Lady of the Rose (3 page)

The Dowager immediately cornered
Lady Whitney with talk of her late son.
Louisa joined in
enthusiastically, if solemnly, but George seemed reluctant to enter
the conversation.
He hovered on the outskirts of the group with
Harriet, who felt that she had not known the late Sir Frederick
well enough to join in.

“I did not see you at the funeral,”
he remarked.

He spoke so quietly and so suddenly
that, at first, Harriet was not sure she had heard him.
“Pardon?”
she asked.

“I did not see you at the funeral,”
he repeated.

“Oh,” Harriet blushed slightly.
He
was criticizing her for not being in attendance.
She had nearly
gone, but at the last moment had decided that her father's absence
would be less remarked upon if she were missing too.
“I heard it
was a very dignified event.”

He looked questioningly at her.
“But
you were not there, so how would you know?”

“My mother and my youngest sister
were present.”

He didn't say anything, just
continued to look at her, holding her gaze with those intriguing
gray eyes.
She thought, for some reason, that they looked
kind.

“My father is not well at the
moment, and I was needed at home to care for him.”

She immediately regretted saying it.
She did not know why she had mentioned her father at all.
It was
precisely to avoid talk about him that she stayed home from so many
events and gatherings.
She braced herself for all the questions
that must inevitably follow any mention of her father's
condition.

No questions came.
George merely
nodded, as though he completely accepted her excuse.

Harriet was stunned.
“I am sorry for
your loss,” she said quietly, and she meant it.

He nodded again, a bit more stiffly,
she thought.
“Thank you.”

After that, the conversation
faltered, and they fell into an uncomfortable silence.
Harriet
could feel the tension in his body, see the way he clenched his
large fists.

She cleared her throat, “I really
must see to Margaret before bed.
I bid you good night,
sir.”

Sir George gave the same stiff bow,
“Good night.
Tomorrow, if you would like, I would be very pleased
to show you around the grounds.
The gardens are very lovely this
time of year.”

Harriet knew of no polite way to
refuse.
“I would enjoy that, thank you.”

“Until tomorrow, then.” He moved
away from her, finally going to join the rest of his
family.

~~~

Harriet spent breakfast the next
morning with Margaret, in spite of Margaret's many arguments that
she should be with the Whitney family.

“Margaret, I am here because you are
hurt, not to have a social visit with the Whitneys,” Harriet said
for the third time.

Margaret smiled sweetly at her
sister.
“I know, but I am all right.
Janet needs you more than I
do.” Margaret winced slightly as she shifted her injured
leg.

Janet Whitney was probably the last
person in the world to need her, but Harriet kept this thought to
herself.

“Promise me you will look in on
her,” Margaret squeezed her hand.

“Of course, if it means something to
you, I will,” Harriet assured her.

Margaret leaned back against the
pillows with a deep sigh.
It occurred to Harriet that even the
short conversations they had were trying on Margaret.
She must be
in a great deal of pain, though she said nothing about it.
Harriet
pulled the blanket up to her chin and tucked the covers under her,
careful not to jar her leg.
She leaned over and kissed her sister
softly on the forehead, but Margaret was already asleep.

~~~

George was waiting for her when she
came down from Margaret's room.
“Miss Davenport, are you ready for
our walk?”

Stepping outside, Harriet stopped
short at the sight of a carriage hitched to a set of matched bays,
two beautiful animals stomping and pawing at the ground in
anticipation.
“I thought we were walking in the gardens,” she
said.

George pulled her toward the waiting
carriage, “I thought of something I wanted to show you.
It's a bit
far to walk.”

He was led her along, holding
tightly to her arm, and he handed her in.
Climbing aboard, he
yelled to driver, and they were off before she could protest.
The
carriage hit a bump, jarring Harriet out of her temporary
paralysis.

“Where are we going?” she
demanded.

“You will see,” he smiled
slightly.

Anger boiled up from the pit of her
stomach, lending her tongue a sharpness she would not normally
have.
“I can not see how you thought this would be acceptable
behavior in a gentleman, but perhaps you do not fit the name,” she
surprised herself with how calmly she spoke.

“Perhaps not,” he matched her cool
tone, “but then I am depending on you having a very unladylike
sense of adventure.”

Before she could stop herself,
Harriet laughed out loud, a single brief explosion of laughter that
she hastily turned into a cough, but the smirk on George's lips
said she had not fooled him.

The carriage jerked to an abrupt
stop, and Harriet stepped out without waiting for assistance.
She
found herself before a gently sloping green-covered hill, dotted by
flowering shrubs and tall patches of heather.

“It is quite pretty, but I see
nothing that requires any adventurousness.”

“Now we walk,” he said, offering her
a hand to help her over a rocky path.

She ignored it, purely out of spite
she knew, and trudged up the path ahead of him.

