“Oh, la dee, but this is nice,” Julia murmured as the cart rolled toward a sun-dappled creek, shaded by hemlocks and sycamores that beckoned the three girls with its soft murmuring into the cool shadows of the glade. “We can have our picnic over there,” Julia directed as the cart came to a halt in the shade of a tall sycamore. To their right, and indeed the perfect spot for a picnic, was a gentle rise of bank carpeted with meadow-sweet grasses and wildflowers, the overhanging boughs of one of the hemlocks creating a natural canopy above their heads.
“I am absolutely parched,” Julia said with a dramatic sigh. Climbing down from the cart, she had no idea of the comical figure she appeared as she tried to gather her billowing skirts and stiff crinoline, keep her parasol shading her delicate complexion, the basket of stuffed eggs and sponge cake from tipping its contents, and all the while maintain her ladylike dignity as she blindly searched for a safe footing on the uneven ground. And it proved no easy feat, for by the time Julia had stepped away from the cart, she was flustered and out of breath from the effort, her fancy bonnet askew, and a delicate strand of pale blond hair dangling untidily across her cheek.
“I hope Jolie remembered to pack a refreshment, Leigh,” Julia said faintly, eyeing the cool waters of the stream with little interest.
“Lemonade,” Blythe told her cheerfully, jumping down from the cart with annoying ease and grace, her long, dark brown hair tied with a satin bow and swinging freely around her shoulders. Her saucer-shaped straw bonnet was tipped at a rakish angle and seemed to mirror her gaiety. Ignoring Julia’s sniff of superiority—after all, there were certain discomforts a lady had to suffer to be fashionable—she squeezed past the voluminous skirts threatening to wrap themselves around the tree. Her own layered petticoats were far more practical for blackberry picking than wearing a crinoline, but Julia had seemed doubtful of Leigh’s suggestion to take off her crinoline and leave it in their bedchamber at Travers Hill. She had also refused to borrow one of Leigh’s old muslins, obviously believing she would encounter one of her hearty sea captains strolling through the woods. Blythe smothered a laugh at the thought of encountering a ship under full sail entangled in the honeysuckle and quickly set the basket down, but her hazel eyes twinkled with humor as she spread out a quilt snatched from the linen closet. The fragrance of lavender and roses still clung to the soft folds; delicate aromatic sachets, prepared by their mother’s own hand, scented all of the linens at Travers Hill.
“Shall we eat first, or look for berries?” Leigh inquired, unhitching the pony from the cart and sending him with an affectionate pat on his rump into the meadow to graze with the mare and the colt.
“Eat!” Julia said with unladylike vigor. “Well, at least I believe we will do a far superior job picking berries if we keep our strength up. And I do not intend to wander far even then. I’ll have you know this is my best pair of kid slippers,” she told the Travers sisters as she tried to settle herself as comfortably as possible on the outspread quilt. Her careful descent to the ground would have earned high marks and praise in Madame St. Juste’s proper deportment class, but when Julia’s shoulders and head disappeared beneath the rustling mound that had enveloped her, Leigh and Blythe started to laugh, at first softly, then loud enough even for the missing Julia to hear inside her silken cocoon.
“La dee,” came the faint voice from inside the crinoline, “I swear this is one fashion I could do without,” Julia declared, a sheepish grin on her face as she peeped from the folds. “Very well, help me from this cage,” she pleaded, her hands reaching out for help.
Blythe stared at Julia in surprise, pleased that their friend hadn’t completely lost her sense of humor in Charleston.
“Never will I doubt your advice again, Leigh,” Julia admitted as she was pulled to her feet, looking like a giant flower opening its petals. “Unfasten me, dears,” she said, sounding like the grand dame she’d been playing for the last few weeks. “If it were not that I am half-starved for those stuffed eggs, which are just out of reach in my current predicament, then I would suffer this torture, however…since we aren’t in Charleston supping on the lawns of the Craigmores’ house overlooking the Ashley River, with my faithful beaus surrounding me, I will forgo fashion for the moment.”
