by Daphne Bloom
The only thing I do know is that I’m not suited to marriage and children. I do not think I am stupid. But I don’t have a mind that would allow me to organize and run a household. I could never manage staff, even a small number. I cannot handle accounts. And for children…
I often spend hours in the garden at the expense of everything else. When my hands are in the dirt, I completely lose sense of time or anything around me. I don’t even eat unless Abigail comes to fetch me. If I had children…I fear I would forget them. What if they got lost or injured because I didn’t pay attention to them as I should? The thought terrifies me.
I like children, naturally. My nieces are the most lovely and clever things. I suppose if I employed an excellent nanny, a very attentive woman, I would not need to worry so much. But a child would deserve a better mother than me. A husband a better wife.
I wipe a tear from my cheek and end up with a streak of mud on my face. I stop and realize that I’ve dug a rather sizable hole. My hands are filthy, dirt packed under my short fingernails. I sit back and sigh, wondering just how I’m going to fix this mess. I suppose I could place a bench here. The area is flat and shaded. Yes, I could pat everything back into place and the bench would prevent the grassless area from looking out of place. I’ll have to ask Mr. Wright if we have any garden furniture stored away that is currently not in use.
I stand up and wipe my hands on my dress, completely forgetting that I’m not wearing my garden dress, but a light blue house dress. Mama is going to be furious when she sees what I’ve done. I’ll have to try and sneak into the house and dispose of it without her noticing. I’ll have to just hope that she doesn’t notice it is missing. Well, since I’m already dirty, I might as well work on those African violets.
It’s warm in the greenhouse, so I unbutton and roll up my sleeves. On a large tray I place three small pots of violets, my trowel and claw, a watering can, and a pair of gloves. I cross the lawn and look up at the sun, enjoying the warmth on my face.
I reach the spot I wish to plant the flowers and set everything down. This place will be perfect because the flowers will not be in direct light as they will be shaded by a large rhododendron. It’s also a quiet, isolated part of the garden. Hopefully no one will find me here for a while.
“Miss Lily!” I hear Abigail call. I sit up and remember that I never went back and got my hat. I rub the back of my neck and feel that a slight burn has already begun to form. Mama is going to be furious. Perhaps Abigail saw me and has brought me my hat. Even better if she has brought my gardening dress as well. I drop my trowel and walk in the direction of Abigail’s voice.
“Miss Lily!” I hear her call again, and there is an urgency in her voice that alarms me, as though something is wrong.
“I’m here!” I say when I reach a main path.
Abigail gasps and puts her hands to her mouth. “Oh, my lady! What have you done?”
I look down at the sorry state of my dress and feel instantly ashamed. I should take better care of my things.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “Please don’t tell Mama.”
Abigail shakes her head and takes my hand, leading me toward the house. “Don’t worry about that right now. You must come quickly.”
“Why?” I ask. “What’s happened?”
“Your father’s collapsed.”
Chapter Four
Henry
I stand at a distance, leaning against the thick trunk of a large oak tree, as I watch Timothy during his riding lesson. For only six the boy is quite good. He sits up straight in his saddle, holding the reins firmly in his small hands. The horse is a particularly placid mare, but still I think I would have been afraid of a horse that much larger than myself at his age. But Timothy shows no fear.
I suppose I can’t help but feel a little envious of the boy as he glides effortlessly around in a circle as his trainer holds onto the horse by a long rope. I used to love riding. But now…since the accident. Well, I don’t suppose I’ll ever ride again.
“You seem to be in another world.”
I look over to see my mother, Hestia, join me in the shade of the tree. “Sorry, Mother. I didn’t hear you approach.”
She waves my apology away and stands next to me, watching Timothy. “Such a splendid boy,” she says. “I’m afraid we spoil him.”
“It’s only natural,” I say, “when a family pins all their hopes and dreams on one person. He’ll begin to understand the pressures soon enough. Might as well make things as easy as possible for him until then.”
“Perhaps he might face a bit less pressure if he had a cousin to share his burdens with.”
I groan. “Oh, Mother, not you too. Haven’t I had enough berating from Father?”
“It’s not berating, my dear. It’s love.”
“It certainly doesn’t feel like love,” I say as I shift. If I stand in one position too long, my back begins to ache something terrible. “I can’t simply conjure a wife up out of thin air, much less a son.”
“True,” Mother says, “but neither can you court a young lady when there are none to court.” I look over and she raises an arched eyebrow at me. For her age my mother is a remarkably handsome woman. I’d go so far as to say she was quite beautiful when she was younger. I suppose George and I get some of our own good looks from her.
“What are you getting at?” I ask with an annoyed sigh as I move to the other side of the tree, leaning on my cane. I swear it is getting harder and harder to stand in one spot for any amount of time.
“The Season has already begun, but you are here in Cornwall and not London. Why?”
“You know why,” I say, trying not to growl at her. “I can’t possibly go to London like this.”
“Why not?” she asks. “You might not be able to dance, but plenty of perfectly able men cannot dance. Your father freely admits he has two left feet.”
