At dinner, I was seated across from the Admiral and next to both Mr. Stansbury and Mr. Hopkins-Whyte.
I must confess that at first I paid much more attention to the food being served than to my dining companions. The bread was like nothing Mrs. Harvey had ever made for us. I didn’t even have to dunk it into my tea to be able to eat it. There were oysters, which I didn’t eat, and transparent soup, which I did. There was a boiled fish of some sort and stewed cardoons and then some collared pig, which wasn’t at all dry or even tough. It was enough to make me wonder why it was that father and I had to eat like sailors when some people appeared to eat like kings.
As I ate, Mr. Hopkins-Whyte kept apologizing for the state of his collections, while Mr. Stansbury attempted to persuade me to the merits of something he called a stumpery.
It wasn’t until the cheese was served that I could devote my attentions to a reply. As a rule, I didn’t really much care for cheese. “When you say stumpery, Mr. Stansbury, what is it exactly?”
“Finally! Some interest in my undertaking.” I liked the way he smiled as if he really meant to. “I can tell you, Miss Withersby, that the rest of the county’s population considers it a folly.”
“I know what it is to have your life’s work discounted. Or dismissed and considered a hobby.” Or treated as nothing at all.
“You do understand.” Mr. Stansbury had a very frank way of gazing at me through moss-colored eyes. His hair was dark, and he had combed it back to reveal a triangular point. His face had been fashioned with a firm hand, which had left behind a decided chin and a broad brow. Something about him reminded me of an invasive weed that has crept its way into a flower garden, trying to insinuate itself among the other plants. He looked harmless enough, he probably was harmless enough, but somehow he didn’t quite belong.
“To answer your question,” he said, “a stumpery is simply a collection of stumps.”
“Stumps. As in . . . ?”
“Tree stumps.”
“So you’ve taken a parcel of woodlands and cut down all the trees? Is that what you mean?”
His bark of laughter rolled across the table, making me almost wish I could understand the humor of my words.
“Excuse me, Miss Withersby, for laughing. Anyone will tell you I’m not the most couth of men. I’ve simply had tree stumps brought in and planted, stump down, in one of my gardens.”
“So . . . the roots are exposed?”
“Exactly.”
“You’ve a garden of tree roots, then?”
“Precisely.”
“I’ve never heard of such a thing.”
The Admiral drove me home and accompanied me to the door. When I bid him good-night, instead of returning to his carriage, he came into the house with me.
Although Father must long ago have gone to bed, at least I hoped he had, Mr. Trimble was still hunched over my desk, working. He stood when he saw us.
The Admiral nodded and then proceeded to pace in front of the fireplace for several long minutes. “I don’t know how to put this to you delicately, Charlotte,” he finally said, “so I shall simply come right out and say it.”
“Please do.”
“Mrs. Bickwith inquired as to whether your trunks had not yet arrived.”
“My trunks? We’ve been here for nearly four years now. Of course they’ve come!”
“That’s not what she meant to say. What she meant was . . . Well, I think . . . That is . . . I think . . . you should pay a visit to a dressmaker.”
“Why?”
Mr. Trimble cleared his throat.
The Admiral transferred his gaze to him.
It took me a moment to realize my uncle was waiting for an introduction. “Admiral Williams, this is Mr. Trimble, a correspondent from New Zealand, come to work for my father. You might remember him from before we left for the dinner. He was speaking of petticoats and . . . and other things.”
Mr. Trimble stepped forward, hand extended. “Admiral Williams?” He spoke the words almost reverently.
My uncle nodded. “Her Majesty’s Navy.”
“I consider it a very great honor, Admiral. Though I may not be the first, I wish to offer you my congratulations on the reopening of China to trade.”
My uncle took his measure from head to toe and finally nodded. “So noted.”
“Forgive me for intruding upon your conversation with Miss Withersby, but may I offer my observations?”
“If you think them relevant.”
