Like a Flower in Bloom (20 page)

We passed several groups of cyclamen on the way, and then I led them out into a meadow, taking care to walk around some goldilocks asters that were still in flower. When I turned back to check their progress, what I saw alarmed me. “Stop!” My cry rang out across the field.

The rector threw up his hands to help maintain his balance, and Miss Templeton shrieked. “What! What is it?”

“Asters.” I bent to finger a fragile stem. “And you were both about to step on them!”

“I never noticed.” The rector bent beside me. “Pretty, aren’t they?”

I glanced up and met his gaze. “They are. And rather unusual for this time in the season.”

Miss Templeton spoke from above us, hands clasped to her chest. “It just goes to show that even in the darkest, dreariest cold, beauty can still be found.”

The rector looked up as if startled. “Oh. Oh! Oh my. That’s very good. The cold and a killing frost needn’t keep a flower from blooming. That speaks to Job, you know, Miss Withersby.
It speaks to a good many things, in fact. Do you mind if I write that down, Miss Templeton?”

“Of course not. I heard it from the president of the field club. He has a great many phrases just like it. You really ought to attend, Rector. It might do wonders for your inspiration.”

“It’s not inspiration I’m usually after. Illustration is what I need.”

“Then you won’t want to attend a watercolor society meeting. That’s for painters, not for illustrators, as Miss Withersby was kind enough to explain. But the field club might be just the thing for you.”

“I wouldn’t have to come with my collection, would I?”

“No. Oh no. And mostly you don’t really need to come with a vasculum either.”

The brisk ramble cleared the worries from my thoughts, and it was with renewed determination to pretend an interest in marriage that I returned to the house.

Mr. Trimble stood as I entered the parlor.

I sat in a chair and removed my shoes, extending my feet toward the fire. If he didn’t want to see my ankles, then he’d just have to keep his eyes closed.

“Miss Withersby? I’ve come across a paper I’d like your opinion on.”

“If it’s help you’re looking for, I can’t—”

“I know you can’t assist me, but perhaps you could simply listen. And if you agree with my summary, then you could simply nod.” He looked at me, as if challenging me to defy his suggestion.

I said nothing.

He sat at the desk that had formerly been mine, picked up
the paper he’d been working on, and read about the distribution of Ranunculaceae in the subantarctic islands. When he had finished, he looked at me. “Do you agree?”

I nodded. What else could I do? Apparently he had found my notes, for he had summarized my own thoughts on the matter quite nicely. And rather more succinctly than I might have done. “Are you going to submit it?”

“Of course. To the British Association for the Advancement of Science.”

Under his own name probably. And no doubt it would be accepted for publication. “If it’s that short, they might not consider if for a discourse. It might only get printed as a letter to the editor.”

“But it would be printed, in any case.”

I shrugged. I had never been printed in the journal in any format whatsoever, so what was it to me if his submission went in as a letter or into columned space?

He folded his hands atop the paper. “So you do agree, then?”

“Of course I agree. You have to know that I agree.” I twisted in order to see him. “Most of those words are my own! And I don’t doubt that you’ll find a way to have them published. Goodness knows that I have not. But it’s not for lack of trying. I’ve come to believe that nothing I write will ever be published and that my uncle is right: Girls aren’t fit for anything other than marriage and motherhood.”

“I admire your frankness. One always knows where they stand with you.”

It was the second time he’d said that. “And why shouldn’t one? I am amazed that you seem to have gone about with persons who continually lie to you, prevaricate, or fail to show you the honesty inherent in friendship. I have to tell you that I wouldn’t consider such people friends, Mr. Trimble.”

“Neither would I.”

“Then why do you maintain the friendships? You seem surprised at me. Perhaps it would be more useful to be surprised by
them
.”

He laughed. “Perhaps it would be. I will tell you something, Miss Withersby. There is nothing like a voyage halfway round the world to show you who your true friends are.”

“These friends of yours, did they not write to you?”

“They did not. In fact, there was only one person with whom I carried on a regular correspondence.”

“Then I would say
that
person ought to be accorded the honor of your friendship.” I turned back to face the fire.

“That person, Miss Withersby, was you.”

I
twisted again to face him. “Me! Why would you ever think that—”

“Come. I am not blind. And I have been tasked with organizing your father’s papers. With everything in such disarray, it was only a matter of time before I happened upon your papers and recognized your handwriting. I had wondered why your father seemed nothing like I had imagined.”

“But . . . to consider me a friend? I hardly think I count as one. It was a correspondence of business, was it not?”

