Mr. Trimble took him by the elbow and helped him into a chair. “It’s just that I can’t assist you when I don’t understand what it is I’m meant to assist with. I think I’m in a much better position to be able to . . .” He kept talking as I left the room. I needed to go on a ramble. To be out in the tangle of the fields. In the natural order of—!
I stopped in the front hall, turned around, and went back into my father’s study. “Even God himself didn’t find it necessary to put fences round His meadows or plant His flowers in geometrical arrangements!” Once done, I exchanged my shoes for my sturdy boots and went out into the wilds of Cheshire.
But when I reached my favorite field, I stood gazing at it, wondering what there was to do. I’d left so quickly that I hadn’t grabbed my vasculum, but even had I done so, there wouldn’t be any point in picking anything. I wasn’t to do fieldwork anymore.
I felt as if I ought to give Mr. Trimble a good cursing, only it wouldn’t have been very charitable of me, and he’d taken up enough of my thoughts as it was.
Several miles away, I could see the tips of Dodsley Manor’s towers, so I decided to visit Miss Templeton. She would sympathize with me. She would support me. And then she would help me decide how to move our plan along.
“It’s quite simple, really.” She sounded surprised that I had even put the question to her.
“What is?”
“You’ve only to start undermining his organizing scheme, and then it will be sure to fail.”
“Undermine it?”
“It’s like when I leave my fan in the music room or my bonnet in the parlor. The next time I ask for it, my maid can’t find it and then she goes into a panic and then I go into a panic and then we’re both in quite a state of hysterics until I can remember what I’ve done with it.”
“So you’re saying that I should . . . do . . . what, exactly?”
“I’m saying that his arrangement works only so long as things stay wherever it is that he’s decided they’re supposed to. So the quickest way to ensure his failure would be to make sure things don’t stay where they’re supposed to.”
“And how am I to do that? When I’m not supposed to be sorting through the papers?”
“I don’t know. You asked for my advice, and I’ve given it. So now you must return the favor.”
I squared my shoulders. “I’ll do what I can.”
“Good!” She lifted a bell from the table beside her and began to ring it. Soon a maid appeared at the door, bobbing a curtsey.
“I’d like you to dress my hair in the ways we spoke of.” She turned to me. “And you can help me decide which style I’ll wear to Lord Harriwick’s ball.”
“I’m not very proficient in the dressing of hair. I don’t think I’m qualified to judge.”
“Which is specifically why I want you to tell me what you think is most becoming. Since you have no idea what you ought to think, then it seems to me that I’ll be able to trust what you say. You’ll give me your complete and utterly honest opinion, won’t you?”
“What else would I give you?”
“Exactly.” She seated herself in front of a table that had a mirror attached to it. Beyond it stretched the rest of her bedchamber. A large floral rug in pale greens and golden yellows lay on the floor. Atop it were placed a half-dozen chairs and a sofa with scrolled arms, all upholstered in a deep red that had since faded to a rosy pink. Her bed was every bit as magnificent as the house and had been hung with brocade curtains. My own room was a plain and simple buttercup to her frilly, multilayered peony.
It seemed to take a terribly long time just to comb through the length of her hair and then to pin it all up again and attach something she called a fall that had curls stuck to it. Frankly, it didn’t look much different than when I had first come. Finally, the maid stepped back and Miss Templeton turned to face me. “Now. Here is the first one.”
“How many of them are there going to be?”
“Just two.”
“Two? That’s three all together if I count the way you were wearing it when I first came in?”
She nodded.
“Why don’t you just wear it the way you always do?”
“Why should I when there are so many ways to dress it? Don’t you ever change your style?”
“No. I just pin it back and then put things on top of it.”
She broke out into gales of laughter. “Things! Like lace, for instance? Or ribbons?”
“Both. And of course that flower that Mr. Trimble pushed behind my ear.”
“He put a flower in your hair? That’s rather bold of him, don’t you think?”
“He had to do something since he took away my bonnet.”
“He took it away from you? The beast! He’s quite in danger of overstepping his place, in my opinion.”
“He’s far past overstepping.”
“Ha! He’s leaped right over it, hasn’t he. All right. Now then. You’ll have to tell me what you think of this next one.”
For that one, her hair was once more combed through, and arranged to fall toward her jaw in great swoops that reminded me of a hound’s ears before being gathered into a knot at the back. “I like the first one better.”
“The first? Truly? How disappointing. I was really quite hoping for this one.” She looked at me expectantly as if I might say something further.
“Be that as it may, I like the way you normally wear it.”
She sighed. “There’s no help for it, then. I’ll just wear it the same old way.” She looked at me through the mirror. “Don’t you ever get tired of doing things the same way you’ve always done them?”
“I find particular comfort in routine.”
“Not me. I want to do everything and see everything and experience everything.”
“Then maybe you should try the last one, even though it makes you look like a hound.”
“It makes me look like a hound? I don’t think I’ve ever looked like a hound before. At least not on purpose. I’ll have to think on it.” She turned and leveled a most direct look at me. “Now then, why don’t we see about you.”