“Welcome home, Julayne,” Leigh said, unfastening Julia’s crinoline and smiling with satisfaction as the offending object rolled away and Julia’s skirts returned to an almost manageable size, and allowing room now for everyone to sit on the outspread quilt.
“Except for Adam calling me that, and he does it to tease me, I don’t think I’ve heard that name in years, at least not since we went away to Charleston,” she stated, seating herself with far more ease this time. “La dee, but I’m so hungry I’m even looking forward to your mama’s chicken curry and rice tonight,” Julia said, digging into the basket from Royal Bay as she pulled out the stuffed eggs that had so tantalized her.
“I thought you liked curry and rice,” Leigh said as she knelt down, the skirts of her plain muslin gown spreading out around her. She began to unload the basket, setting the china plates and silverware, napkins and goblets out on the blanket.
“Oh, dear, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded, truly I didn’t. But we had curry and rice all the time in Charleston, Leigh. It used to seem so exotic and foreign when I’d have it at Travers Hill, especially the way Jolie fixed it and with your mama being from Charleston, and descended from the French aristocracy. All we ever had, and still do, at Royal Bay are butter beans and plain ol’ ham. When I got to Charleston, though, it didn’t seem so wonderful anymore, especially since we seemed to have rice with everything! I declare, I thought we’d have it at breakfast even,” she said, watching as Leigh loaded her plate with an assortment of delectables. “Another biscuit with pâté, Leigh, please,” she entreated, smiling widely as another biscuit found its way onto her plate. “Of course, I do believe I really am looking forward to that curry and rice this eve, now that I’ve returned to Virginia.”
“I put the jar of lemonade in the stream, it’ll be cool in a few minutes,” Blythe said as she dropped down beside them and accepted her plate with a wide grin of pleasure, forgetting about the final fitting for her ball gown on the morrow as she gave in to her healthy young appetite.
“You are a sweet dear, Lucy,” Julia said, sounding as if she were far older than she was—but two years makes a big difference in a girl’s life, especially if she has been away at finishing school. “Naturally you will be wearing a new gown for your sixteenth birthday party,” she said matter-of-factly. “I seem to recall vaguely that I had a pink gown for mine,” she remembered with a slight frown of concentration, as if the event had occurred a century ago.
“I’m going to wear a pale green silk with ruffles. I was fitted for it in Richmond just before I left, and Althea brought it with her when she arrived,” Blythe said, and thinking about her beautiful gown, she decided against another sausage roll.
“Oh, la dee, how wonderful, Lucy. Green truly is your color,” Julia agreed. “Of course, I am rather more fortunate, because Simone says I can wear any color. ’Tis the fairness of my complexion and hair. I really do not think yellow would be a proper color for you.”
“I suppose your cousin Justin Braedon will be arriving when Palmer William does?” Blythe asked, fiddling with a half-eaten stuffed egg.
“Oh, la dee, I s’pose. Mama and Papa are expecting him, and his brother from the territories. I hardly remember him, but from what I’ve heard I am certain I shall not like him at all. I can tell you I am not looking forward to having to put him up, especially with Adam home too. It might be nice, though,” she said as a sudden thought struck her, “if Justin brought along a few of his cadet friends to stay over the weekend. Of course, I imagine that Matthew Wycliffe will be arriving shortly. He was invited, wasn’t he?”
“I believe so. He is interested in some of our stock which will be auctioned on Saturday, and then the race is on Sunday. Many are betting on S
ea Racer to win, and he came out of the Wycliffe stables,” Leigh told her.
“Horses! Really, Leigh, is that all you can think about?” Julia demanded in exasperation. “Of course,” she continued in a different tone of voice, for she knew her friend, “he must truly love horses to have bred such fine stock and have such famous stables.”
“He is a very fine rider,” Leigh agreed. “I’ve never seen him take his whip to his mount, nor has he ever lost his seat as far as I know,” she said, which was high praise indeed.
Julia bit her lip in vexation. “Yes, that would seem to indicate he is very well-bred.”
“He converses quite well,” Leigh added, taking a sip of the lemonade Blythe had retrieved from the stream and poured into the goblets.