“It started out that way, perhaps, but to whom else did I write of my travels? And my sheep?”

My secret was out. I turned, placing my elbows on the back of the chair and pulling up my feet to hide them beneath my skirts. “You never answered about Emilia’s lambing. How many did she have?”

“Two. And who else but you knows how many sheep I lost in that snowstorm last—”

“Forty-nine.”

“ . . . year, but you?”

“Then I confess: I have been the one maintaining my father’s correspondence. If I hadn’t done it, he never would have.”

“He’s been doing quite nicely these past few weeks. I simply give him a list of those things that need his attention, letters that need to be written, and he does them.”

“He’s writing his own letters?”

“Dictating them, in any case.”

That wasn’t fair. How many hours had I spent laboring to make his point, working to plead his case, when he might have done those things himself?

“He’s not some young boy who needs you to do everything for him.”

“He used to do all those things himself, when my mother was still living. But after she died he just . . . he just . . . stopped.” He’d stopped doing everything. He’d done nothing. Nothing but lie abed and stare at the ceiling. “It was frightening and . . . and dreadful.”

Mr. Trimble left the desk to squat beside me, his arm stretched around the back of the chair.

“I didn’t know what to do, so I just started doing what needed to be done.” I didn’t dare to meet his gaze. “I wrote the letters that needed to be written and I paid the bills that needed to be paid and I just kept going . . . kept hoping . . .”

He put his hand on my elbow. “Charlotte . . .”

As I glanced up, his gaze fled from mine.

He cleared his throat. “Miss Withersby . . . he’s a man grown. His work is not your responsibility.”

Not my responsibility? It felt as if somewhere deep inside my heart was breaking. As if the pieces I had bound together when Mother died were inexorably coming apart. What would I do if I didn’t take care of my father? I drew my elbow away from him, turned in my chair, and placed my feet on the floor.
“No. That responsibility is no longer mine. It’s yours now. Perhaps you count me as your friend, but I hope you understand why I can never consider you one of mine.” I rose and went upstairs.

Miss Templeton had convinced me to attend a parish function on behalf of the poorhouse the next afternoon. Though I had grudgingly agreed to do so at the time, now that I knew Mr. Trimble had discovered my secret, I was happy for the chance to leave the house. Shut away up in my bedroom, I had begun to feel as if I were a prisoner.

After making my escape, with no option of bypassing town, I picked my way past the channels of brine and dodged salt wagons on my walk, but I also stopped to greet several women whose acquaintance I had made over the previous weeks. I even involved myself—mostly by declining to offer my opinion—in their conversation as to whether the shade Blue de France could ever compare to Blue de Roi.

As I approached the parish function, Miss Templeton hurried to my side. “I’ve come up with a way to advance your plan.”

“I’m afraid it’s not going to advance at all unless I actually find myself married, in which case it will be too late.”

“Come, Miss Withersby, such glumness isn’t like you, and it mars your pretty features.”

I tried to make those pretty features more agreeable. “I fear Mr. Trimble is here to stay.”

“I was going to say that you need to mention either Mr. Stansbury or the rector every time you speak to your father, but now I’m beginning to think that it’s time for me to meet him.” Her mouth was set in a way that made me think she actually meant it.

“Meet my father?”

“No. Mr. Trimble!”

“You aren’t going to do anything to him, are you?”

“Not initially, in any case. So how shall we proceed? I don’t suppose you could get him to escort you to a dance or a dinner, could you?”

“I don’t see how. The Admiral has taken on that responsibility. And I don’t wish to spend any more time with him than I have to.”

She sighed. “Then—oh! I know. The lecture by that mesmerizer!”

“What about it?”

“I’ll come by tomorrow morning and persuade him to join us.”

“How?”

“Just leave that to me.”

The next morning, as I waited for Miss Templeton to come, Mr. Trimble and Father consulted on a letter to the editor of some journal as I sat on my hands so I wouldn’t be tempted to push away from my chair, walk over, and join them. I thought once, or twice, of warning Mr. Trimble—such as one might offer warning of storm clouds gathering on the horizon—but on the whole I considered that an encounter with Miss Templeton might do him some good. At eleven o’clock precisely, I heard a carriage come down the lane.

Moments later, Miss Hansford curtseyed as our visitor entered the room. “Miss Templeton for Miss Withersby.”

Miss Templeton came at me smiling, hands extended, reticule swinging from her wrist. “My dear Miss Withersby! How charming this place is. How cozy your situation. I see now why
I always have to coax you out into society.” She stood in the middle of the room, smile bright, brow lifted.

