Like a Flower in Bloom (10 page)

Mr. Trimble scowled at me.

I scowled back.

My father gave me a teary glance.

I had to steel myself against a tug of emotions. He was doing entirely too much work. But he had made his choice; he had cast me aside. The sooner he realized the error of his ways, the better it would go for both of us. I must remain firm.

My father picked up a pen and returned to the table where they had been conversing when I’d returned home. “Come back here, young man, and leave Charlotte alone. She’s only doing what she’s been asked.”

Perhaps I was, but Mr. Trimble’s comments worried at me. I composed a letter to Miss Templeton asking for her advice. If it really was such a grave offense to wear a summer dress in the
autumn or to go about with a smear of ink on my bodice, then perhaps it would be wise to refrain from visiting the rector until I received my new gowns. Besides, after the dinner party the previous week and the afternoon’s calls, it seemed reasonable to me that I might have earned a bit of a break from society.

Miss Templeton’s reply came the next afternoon. It was accompanied by a package done up in string.

My dear Miss Withersby,

Please don’t mistake my reply for an endorsement of Mr. Trimble’s point of view. You know that I can’t approve of him. However, I do think there is some merit in your going about in gowns appropriate to the season. In that spirit, please accept the loan of this gown, and don’t worry too terribly much about its return, since I wore it last year. You’re a bit taller, perhaps, than I, but if you can manage to wear it with slippers instead of dancing boots, it shouldn’t matter.

Yrs etc.

Postscript: I shall send a note to the rector to tell him to expect us next Monday at two.

Post-postscript: Please wear this gown on that occasion. As well as to our next dinner party.

Post-post-postscript: Mr. Trimble will probably try to convince you that you cannot possibly wear the same gown twice in a row.

Post-post-post-postscript: Don’t believe him.

Post-post-post-post-postscript: I really, truly detest that man!

Post-post-post-post-post-postscript: Don’t worry. Before long Mr. Trimble will be but a distant, and very bad, memory. Rather like a nightmare.

I turned the paper over, but there were no more postscripts. Untying the string on the package, I undid the paper to find a dress in a lovely, almost larkspur shade of blue.

Holding it up by the shoulders, I tried to view it in my mirror, but my room, being on the north side of the house, was gloomy so late in the afternoon.

I tiptoed across the hall to Mr. Trimble’s room and opened the door.

There was hardly anything out of place, the bed being made in an uncomfortable-looking perfect sort of way and his clothes tidily hung on pegs. The mirror was fixed to the wall above the dresser. I moved his pitcher and basin from the dresser to the floor so that I could see myself and then held the dress up to my chin.

It was quite pretty, although . . . I fixed the shoulders to my own and stuck out my foot. She was right. It seemed a bit shorter than those I was used to wearing. But why should anyone be staring at my feet? They probably wouldn’t even notice. As I turned away, the dress brushed against the corner of the dresser, and a letter fluttered to the floor.

I picked it up, meaning to set it back down, but the regular, elegant script caught my eye. It was quite unlike the rounded letters of Miss Templeton’s hand.

The letter was dated three years before and written from a place called Eastleigh.

My dearest Edward,

I so wish that

I stepped toward the window with the intention of moving into more direct light so that I could read it more easily. But . . . was someone coming up the stair?

I returned the letter to the dresser, drew the door shut behind me, and returned to my room wondering how Mr. Trimble could ever be anyone’s “dearest” anything.

B
y the time I ventured downstairs, Mrs. Harvey was banging about the kitchen in a clatter of pots and pans. With autumn come, I was hopeful that one day soon she might sauce some apples or mince some quince for a pie, but the less said to the woman about expectations the better.

Several hours later we were, in fact, served apples, although they came from the kitchen whole, with stem and leaves still attached.

Mr. Trimble stared at them for a moment before he twisted one from its stem, stabbed it with a fork, and began to peel it with his knife.

I grabbed mine, brushed off the dried leaves on my napkin, and took a bite.

Mr. Trimble gave me a glance. “Tut, tut, Miss Withersby. Eating an apple that way is fine when you’re alone, but in the company of polite society, one should always—”

“On the whole I’ve always thought manners are for people who have more time and opinions than good sense. Why should anyone care how I eat an apple? I don’t impose my views on
others. For instance, I don’t insist that you should just pick yours up and take a bite, now, do I?”

My father sat watching us, rubbing his own apple against his shirt.

“I’m only trying to assist you. I should think you’d find a husband more quickly if you could be depended upon not to humiliate yourself.”

“And I should think I liked you much better when you were on the other side of the world and all I knew about you was that you adored your sheep and that you called your horse Archibald.”