“Oh, yes, indeed,” Julia was quick to agree, although, privately, she thought Matthew Wycliffe’s conversation rather dull. “You do like him, then?” she asked hopefully.
“Hmmm, I s’pose,” Leigh responded, glancing away for a moment, and only Blythe saw the smile that curved her lips.
“Oh, Leigh! Please!” Julia cajoled, straining to catch sight of Leigh’s face, but when her friend looked back, her expression was one of innocence. “You know I won’t breathe a word of it. You are my very dearest friend, and I do mean that,” Julia said with great solemnity, and she did mean it, for she and Leigh had been friends since they had taken their first tentative steps out of the nursery.
“Well,” Leigh said, relenting in her teasing of Julia, and knowing she could indeed trust her with any confidences, for although Julia could be exceedingly irritating at times, and rather silly, and selfish even, she was a trusted friend, and they’d stood together against many an adversary, “he is rather handsome.”
“Oh, most certainly,” Julia agreed, nodding her blond head and licking a dab of crabmeat from the corner of her lips. “And…”
“And very much a gentleman,” Leigh allowed.
“Not a word spoken against him.” Julia was in complete agreement, for if Leigh married Matthew Wycliffe and went to live in Charleston, then, as Leigh’s very best friend, she would be invited to stay and would accompany Leigh and Matthew to every important party of the Season. “And…”
“And he is very soft-spoken and he seems a very considerate man,” Leigh continued, remembering his patience with a confused and crotchety old gentleman who’d known his father and wanted to reminisce, and his kindness in comforting a frightened young boy who’d been thrown from his mount.
“You’ve already said he’s a gentleman, Leigh,” Julia reminded her. “And?” she prompted, her mouth full of pâté and biscuit.
“And?” Leigh asked, curious, for it seemed she had described Matthew Wycliffe reasonably well.
Julia swallowed the mouthful of half-chewed food, nearly choking in her haste. “Why, he’s rich! I declare, Leigh, how Matthew Wycliffe is situated in life is to be considered above all else. Naturally, it would be hoped that he is handsome, but then, that is why we are considering him in the first place. We don’t have to choose just any ol’ body. We can be selective.”
“We?”
“Well, of course, silly, you don’t think I’m going to let you choose your husband? I’m family now with your sister married to my brother. You’ve too soft a heart. As your very best friend, which I trust you will always remember—especially when I come to visit you in Charleston—I really must look out for our best interests,” Julia declared, although she wasn’t too concerned because Mrs. Travers had a keen eye when it came to matrimony and doing what was proper. Mrs. Travers would never allow Leigh to make a mésalliance. And Matthew Wycliffe as a son-in-law was hardly that, Julia thought with a sigh of deep satisfaction as she planned their futures in Charleston, her thoughts drifting dreamily away into the warm afternoon.
“Actually, I think I will never wed,” Leigh stated, thinking Julia had far too smug a look about her. “I will become another Rebecca, who can never know the love of her knight, Wilfred of Ivanhoe,” Leigh predicted, pleased by the momentary start of surprise on Julia’s face. “I shall pine away with unrequited love, leaving this land to journey far.”
“La dee, then I’ll be the Lady Rowena, I am as fair as she, and then I’ll be the lady of the manor,” Julia decided, wishing she could spy a knight in shining armor come riding through the trees to sweep her up in his arms and carry her off to be ravished.
“You would be the lady of the castle. Ivanhoe had a castle.”
“Hmmm, I declare I like that even better.”
“Even if named Udolpho or Otranto?” Leigh asked with a shudder as she remembered the castles of those Gothic tales of old.
“Even then, for I might meet up with a very mysterious, handsome prince who would hold me captive until I fell in love with him.”
“Or you could end up like poor Clarissa,” Leigh said, reminding Julia of Richardson’s classic, while holding her clasped hands against her breast, “dying because she has been held against her will and cruelly violated.”
“Oh, Leigh, really!” Julia said with a look of outrage on her blushing face. “The scandalous things you say.”
