LeMat with me too, just in case. I just wanted you to see the flowers before I threw them over. They were really pretty once. And there’s some delphinium, which is close to your favorite color.

How do you know my favorite color?

Your corsage. Your hairpins, and the flowers in your hair. I figured it out. He tossed the flowers over the fence. Rosemarie giggled as loose petals fell onto the hedges.

I’ll bring you a better bouquet tomorrow if you’ll allow me. He shrugged sheepishly with a hand in his pocket, standing there for several moments as they smiled at each other.

My manners. Please, sit down. Rosemarie gestured to a wicker chair on the porch. I would invite you in, but Mother...

That’s why I didn’t come to the front door. Since she doesn’t fancy me a proper gentleman anyhow, I thought it best not to disappoint.

Would you care for something to drink?

I’d be delighted but I think Mrs. Kuhn is going to chase me away the moment she sees me. Michael twirled his hat on his fingers. His cheeks turned bright red and his blue eyes shone earnestly as he swallowed hard.

Lady Rosemarie, he continued, I have nothing to offer you but love and the promise of great ambition from a good man. I am no expert on love, but I know one thing that my father used to tell me over and over, and that is that when a Hennessy man chooses a woman, he chooses her for life. I know I have to have you, no matter what, or I will die trying. Her heartbeat quickened, beating so loudly she feared her mother would hear it. Lady Rosemarie Marcheline Kuhn, will you grant me the opportunity to court you?

Rosemarie laughed out loud. I’m sorry. Truly, she said as she fanned herself. I am laughing with joy. He unfolded his palm, and Rosemarie’s hand quivered with the inclination to place her hand in his. She stared at his outstretched fingers for a long time. His eyes searched hers, and she knew the longing and happiness that shone in them was real. She sighed, folding her hands together in her lap.

Mr. Hennessy, courtship for me...is much more complicated than that. Much as I would love to consider your proposal, I must consult my mother, and I already know what she will say.

Michael’s face fell with disappointment. She will say no.

That’s right. Much as I would like to know you better, I cannot entertain your courtship right now. My life has been dictated by honor, and the best things that have ever been done for me, have been done out of integrity. I cannot turn in the face of integrity and sacrifice and disregard it in favor of my own desires. Not yet. My mother has instilled in me the virtue of marrying above my class. I say this with great regret for I am aware of how self-serving this sounds. It is not the course I would have chosen for myself; certainly not one I would ever choose. I haven’t had the luxury of making choices in my life. I am fond of you, Mr. Hennessy, and if your fondness of me is of any deeper meaning I hope you will grant me your patience and understanding.

Being a man of my stature certainly isn’t something I’d choose myself, but I know I can do better, given the opportunity. I probably sound like a real fool, coming out and asking you like that, but I’m afraid I’ll never get this near to you again before you’re married. And that would just about break my heart. Would it matter to you? All honesty and integrity owed to others aside, strange as that sounds. A giggle escaped her lips. Would it matter?

She sighed and folded her hands in her lap. Yes, she conceded.

If I were to become a self-made man, a man as rich as any of your suitors, would you consider me?

It’s not money, Mr. Hennessy. It’s class. Money cannot buy class. I can only hope, with your great ambition and the rising status of your brother, that you and I may travel in similar circles, so I may see you often. David Hennessy will make a fine police chief. Your family must be very proud.

Michael shrugged, staring at the stark white wooden planks of the porch as he spoke. David was always meant for greatness. Our mother passed away a couple of years ago, and my father was killed in the line of duty. Shortly thereafter, David chased down a shoplifter, shackled him with the handcuffs my father had left to him, and we both dragged the man to the police station. David was only thirteen years old. He smiled wanly with a twinkle in his eye as he surveyed her wistful gaze.

Who better to have as the chief guardian of our great city. Rosemarie smiled. Doves cooed as the full moon illuminated the rear gardens. Why, I’ve no doubt that under Chief David Hennessy’s tenure, the streets will be made safe for people to walk at night, the packs of dogs will be eradicated, and all citizens of New Orleans will receive the liberties they’ve been promised with their votes. Please tell your brother I have great faith in him.

It’s faith well deserved. David always does right by everyone, much as he can. He sighed. Suppose I’d better get back out there and fight those dogs.

Mr. Hennessy. Wait. The bourbon and champagne emboldened Rosemarie, and relaxed her at the same time. The moist humidity of the air, the sensual fragrances of jasmine and honeysuckle from the gardens, and the flush of Michael’s lips caused her to throw care to the wind. She gazed into his eyes, swallowing the lump in her throat. Perhaps we can call upon each other as good friends. I take my tea in the afternoons and would enjoy your company. Her mouth parted slightly, even as she tried to smile.

Yet there still leaves the enormous possibility that your mother will say no and that we shall never be alone like this again. If that indeed comes to pass, then I suppose I will never get the chance to tell you that this morning I wanted to climb the walls of your home when I saw you looking down at me and...

Yes, Rosemarie prompted. Do go on.

For a slap? Michael teased. Or a kiss.

That all depends, Mr. Hennessy, on what you are about to say.

"Times like these I wish I had mastered my Shakespeare. I would have climbed the wall and asked you for your hand in marriage, at which point your governess might have shut the window and I’d have fallen to the ground, limped into the party, and danced with difficulty as always. Only you would have run into the