Mr. Trimble addressed himself to me. “You are lacking the appropriate attire in which to find yourself a husband, Miss Withersby.”
“Why would it matter what I’m wearing? Are we not taught from the cradle to look beyond appearances?”
“Appearance does matter, and quite a bit to some people, I assure you.”
I considered his words for a moment. “I suppose . . . I put on my shooting jacket and boots when I go for a ramble in order to better facilitate the collection of specimens . . .”
Mr. Trimble raised a brow as if waiting for me to go on.
“So the corollary is that I must put on some other sort of costume when I go to these dinner parties in order to better facilitate the collection of a husband?”
The Admiral let out a breath in a great whoosh of air. “Quite so, quite so. The right uniform for the job. Just like I always say.”
“I’ve got to have one of those gowns? One of those with all the . . .” I moved my hands about my skirts to try to gather the words to describe those massive dresses I’d seen.
“I daresay you’ll need more than one.” Mr. Trimble spoke in the most benign way, but his eyes made me think him quite serious.
“More than one?”
“They’re like day lilies, Miss Withersby. A new bloom, a new gown, each day.”
This pretending to find a husband was going to require an extravagant amount of money. It’s a good thing I had never done it in earnest before. But that didn’t get me out of the bind I was in at the moment. “Surely I can make do with what I have.” It should only take a few more days for Father to realize my worth and after that no one would care about my gowns any longer. “We’ve hardly money enough to pay Mrs. Harvey, and if I’m not going to write that book on wax flowers, I don’t see where we’ll get the funds for—”
The Admiral harrumphed. “You can tell the dressmaker I’m good for it. Haven’t got the expense of children because I left it too long and now I can’t live with anyone but myself.”
I blinked. Had he . . . had he just offered to pay for new gowns? He’d never done anything of the sort before. He’d always seemed almost as embarrassed on our account as we were on his. I wanted to tell him to save his money, that new gowns were hardly required, but I’d perpetuated a deception and had no choice but to continue in it. “Thank you. When shall we go, then?”
“Go where?”
“To the dressmaker.”
His brows rose in apparent alarm. “You’re asking me to go with you? I don’t know anything about frills and furbelows.”
It was apparent to me that he knew more about the subject than I did. “I suppose I shall go by myself, then. Although . . . I don’t really know what to ask for.”
“I can write it all down for you.” Mr. Trimble returned to the desk, which had formerly been mine, seeming intent upon doing just that.
I followed him. “I can’t think how it is, being just a sheep farmer from New Zealand, that you know about this sort of thing.”
“A general knowledge of this and that comes in handy even in the wilds of the empire, Miss Withersby. And when you’re raised with sisters, you can’t help but come by a knowledge of fashion and its modes.”
The Admiral snorted. “I had my own sister.” He glanced over at me. “Your mother always hated this sort of thing. Said it took too much time away from what was important.” He frowned. “Though I can’t go with you, my dear, you must go with someone—otherwise, they’ll talk you into all sorts of fripperie
s that aren’t needed. You’ll want what’s appropriate and useful, but no more than that. No point in putting a mast on a dory. I could send a message to Mrs. Bickwith and ask her to accompany you.”
Not Mrs. Bickwith. She reminded me too much of broad-leaved dock. Some admired its flowers, but I had always found them to be too drooping and waxy for my taste. “What about Miss Templeton?”
“Brilliant idea,” the Admiral said. “I ought to have thought of her myself. I’ll write out a note and have it delivered tomorrow. Ask her to accompany you on Monday.”
“Could you make it on Tuesday morning?” Miss Templeton seemed to have a need for contemplation. “But don’t make it for any earlier than ten.”
Mr. Trimble passed him a sheet of paper. The Admiral cleared a place atop the mantel and composed his message.
“There!” He signed it with a flourish and slid it into his pocket. “I’ve asked her to accompany you on Tuesday morning. I’ll send my carriage for you both.”