“It’s . . . it’s so good to see you. Whatever brings you out our way?”

She tilted her head toward my father and Mr. Trimble several times, and then she came over and took my hands up in her own, leaning forward to kiss me on the cheek. “Introduce me.” She whispered.

“What?”

“Introduce me to Mr. Trimble!” The words came out in a hiss.

I turned toward them. “Miss Templeton, may I introduce you to my father and his assistant, Mr. Trimble?” I gestured toward them, but they were still discussing the letter.

She frowned. Taking up my arm, she pulled me forward until we were opposite the desk, and then she jabbed at me with her fan as she tilted her head toward them once more.

“Miss Templeton, may I introduce you to my father?” I made the introduction. “And to my father’s assistant?”

By this time, Mr. Trimble had stood. Now he bowed as I made that introduction as well.

Miss Templeton smiled. “I don’t believe I’ve seen you before, Mr. Trimble. You must be hiding from us all.”

“I’ve been engaged in work for Mr. Withersby.”

“Which must be quite fascinating, but we’ve a lecture by a mesmerizer on Monday, and I’ve decided that you ought to come with us.”

A corner of his mouth lifted. “But what of my work?”

“I must warn you, I am quite ruthless in pursuit of what I want, and I won’t be put off by refusal or naysaying. You might as well agree.”

He glanced at my father, who shrugged.

Mr. Trimble actually seemed to be considering it. “It’s just a lecture? By one of those fool mesmerizers?”

Miss Templeton’s smile vanished. “I wouldn’t call them fools. They’re delightful! But yes, it’s just a lecture.”

Mr. Trimble bowed. “Then I agree.”

She clapped her hands. “It’s all arranged, then!”

Linking her arm about mine, she drew me out into the hall with her. “Are you quite sure that was Mr. Trimble? Because he’s not at all like you described. He’s not ill-tempered and he’s not old. He’s decidedly handsome! If he didn’t come from such a humble family and if he weren’t clerking for your father, I’d say he would be quite a catch! Now I don’t know
what
to think of him.” She gave her fan a few twists. “Quite honestly, he isn’t gruesome at all! He’s really rather extraordinary. On the whole I’d say he’s something quite different from what I expected, but I’ll reserve final judgment until the lecture.”

“I wouldn’t go so far as to say he’s extraordinary.”

“And you say he’s a sheep farmer?”

“From New Zealand.”

“That’s rather a shame, for I can imagine myself quite besotted with him.”

For some reason that annoyed me. I had thought she was on my side. Was she going to abandon me for him, in the same way my father had done? “Well, I can’t imagine him ever besotted with anyone. And that was your goal—to marry someone entirely besotted with you.”

“That’s true. That
is
true. But I wonder now whether I haven’t miscalculated.”

“He isn’t worth
any
calculation. Believe me.”

“Do you know anything about his family?”

“They come from somewhere in the east, and they’re complete dissolutes.”

“That’s a wretched bit of luck. I might have worked up an interest in him. Now I can see why you so fervently wish to be home and why you’re so difficult to budge once you’re here.”

“He has nothing to do with it. He’s the reason I was pushed out the door in the first place. If you’ll remember, my primary aim is to make my father release him.”

“Are you sure?”

“Am I sure of what?”

“Are you sure you wish to do that?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

She gestured toward the parlor with her fan. “Have you not
looked
at him?”

“Of course I’ve looked at him. I have to look at him every day. Every morning and every evening too.”

“I begin to see how we might use him to your advantage.”

“My
advantage
? The only advantage he can offer me is through his departure.”

“He’s quite handsome. And he
looks
as if he comes from a good family . . . if no one knew any better, they might think, if they saw you with him, that he was also competing for your hand. People will think what they want. They always do. But better than what people might
think
is what Mr. Stansbury and the rector might
do
.”

“What might they do?”

“They might begin to be more serious, more pronounced, in their devotion to you.”

“Truly?”

“Trust me.” She patted my hand. “What we have to do next is figure out how to drag your Mr. Trimble into society.”

“You’ve already badgered him into attending the lecture.”

“We need to figure out how to drag him
permanently
into society. He must see and be seen.”

So it wasn’t enough that I had to put up with him at home? I now had to suffer the misfortune of having him out and about with me as well?

“Don’t look so gloomy. With a little bit of a push, and Mr. Trimble’s help, you should be back to your work by next week. And it will be all the better, won’t it, knowing that Mr. Trimble helped himself out the door?”