“Which are not unknown to you, I suspect, since you were raised on a horse-breeding farm the same way I was,” Leigh reminded her, surprised by Julia’s sudden missishness, for unless she had been blind her whole life she must have seen a stallion mount a mare in heat.
“Well, I think I will be Evangeline,” Blythe said softly, “and I will search for my true love, only to find him on his deathbed, then I will die tragically of a broken heart.”
“Oooh, la dee, I do so hate unhappy endings,” Julia exclaimed. “At least little Jane Eyre found her Rochester, although, ’twas a pity he was nearly blinded in that fire and he was never considered quite handsome. I’m sure I don’t know what she saw in him. He was quite disagreeable and she was far too much the mouse to suit me. I dare say, I would not have had the patience to put up with his ill humor.”
“But if you loved him, you would stay by his side despite whatever happened to him,” Leigh said.
“I most certainly would not, because, I would have the foresight not to choose him in the first place. I declare, Leigh, you have me worried. A lady always knows when a gentleman means trouble. You can spot it a mile away. Never marry a man with a swagger. It’s a sure sign. What do you think we’ve been learning at school? How to find a proper husband and make an ideal match. You don’t want to be another Catherine Earnshaw, do you? Oh, she made the right decision, and married her proper Edgar Linton, but then she tormented herself pining away for that Heathcliff. A dark-visaged gypsy. Nothing good can come of such a mismatching. You have got to be coldhearted about matrimony. Love, my dears, has nothing to do with it.”
“But I think of the noble sacrifice some heroines make for love. Like Marguerite Gautier? She gave up Armand because she loved him, only to face his wrath, know unhappiness because of his contempt, then die knowing she had made the greatest, most unselfish sacrifice for love.”
“Well, pooh, who wants to die and leave your lover? What pleasure is there in that? We should never have read so scandalous a story, except that Madame loved it. It’s French,” Julia declared, taking a slice of sponge cake.
“What about his love? He might die of unhappiness,” Blythe said, defending the hero of La Dame aux Camelias.
“Oh, la dee, Lucy dear, don’t you believe that. Heroes are never the ones who have to sacrifice anything in romantic novels. It is always the heroine. If she doesn’t die of a broken heart because she didn’t capture the hero’s love, then she dies in childbirth because she did and has to suffer the consequences of their illicit love—because it usually is. He, of course, rides off to great adventure on the last page, certain to find a new love.”
Leigh stared dreamily at the sky, the pear tart on her plate untouched. “’Twas on an afternoon, much like this, when Daphne fled Apollo, and I am certain that Atalanta stopped in this very glade to pick up one of the go
lden apples dropped by Hippomenes.”
“Oh, Leigh, you do know I never enjoyed reading that stuffy ol’ Greek mythology,” Julia reminded her with a frown. But when Leigh remained silent, she added, “So?”
“Atalanta had to wed Hippomenes, because he had outraced her and won her challenge. She was very fleet of foot and thought no one could catch her, but he tricked her by tossing three golden apples, which were quite irresistible, in her path. She could not resist them, and stopped to capture them for her prize. Alas, no more would she roam the woods alone, because he won the race and claimed her as his prize. And poor Daphne, well, she was turned into a laurel tree in order to escape from Apollo, who was determined to possess her. But a maiden who is loved by one of the gods is to be pitied, for a child of that union is doomed to death, and the maid to exile. She wished for neither, and chose instead another fate. To honor her, Apollo chose to wear a crown of laurel leaves whenever victorious.”
“Really,” Julia breathed, thinking the Greeks had been more romantic than she remembered from her studies. “La dee, but I am sleepy,” she said with a sigh of contentment, her plate empty.
“Oh, no, we have work to do, so you’d better not get comfortable,” Leigh reminded her sleepy-eyed friend.
“Oh, Leigh, you know I can’t go blackberry picking in this,” she said, holding out the fine muslin of her skirt. “It’ll be ruined. Mama will be so displeased with me if I come home with it snagged and stained,” she explained unhappily, yet hopeful of being excused from the purpose of their picnic. “Simone, my modiste in Charleston, she sewed this gown for me and it cost a fortune. And my slippers, remember them,” she added just in case.
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