As I sat in church the next day, I realized the rector had not lied. His true calling was to the pulpit. I had never heard a finer sermon. One point followed upon the other in such an orderly manner and with such clear logic that his thesis could not be called into question. And far from the wandering, dubious conclusions of the previous rector, this rector’s sermon called for moral courage and immediate action.
I fairly pledged myself to clean and virtuous living.
The next day after I had woken far too early with nothing to do, after wandering about the house and refraining from all things related to flowers, I took myself off on a ramble. Again I encountered the rector around the region of Cats Clough.
“Miss Withersby.” He tore his hat from his head and clasped it to his chest.
“I must say, Mr. Hopkins-Whyte, that I quite enjoyed your sermon yesterday.”
His shoulders eased. “Thank you.”
“I had no idea that you were so . . . that you . . .”
“That I could speak so eloquently?” He smiled as I began to laugh. “That’s what my wife always says. Said. She claimed I courted her through psalms and visions of heaven instead of bouquets of flowers, with the stuff of paradise rather than earthly jewels.”
He was holding onto the strap of his vasculum, gripping it so tightly that his knuckles gleamed and his fingers trembled. “She never asked me for anything, but I told her I would make her proud, that I would become a proper clergyman. And I have tried.” He held up his metal cylinder. “You can see that I have tried.”
“Indeed you have.”
“But I must tell you that it’s very tiring tramping about the countryside in search of flowers you’ve never seen before. I suppose I don’t have to tell you that. Your father has made a career of it. And, as you said, you’re a devotée of flowers yourself.”
“Indeed, I am.”
He sighed. “I am getting better at it. And I do have quite a collection at the rectory. Quite a large, fine, big collection.” He blinked his eyes open wide as if he’d just startled himself. “A collection you are coming to see tomorrow!”
I nodded. “Miss Templeton and I, both.”
“I must . . . I really should . . . I think it best if I go now.”
“Please don’t trouble yourself on our account, Mr. Hopkins-Whyte. I wouldn’t want you to set aside your sermon for—”
“Sermons come easy, Miss Withersby. It’s the flowers that have proved to be so confoundingly difficult. But I do try.”
“Flowers come easy to me. I suppose that’s why I like them so. They sprout and bloom and die, but they never prevaricate. A violet is always a violet. It’s very reassuring.”
“It’s the way I feel about God’s Word. It always remains the same. Little wonder, I suppose that His creations are constructed in a similar manner. I feel, like so many others, that I ought to be inspired to higher thoughts by botany, but I must confess I normally feel very . . . confused.” He looked sadly down at his vasculum and then glanced up at me. “I suppose I had better get back. To the children.” He nodded and then replaced his hat. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”
When I returned, Father was closeted in his study and Mr. Trimble was sifting through a stack of journals.
“Enjoying your work?”
He had stood absentmindedly as I’d entered. Now he glanced up at me and then sat back down, continuing his work.
“I would offer to help you, but I can’t.” I sat in a chair and pulled off my boots.
“Your father has given me the task of compiling recent writings on the classification of orchids. Do you have any idea where the rest of the Botanic Gazette magazines would be?”
“No.”
“Because there’s a previous article referenced in this one”—he held up an issue—“that I cannot find.”
“By whom?”
He squinted as he consulted the issue. “Mr. Allen.”
“That sounds familiar, and he did publish a monograph on monopodial orchids last year, didn’t he?” Mr. Trimble began to reply, but I continued. “No. Forgive me. I believe it was the year before. But I wouldn’t wish to say that I was certain. It caused quite a stir, though you probably wouldn’t have heard of it, being halfway across the world as you were. Which leads me to wonder just how much you actually know about the current state of botany.”
He smiled, but I could tell there was no humor in it.
“May I ask, why didn’t you tell me your uncle was Admiral Williams?”
“Why would it have mattered?”