“Me?”
An hour later I was sitting in front of her mirror with my hair twisted and pulled and curled into what I could only call a torturous departure from my normal style.
“It’s magnificent!”
“It feels rather . . . tight.”
“Don’t worry. It’s supposed to.”
“Are you sure? Because I’m quite afraid it might give me a headache.”
“I hope so. Then you’ll know it’s been gathered securely enough.”
I couldn’t imagine going about all night with my head pounding.
She frowned. “Oh, don’t look like that. Please don’t. It ruins the effect.”
“But the effect is meant, it seems, to ruin me.”
She clapped her hands. “It looks so very stylish. Promise me you’ll try it out tomorrow night.”
“Of course I will.” And I would. I would have to now that I promised. I just wouldn’t try very hard.
“Oh, Miss Withersby!” Miss Templeton came close to kiss me the next evening at Lord Harriwick’s ball. “What happened to your hair! I thought we had agreed that you would do it up in side ringlets with the plait at the back.”
“I couldn’t seem to put it up the way your maid did.”
“Then you’ll have to get yourself a new maid.”
“That would be possible if I had an old one, but I don’t.”
“You don’t have a lady’s maid?”
“I don’t know what I’d do with one, and in any case, we can’t afford—”
“Why, I don’t know what I’d do without mine! Oh, look! There’s Mr. Fulwell come for Lord Harriwick’s hunt. He’s not from London, he’s from Worcestershire, and Papa wants me to make a good impression, although you understand, of course, that I can’t make too good of an impression. Least not right away. So make sure you stay close to me tonight.”
/> That suited me just fine. Her attentions wouldn’t be monopolized by any man in particular, and I wouldn’t have to pretend an affection for anyone in particular, and we could both be happy together. Her father made the introduction to Mr. Fulwell, and she and the man spoke at great length about the hunt and London and the holidays and then he bowed and left us.
Miss Templeton seized my hand. “What did you think of him?”
“He seemed rather nice.”
“He is, isn’t he? Quite nice. Although . . .” She brought my hand up to her heart in a gesture of desperation. “I just don’t think I can become besotted with him on account of he has no chin. Oh! That’s terribly unkind of me, isn’t it?”
“I wouldn’t say he has no chin. It’s practicably impossible for a man not to have one. Or a woman either, for that matter.”
“Then where, I ask you, would it be?”
I glanced over, across the room at him. “Well it’s . . . I mean, it must be . . . Well, I suppose it is rather small.”
“Exactly. Which is why I just don’t think he will work.”
“I find that rather unjust.”
“I don’t think I would need it to be pronounced, it just has to declare itself a very tiny bit.”
“We can’t all have pronounced chins.”
“Why?”
“Because that would be an aberration, and aberrations, by definition, are uncommon.”
“Miss Withersby, please don’t think me rude, but I don’t think I can abide a lecture at this particular moment in time. My short period of happiness depends upon my finding a man with a chin. I will not be moved from that expectation.”
Mr. Stansbury came by, and Miss Templeton engaged him in conversation. She was so very good at that. I tried to study her, as I would a specimen, but I soon became caught up in the story she was telling Mr. Stansbury. I wondered if I was gazing at her with the same fascination that he was. He was quite swept up in the tale, his eyes fixed on hers and his lips curved in an admiring sort of smile. It was a shame she wouldn’t be among us much longer, but I could not say that she was mistaken in her beliefs. As any good botanist knows, offspring almost always manifest the characteristics of their parents.
Mr. Stansbury gave off one of his hearty laughs, and I joined him in it, willing to do as Miss Templeton herself had vowed to do: endeavor to enjoy the time she had left.
The next morning, Mr. Trimble made us even later for church than was our habit. First, he tried to bully me into a different dress, and then he objected to my wearing elastic-sided boots. I pointed out that we had a rather long walk ahead of us and suggested that if I wore my thin-soled slippers he would have to carry me.
One might even have accused him of dragging his heels on the way, and especially down the central aisle during Communion, but he was quick enough in bolting from the pew once the rector finished with the benediction. Once clear of the church, he started out for home at such a fast pace that Father and I struggled to keep up with him.
“Mr. Trimble!” I called out to him, for by that time he was nearly ten paces ahead of us. “If you would be so kind as to slow down?”
He broke his stride and seemed surprised to see us so far behind. “Please, forgive me.” He adjusted his pace to our own.
“I don’t find conversations regarding the state of my health or of the weather particularly illuminating, but you have nothing to fear from the people of Overwich. They’ve been quite kind to us.”
He pulled his hat down over his ears as we stepped off the road to let some of the carriages from London pass. “It’s not the people of Overwich I worry about.”
That begged the question of what exactly did worry him, but he and Father had embarked upon a discussion of printer’s proofs, and I kept my ponderings to myself.