“He can still at least follow the steps, even if there is no elegance in it,” I say. “I can’t even do that. I would only be able to stand in the shadows and watch like some dark specter.”
Mother laughs. “Oh, Henry, you all ways were given to such theatrics.” I cross my arms and look away. How can she be so callous to my predicament?
“There are plenty of people who go to the dances and don’t dance,” she goes on. “Besides, there are other events that don’t involve dancing, such as dinner parties.”
I nod. “Dinner parties….and…?” I raise my own eyebrow at her, daring her to come up with another Season activity I’d be able to participate in. “A fox hunt, perhaps?” Now it is her turn to look away. “Or perhaps a long walk through Covent Garden with me limping all the way? Come now, there must be something I’d be able to do besides eat. Can you imagine if not only was I paralyzed but also weighed three-hundred pounds? I should never get out of my bed again—”
“Henry, stop it!” Mother snaps, and I see tears in her eyes.
“I’m sorry, Mother.”
She wipes at her cheeks and I feel terribly embarrassed by my words. I know she is only trying to help, only wants the best for me. But at the same time, was there any untruth to my words?
“I am terribly sorry for what happened to you, my love,” she says, regaining her composure. “But no amount of grousing is going to change your situation. Hiding here at Pembroke Hall will not help you find a woman to love you before time runs out.”
I feel a hitch in my chest at the thought. It is only a matter of time before my back gives out completely, I’m sure of it. It will be impossible to find a wife then, and rather pointless. Should I become completely paralyzed, I would then be unable to sire children, according to the doctors. It’s a dreadful thought, but one I must be prepared to face. Even if I do find a wife, eventually we will become nothing more than companions—and the thought breaks my heart.
There is some truth to what my parents say, that I could still have a son if I found a wife quickly. But if I do try and find a wife who can love me despite my situation,
would it be fair to her? Should I tempt a woman into loving me only to eventually remove the most pleasurable part of marriage from her life forever?
“There is truth in what you say, Mother. But I’m not sure I can—or that I should. Would it be fair to find a woman who can love me only to saddle her with—” I gesture to my leg and cane. “—this?”
“You should allow the girl to make that choice,” Mother says. She reaches up and touches my cheek. “There is much more of you to love than you might think. Go to London and find a girl who will freely choose you.”
I tisk. “Mother…”
“No, Henry, listen to me,” she says. “Think of it this way: marriage is inevitable. If you don’t choose your own bride, your father will choose one for you.”
“Can’t you talk him out of it?” I ask.
“Believe me, my darling, I have tried. I’ve talked for hours and have not been able to change his mind. I might as well be talking to a stone. One way or another, you will be married by the end of this year. I highly encourage you to go to London and at least try to find a wife of your own.”
It’s a terrifying proposition. “But, how? How can I possibly court a girl in my condition?”
“I’m sure you’ll think of something,” she says.
“Uncle Henry! Nana!” Timothy runs over to us, out of breath and covered in horsehair. “Did you see me?”
“We certainly did, my love,” Mother says. “Such a brave little horse rider I never did see.”
“I think I should be able to ride off the lead,” he says. “I know I can guide the horse myself.”
“Certainly not,” Mother says, her face frightened. “You’re much too young, no matter how good you are.”
“Indeed, Master Timothy,” the groom, a Scottish gentleman, says, joining us. “Ye canna run before ye can walk. Nor can ye run free before ye can even mount the horse on yer own.”
We all chuckle as Timothy crosses his arms and pouts. “I’m not a baby!”
“Of course you aren’t,” I say. “But these things must be done properly. If you try to learn in the wrong order, you’ll only be learning bad habits that will have to be unlearned later. It’s a waste of time.”
“I guess,” the boy says with a heavy sigh. “Will you ride with me, Uncle?”
“You know I can’t,” I say sadly.
“I just mean walk me back to the stables,” he says. “You can lead the horse.”
“Umm—” I’d like to, and the boy seems so eager, staring up at me with his wide green eyes. But I simply can’t—
“Of course he will,” Mother says.
“Mother—”
“You have to walk back to the house anyway,” she says.
I look from her to Timothy, and then to the groom. The older gentleman laughs as he places the rope in my hand.
“Looks like yer outvoted, sir.”
“On pretty much everything, apparently,” I say, giving Mother a look. She beams.
“Does that mean you will be going to London?” she asks.
I run my hand through my hair, which has gotten a bit long. I suppose I’ll need to have it cut before I leave. “Fine, Mother. I’ll go. Tell Father he’s won.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased!” she says, taking my cheeks in both of her hands. “There’s so much to do! I’ll have your valet check your wardrobe and see what we need to order.” She turns and walks back toward the house, talking to herself about all the things she needs to do.
“What was that about?” Timothy asks. I take his hand and lead him back to the horse, who is chomping on some grass.
“I guess I’m leaving for London soon,” I say.
When we reach the horse, Timothy raises his arms expectantly, needing help to get atop the horse. I look around, expecting the groom to have followed us, but I see he is already halfway back to the stables. I feel a moment of panic knowing that I’m going to have to help the boy myself.