It was a warm day, but a light
breeze played across the grasses, bringing up the scent of summer.
Harriet breathed deeply, greatly enjoying herself, though she would
never dare admit it.
She strode quickly over the top of the hill
and found herself suddenly in shade.
She stopped in place and
gasped at the sight before her.

Instead of sloping downwards again
as she had expected, the hill leveled off into the most beautiful
wood Harriet had ever seen.
Bluebells covered the ground so closely
that she was afraid to step forward and crush one of them.
The
bright sunlight was dappled on the ground through the overhanging
trees.
The smell had changed from summer, grass, and flowers to the
deeper, mustier smell of the forest.

“Do you like it?” George spoke from
close behind her.

“It's beautiful,” she whispered.
Though they were alone, there was something about the place that
made her speak softly.
“I've never seen a place like it.
It doesn't
feel like a normal wood.
It feels...” she struggled to find the
right word.
“Ancient,” she finished.

George was nodding his head slowly.
“I had a feeling you would appreciate it.
I used to come here as a
boy and spend hours listening to the trees.
I was certain that they
had something to tell me,” he smiled at the memory.

Harriet had a sudden vision of a
boy, perhaps twelve years old, lounging under one of the hazels,
knowing people were probably looking for him and not caring in the
slightest.
She laughed, this time not bothering to cover it
up.

“And what, may I ask, is so
amusing?” he asked, but he was smiling.

“I can see you here.
That's all.
I
was remembering you as a boy.”

George turned to her at that,
suddenly serious.
“I was under the impression that you did not
remember me at all.”

It was her turn to smirk then.
“I
didn't recognize you at first, but I do remember you.
I was about
sixteen when you left, I think.”

She moved away from him, letting her
eyes roam the wood, landing finally on a overgrown, thorny bush of
wild roses.
It held her gaze, and she and moved towards it, hand
outstretched.
On it was the single most beautiful rose, she had
ever seen.
It was a soft, dusty red and perfectly open.
When she
got closer, its scent was strong enough to make her dizzy.
She
placed her hand delicately under the rose, so gentle as to not make
it drop a single petal.

“That one reminded me of you,”
George said, from somewhere behind her.
“Sublimely lovely, and full
of thorns.”

Before she had time to retort, the
sound of footsteps made her turn.
The driver was huffing heavily up
the hill behind them carrying a large basket over one arm.
He set
it down with a thump, turned and walked away.

George gestured to a large blanket
spread in front of the field of bluebells.
“I thought we might have
some luncheon, while we were here.”

Harriet shook her head as George
bent down to unload the basket.
“You know I can not stay here,” she
said.

George continued setting out bread
and cold meats, whistling softly to himself.

“I really must ask you to take me
back now,” she said louder.

“I was afraid you might feel that
way.
The rest of the party will be along shortly, and they will be
so disappointed if you choose not to join us.”

Sure enough, Harriet heard the sound
of more horses and wheels coming to a stop at the bottom of the
hill.
She heard a man's voice and a woman's laugh, and she exhaled
slowly in relief.

“Afraid I might try to ravage you in
the wilderness, Miss Davenport?” She heard rather than saw the
smile in his voice.

Blushing slightly, she turned to
face him.
He was closer to her than she had expected, and she took
a step backwards before she could stop herself.
The small pit of
anger in her stomach was back.

“You are so like the boy I remember
from when I was a girl,” she said sweetly, stepping towards him to
close the space between them.

He unconsciously swayed his body
nearer to hers, almost touching her with his hips.
He stared at her
mouth as he spoke.

“In what way?” His voice became
deeper, huskier.
He reached out a hand, brushing his fingertips
lightly against the soft skin of her arm.

“You are just as arrogant and
irritating as ever.” she said, and she twirled around to meet the
approaching party before he had a chance to reply.

“Harriet!” A voice filled with
excitement called her name.

“Lillian!” Harriet hurried to meet
her sister.
The girls embraced in a flurry of auburn hair and
flounces, both speaking excitedly at the same time.

“How is Margaret?” Lillian
asked.

“How is father?” said
Harriet.

The girls erupted in giggles,
earning them frowning looks from some members of the party,
particularly Lady Whitney who was being led toward the wood by a
gentleman Harriet had never seen.
Louisa, however, smiled and waved
at the sisters as she went to meet her brother.

“Margaret is fine.
She has broken
her leg, but the doctor says there is no danger in it.
I believe
she is in some pain, but she is keeping her spirits up.”

“I would be very concerned if she
weren't” said Lillian, feigning shock.
“Margaret has not had low
spirits since the day she was born.
Mother has stopped sobbing for
Sir Frederick, but now she sobs for her 'poor injured darling.'”
She spoke in such a perfect imitation of their mother that Harriet
broke into a new fit of giggles.

“And what of father?” she said,
wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.