Monday dawned, and I woke with a sort of dread. I was tired of going about in dresses so tight that I could hardly breathe. My feet were aching from the snugness of my slippers, and I’d had entirely enough of spending my time among people I really didn’t know and couldn’t talk to.
After breakfast, I found myself poking about in Mr. Trimble’s desk drawers.
He paused as he entered the parlor. “May I help you find something?”
“I was just . . . just looking.”
“My offer to assist you still stands.”
“I am used to finding our correspondence here.” I put a hand to the table where I had always placed my C pile of letters and missives, with the oldest at the bottom.
“Ah. Yes. I found it rather difficult to tell what had, in fact, been replied to and what was still waiting for a response, so I placed those to which some reply had been made on that shelf just there.” He nodded toward the cupboard. “And those which needed some response—that is, the most recent missives—I placed over there.” He nodded toward a wire basket on the table.
“I see.” I drifted toward the basket and tried, in a subtle way, to sift through the pile.
“Is there any piece in particular for which you are looking?”
“No. I’m just . . . just looking.”
“I can assure you that, if anything had come for you, I would have brought it to your attention.”
Right after he’d read it, most probably. “I suppose you’re rather behind in keeping up with my father’s notes.”
“Not especially.”
“No?”
“No. We’ve found it to be most efficient if he reads his notes to me at the end of the day. That way, he can keep his copy and I can place a perfectly readable copy into his file.”
“He has a file?”
“You mean other than the W pile?”
I gave him a sour look.
“I’ve extracted all of his papers and placed them into a cabinet.”
“Does he know you’re doing that? I can’t imagine that he would have let you touch his notes, let alone move them.” And if he’d seen them, he knew my father could not have written him all those letters!
“We agreed that since I am the keeper of his papers, he must allow me the privilege of keeping them. But perhaps . . . if it wouldn’t be too great an inconvenience, you wouldn’t mind offering me your assistance, Miss Withersby.”
“What is it that you need?”
“If you could just . . .” He pulled a paper from the shelf labeled Correspondence Already Replied To and spread it out on the table before me. “What I really need is some sort of aid in the transcription of this paper.”
“Transcription? Of what?”
“Of your father’s handwriting.”
The bottom fell from my stomach as I realized he had indeed divined my secret.
“Is there some sort of code he uses when he makes these notations? I didn’t have this sort of trouble when we corresponded.”
“Notations?” I bent over the paper and felt my spirits lift as I read through my father’s observations on the research he was undertaking. “I suppose you might say this is written in a sort of Withersby family shorthand.”
“Then I wasn’t mistaken in thinking it perfectly incomprehensible.”
I pushed it back toward him. “Not at all.”
“Would you mind, terribly, providing an interpretation?”
“This is not a sort of word-for-word code. It’s not even a shortened form of anything really. These markings represent theories and thoughts fully formed that have taken the Family Withersby over four generations to perfect.”
“I see.”
“I don’t know that you do, Mr. Trimble. I really don’t see how you can do much good here.”
“I believe I did, in fact, understand your meaning. But until your father tells me otherwise, I will continue to assist him.” He stalked over to the desk and made a great show of putting pen to paper.
Which gave me an idea. I made my way over to the wire basket containing the most recent missives and flipped through the correspondence. Among them were a letter from the University of Edinburgh, a letter from a missionary
correspondent in Ceylon, and a plea from the butcher for payment of last month’s bill. After checking to make sure Mr. Trimble wasn’t looking, I concealed them all in a plant press. When he went into the study to confer with father, I traded them out for the correspondence already replied to. That should put a snarl in his system!
13
Late that morning, some of my new dresses were finally delivered. I chose what Miss Templeton had called my promenade gown for the call we would make on the rector later in the day. It had a great many rows of what I now knew were called flounces. They filled out both the skirt and the sleeves.
When the Admiral and I arrived to collect Miss Templeton, she came out to us along with a maid carrying three hampers filled with food. After exclaiming quite vigorously over my new gown, she said, “It’s such fine weather, I thought we could all go on a picnic for our tea.”
The Admiral agreed most heartily. “Perhaps we could find a place on the river.”
She smiled at him. “Yes. That was my thought exactly!”
There were many carts and wagons and carriages on the road, so we were slow in reaching the rectory. When we arrived, the children seemed to be everywhere at once. When Miss Templeton declared we were to have a picnic, they cheered as a whole and raced off down the lane toward the river and then dug into the hampers at once when we sat down to eat.
As we ate, I spied some flowering stems of autumn lady’s tresses, and when we finished I convinced them to go off and pick me some.
It kept them occupied, though not for long. They soon returned, running their hands up and down the soft, hairy stems. One of the younger boys, however, was wrenching off the small white flowers that grew around the stem in a spiral.
I took the specimen from him. “See here! Those flowers are like babies. How would you like it if someone came along and snapped off your little brother’s head?”
The children’s eyes widened as they turned to the mite, who was sucking at his thumb as he lay in Miss Templeton’s lap. She put a protective hand to his head. “I’m sure Miss Withersby was only teasing.”
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