He flushed a bit from the neck and glanced up at me before taking a vicious swipe at his apple’s peel.

How the man did annoy me! I continued on. “When I was, I will confess, quite taken by your descriptions of the countryside.”

Done with his peeling, he cored the apple and sliced it into eight even parts before he replied. “Had I known you were going to read your father’s correspondence, I might have spared you both those sordid details.”

While I reminded myself I must not let on that I was the one with whom he had been corresponding, he took up one of the pieces. Then he put it down. “But forgive me for waxing a bit sentimental whilst I was in the wilds of the colony without another farm for miles. Sometimes I felt as if that exchange of letters with your father was the only thing that kept me sane. There were times it felt as if he was the only one on God’s green earth who truly understood me.”

My father’s brow dipped, and he opened his mouth to reply, but I picked up the tray of dried sausage and handed it to him. “You haven’t had any yet, Father.”

“Haven’t I?” He slid several slices off the tray with his fork and onto his plate.

Ignoring Mr. Trimble’s finer feelings, I continued. “I have been wondering, whatever happened to your ewe Emilia?” I felt a twinge of shame at that last bit, but truly, the man had galled me.

“Is nothing sacred?” He stood and nodded at me and then at my father. “Please excuse me. I find I’m no longer hungry.”

Father turned round in his chair to watch Mr. Trimble stalk out of the dining room. “What was that he was saying? About letters? And what were you saying? Who are all those people you mentioned?”

I reached over, picked up Mr. Trimble’s plate, and handed it to my father. Why should all his hard work in peeling that apple go to waste? And why was I feeling so mean and small when he was the one who had displaced me, going about as if he owned my work? If anyone ought to be feeling betrayed, it was I.

“It’s just that I feel rather sorry for him, really.”

Miss Templeton had invited me to meet her at Dodsley Manor for a ramble the next afternoon and I found myself explaining my bad behavior from the night before.

She took my hands within her own. “Don’t!”

“I can’t help but feel that—”

She squeezed them before letting them go. “This is just like a man—to make you feel as if it’s your fault he’s gone and usurped your place at your own house and that you should be the one to apologize for his intrusion. Does that make any sense to you?”

I was trying to follow her reasoning, and when I finally worked it out, I had to agree with her. “No, it does not.”

“Exactly. So what you must do is put Mr. Trimble out of your mind and concentrate on Mr. Stansbury. Or the rector.” Her eyes narrowed as she looked at me. “Which one do you prefer, by the by? I haven’t thought to ask.”

“Prefer for what?”

“Prefer to give your attentions to.”

“I don’t see that it really matters. We’ve made it known I’ve visited both men. My father ought to begin displaying alarm at any moment.”

“I hope, for your sake, that will happen. Although, for my own sake, I must admit that I will sorely miss you. It’s been ever so diverting to have something to do besides pretend an interest in stalking and the hunt and make it look as if I’m trying to catch the eye of some London dandy. I shudder to think of having to do it on my own again. Such a dire existence.”

“Why don’t you take the season off?”

“You
are
good for me. How you make me smile!” But as soon as she said it her smile disappeared. “I’ve already eighteen years, you know. If I don’t settle on someone soon my choices will be slim indeed. No, Papa has told me that I
will
become engaged this year. He wants to see me settled, wants to know that I’ll be taken care of once he’s gone. His title cannot pass to me, of course, so I’ve got to find my own way, as it were. I’ve only got to get myself used to the idea. Once I do, then I’ll be as fine a fiancée as you’ve ever seen. I shall practice with you first and then—”

“But I don’t want to be anyone’s fiancée. That’s the whole idea of this plan.”

“Of course you don’t. But you want everyone to
think
that you do. Therein lies the genius of our efforts.”

I just wished the genius would soon begin working.

She reached over and patted my hand. “Don’t worry. It will all come out in the end. I just know it! Now then, shall we be off on our ramble?”

We might have done, only she couldn’t find her gloves, and then she didn’t want to wear the boots her maid brought, and
finally she decided that perhaps a different dress might be better, so she changed her outfit entirely.

An hour later, we had just gotten to the road when horns sounded, and several moments later, a pack of dogs raced by.

She shook her fist at them. “Would you look at that!”

I was. And as I did so, I mourned the certain destruction of the fields that would follow in the riders’ wake.

“After all that! And now my gown is ruined.”

“It is?”

She held out her skirt. “Just
look
at it!” She was quite indignant about it, although the skirt looked fine to me. “There’s no point in going out now. We might as well have tea.”

“We’re only going to get more soiled as we go.” Especially if we were going to walk, as I had intended, to where the bracken were growing. “And we can have tea out in the field.” I lifted my vasculum. “I brought a flask.”