“Come on,” Timothy says, wiggling his fingers in the air as he waits for me to help him up. I realize I have no choice but to do the best I can. I tie my cane to the horse’s bridle so it doesn’t fall to the ground. As difficult as it is to walk or lift things, bending over is quite arduous as well.
“Okay, but I’ll need you to help me as well, all right?” I say.
“Yup,” Timothy says.
I stand in front of him and put my hands under his arms. “I need you to jump as high as you can, all right?”
“Yup!” he says, growing more excited.
“Okay. One…two…three!” The boy jumps and I lift him and in a mere second he’s atop the horse. She whinnies and side steps in surprise, but I grip the reins and hold her steady.
“Easy, easy, girl.”
“Whoohoo!” Timothy cheers. He then taps the horse’s sides with his feet. “Let’s go!”
“Wait!” I say as I reach for my cane. I feel a sharp stab in the lower part of my back, and for a moment, I fear I’m going to tumble.
“What’s wrong, Uncle Henry?” Timothy asks.
I grit my teeth as I squeeze tightly to the reins, and in a moment, the pain passes.
“Noth…nothing. I’m all right.” I exhale a few times and then look up at Timothy and see fear on his little face. I force a smile. “I’m fine, son.”
I clear my throat and untie my cane, leaning on it with one hand and leading the horse by the reins with the other. I’m surprised I’m able to walk after such an attack of pain, but I’m even more surprised when there doesn’t seem to be any more pain as we take the long walk back to the stables. By the time we are inside and I stop the horse next to a crate so that Timothy can climb down on his own, I’m feeling remarkably fit.
“I’ll take her, sir,” the groom says, and I hand him the reins.
“Can I feed her?” Timothy asks, following after, and the groom hands Timothy a carrot.
I’m beginning to wonder if perhaps there is something to the exercises after all, but when I move again, the stiffness and pain return, and I’m disheartened to think about how sore I am going to be in the morning. I’m also terribly tired. Even if I could sire a child, what kind of father would I be if I get winded after a short walk?
I’ll go to London. I’ll attend the events of the Season. But I’ll not find a wife. And when I return unattached, if Father tries to arrange a marriage for me on his own, let him try. I’ll simply have to find a way to sabotage it when the time comes.
Chapter Five
Lily
“It seems he’s had an apoplectic attack, ma’am,” the doctor tells Mama.
“But what does that mean?” she asks.
“We aren’t exactly sure of the cause, but it means he is not getting enough blood to the brain…”
The doctor’s voice fades in my ears. I’m sitting on one side of Papa’s bed, holding his hand in mine, trying not to cry. My poor papa looks dreadful. He’s asleep, but one side of his face droops like a damp cloth. His mouth hangs open and a little string of drools drips out. I use a handkerchief to blot the wetness away. His skin is a terrible pasty color.
“…stress can be a significant factor…” I hear the doctor say. I remember the argument I’d had with Papa not many hours before. Did I cause this? He didn’t seem angry or stressed when I left him, but perhaps he had been more agitated than I thought.
Across from me, on the other side of the bed, Constance holds his other hand and cries into her handkerchief.
“How could this have happened?” she asks. “He’s so young.”
“I thought he was five and fifty,” I say, and she looks at me as if I’d slapped her.
“That’s not old!” she says, and I shrug. Seems old to me.
“Girls, lower your voices,” Mama hisses. “Can’t you see that your father needs his rest?” Constance goes back to weeping.
The door opens and I see my other sister, Elise, sweep into the room, her hand over her heavy belly. She’s about six months pregnant with what everyone hopes i
s the much-desired male heir. She walks to Mama and takes her hand.
“I came as soon as I heard.”
“So kind of you to make the journey,” Mama says. “I’ll make sure the maids prepare a room for you so you can stay a few days.”
“Please do,” Elise says. “I cannot imagine leaving you at a time like this.”
Mama smiles and pats Elise’s cheek before escorting the doctor from the room. A footman brings a chair next to the bed near to me so that Elise can sit down.
“How is he?” Elise asks as she sits primly, her hands folded in her lap. Elise always does everything perfectly. She is only two years older than I am, but she received a marriage proposal during her first Season, so she’s been married for five years already. She has one daughter already. Constance is seven and twenty and has three girls of her own.
“According to his valet, he was alone in the study, working,” Constance explains. “When the land agent was shown into the study for their regular meeting, he and the butler found Papa unconscious on the floor. They sent for the doctor and here we are.”
Elise tisks her tongue and shakes her head. “And they have no idea what caused it?”
Constance shrugs. “It was a sudden attack is all the doctor seems to know.”
“So, what can be done?” Elise asks.
“Nothing,” Constance says, shaking her head and her tears returning. “We can do nothing!”
“Do calm yourself, sister,” Elise says.
“How can you be so cold?” Constance snaps. “Papa is on his deathbed.”
“It’s only been a few hours,” Elise says, her voice more soothing. “I’m sure he will come to soon.”
This seems to calm Constance somewhat and she nods her head. “How are you feeling?”