“He’s the finest seaman to ever sail in Her Majesty’s Navy! If he were related to me, I would make certain everyone knew it. To have such an honorable man share my family name . . . I tell you, Miss Withersby, it would be a vast improvement upon the family I was born into. I must confess that I don’t understand your lack of family pride.”
“My family—my father’s and my mother’s both—are botanists, Mr. Trimble. They always have been, back as long as anyone can remember. Can you imagine the scandal the Admiral caused by insisting upon going into sailing?”
“I would hardly call it sailing.”
“But surely you can see what a disappointment my uncle was.”
“I hardly call being the hero of the Opium War a disappointment.”
“In a family with such longstanding botanical roots, his insistence upon eccentricities—”
“Such as?”
“Such as . . . what?”
“That’s what I’m wondering. What were his supposed eccentricities?”
“Supposed? Are you mocking me?”
“I’m merely trying to understand you.”
I sighed. “He and my mother were raised in Essex. From what I have been told, he had a near constant need to be out upon the river.”
“That hardly qualifies him as an eccentric.”
“And he built himself a boat.”
“How very devilish of him.”
“Upon which he sailed far and wide.”
“As a proper sailor should.”
“And when he won a bursary at his entrance to university, he turned it down for a commission in the navy instead.”
“I see. For which provocation he was . . . ?”
“My grandfather didn’t speak to him for many years, and my grandmother never wrote to him, and he was off sailing about when my parents married.”
“And I suppose when he was knighted by Queen Victoria for the valiant service he had offered his country, then . . . ?”
“Then we couldn’t hide our relation to him any longer.”
He burst out laughing.
“I fail to see any humor in the situation.” I reached over and tapped on the lid of a Wardian case, and a droplet of condensation fell onto an orchid’s leaf.
“Perhaps you ought to consider past events from his point of view. It’s not a pleasant thing to be the bane of someone’s existence. I can tell you, from experience.”
“I wish someone would consider things from
my point of view. I am being forced to abandon my life’s work. Does no one understand that? If my father and the Admiral have their way, my generation of Williamses will contribute nothing to the record of botany.”
I had been speaking rather more loudly than I meant to and revealing more about my sentiments than I had wanted to. Confound it! I took a deep breath. “I never said the Admiral was a bane.”
Mr. Trimble opened his mouth to speak and then closed it up. A look of indecision crossed his face. “Didn’t you?”
“He has done much for my father since my mother died, and I won’t have him disparaged.”
“I never meant to.”
The Admiral had done quite a bit for us. Until that moment, I hadn’t quite realized how very much he’d done. He’d gotten my father out of bed, and he’d moved us to Overwich. He’d been . . . he’d been our saving grace. Which made me feel rather mean and very small about my opinions of him. “He simply doesn’t fit. He failed to meet the family’s expectations.”
“Don’t we all? From time to time?”
“Perhaps you have, but I haven’t. I never have. I have done precisely as was expected.”
“But why must expectations always become obligations? Imagine if he had done as your family expected. Then who would have won Hong Kong for the queen? It’s a well-established fact that he was the naval genius of his generation.”
Could it be that I had been looking at the Admiral all wrong?
Mr. Trimble cleared his throat and continued, “I should confess that I have no great love for my family. And I’ve been wondering what my obligation is to them when I can’t abide by their strictures. So I find your opinion of the Admiral quite illuminating. And rather alarming, if I may be frank. He’s the hero of the realm, and yet you seem to hardly tolerate him.”
“You sound as if you don’t quite fit with your family either.”
“No, I do not. So I must ask myself, if I prefer the woodlands to the meadows, if I prefer sunlight to shade, if my habit inclines to the upright instead of climbing, then why must I live my life twisting and coiling about a tree’s trunk? Why can I not just live as a tree?”
“It’s impossible to change one’s genus, Mr. Trimble. Is that what you’re trying to do? You might as well try to hide your roots and declare yourself to be an owl.” I tucked my feet up on the chair, beneath me. “Your family are not inclined to sheep, then?”
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