“
More
soiled! You astonish me, Miss Withersby. And having tea out in the wilderness? You must be truly dedicated to your work to endure such hardship.” She shook her head sadly. “I’m afraid I’m not made of such stern stuff as you.”

I took a sort of ramble by myself as I walked back to our house after tea with Miss Templeton. I had forgotten just how delectable it tasted when it was hot. And there was something to be said for those tiny sandwiches and biscuits we had been served. Pity that Mrs. Harvey never seemed to have time to do any of that.

That evening the Admiral was to take me to a concert, so I changed into the dress Miss Templeton had sent. I was quite taken with it once I put it on. The bodice dipped ever so slightly between my shoulders and was filled in with several rows of
white lace. The sleeves were made of that same blue as the skirt and put me in mind of a draped shawl, though they didn’t have to keep being pulled up. All in all, it was quite satisfactory and seemed to have the effect of adding a kind of glint to my brown eyes.

As I entered the parlor, Mr. Trimble was working with the dual-view microscope, but he stood when he saw me, and his gaze traveled the length of the gown. He nodded and then resumed his work. He hadn’t said anything to me since the night before, which I took to be a sign that he was still cross with me. In spite of Miss Templeton’s admonitions, I was still ashamed of myself. If any amends were to be made, it appeared that it was my responsibility to make them.

“It seems to me, if I remember correctly, that your Emilia ought to have a lamb by now. That was what I had meant to ask about last night at supper.”

He glanced up from adjusting a lens with a rather blank look. “Yes.”

“You must miss your home. And your sheep.”

He didn’t bother to look at me this time but instead bent his head to the eyepiece. “I do.” He made another adjustment and then looked up toward me. “Would you . . . I mean, might you, come over and take a look at this? I don’t quite understand what I’m seeing.”

I considered refusing on principle, but the Admiral hadn’t yet arrived and I had nothing else to do. I set my mantle on a chair and went over to the table and put my eye to the second eyepiece. “What is it?”

“A
Ranunculus
.”

“From?”

He lifted his head from the eyepiece and consulted a sheet of notes.
My
notes. “Your father called the place Way’s Green.”

Relief swept over me. He’d attributed the writing to my father. Of course he would attribute it to my father. “So my father is interested in this for what purpose?” I refocused the lens and saw that Mr. Trimble had dissected the flower’s stigma.

“It’s not for his interest. It’s for mine.”

“Yours? Why?”

“I came across what I assume must be your R pile. What I can’t understand is why this is classified as a
Ranunculus
. They’re supposed to have more than twenty stamens, though I can’t find anything anywhere that says how many more than twenty they’re to have.”

“It doesn’t matter how many. More than twenty is sufficient.”

“Then this must not be one because—”

“I assure you that it is.”

“It only has sixteen stamens.”

“Yes, but they’re all located on the receptacle, so it doesn’t matter.”

“It ought to matter if it’s supposed to have more than twenty, because sixteen is less than twenty.”

“But they’re not on the calyx, are they?”

“No. But sixteen is still less than twenty.”

I found the rest of the specimen, took a dissection that included several stamens, and put them onto a slide. After mounting it on the stage, I went round to his side and bent to look at it from his point of view. Putting a hand to the slide, I turned it a bit. “There.” I straightened so he could have a look.

He bent to look but soon sighed. “I confess, I just don’t—”

Pressing my temple to his, so that I could share his view, I began to explain the placement of the stamens to him. “Do you see them now?”

“Yes, but—”

I put my arm across his shoulders and drew him closer, so that we were looking at it cheek to cheek.

“I . . . I . . .” He cleared his throat as he tried to pull away. “That is, I still don’t understand why the placement is . . .”

I turned my head from the eyepiece toward him and found us nose to nose. His eyes were so much bluer up close. “Why it’s what?”

He blinked. “Why is the placement more important than the number?” He swallowed. “That’s what I meant to say.”

“Because.”

“Because?”

“Because it is.” His lashes were quite extraordinarily long. “It is because it is.”

He was still staring at me, his face so close I could feel his breath. “I . . . I . . .” He seemed troubled, as if he was relying upon me to tell him what it was he meant to say.

“You’ve become quite incomprehensible, Mr. Trimble.”

“I feel quite incomprehensible, Miss Withersby. In fact, I’ve never quite felt . . .” He blinked, and when he opened his eyes they seemed to fill with comprehension, leading me to think that he had indeed finally come to understand.

He stood up from the microscope so abruptly that I staggered backward. Though he grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me upright, he let go almost immediately and then clapped that hand to the back of his neck. “Pardon me.”