“What are you doing there?” Mr. Trimble was looking at me, his brow furrowed in what I took to be disapproval.
“I’m gathering my tools for the drawing expedition.”
“Expedition? What expedition?”
“The one to Mr. Stansbury’s glasshouse.”
“You can’t take the microscope.”
“I don’t see why not. It’s not that heavy.”
“It’s not a matter of weight; it’s a matter of propriety.”
“If I’m going to draw, then I need to understand what it is that I’m seeing.”
“Most women just look at a flower to draw it. They don’t feel the need to examine it.”
“Which may be why most drawings I’ve been shown are regrettably lacking in accuracy. Do you know Miss Templeton has a dress that is embroidered with strawberry flowers that are missing some of their petals?” Or perhaps it was the case that they had too many petals. It was difficult to decide since I didn’t know what variety they were meant to be.
“And I suppose you told her so.”
“I most certainly did. Who would want to wear a dress with inaccurate flowers?”
“Really, you are the most . . . most . . .” He gave up and simply shook his head.
I clutched the microscope to my chest and left the house before he could say anything further.
As the expedition was to be undertaken by the watercolor society as a whole, the Admiral had begged off going, although he did allow me the use of his carriage. Miss Templeton was already engaged in the sketching of a palm when I arrived. Rather than joining her, I turned my attentions to some orange blossoms. I was well on my way to completing a sketch when Mr. Stansbury approached. He tipped his chin in the direction of Miss Templeton, who was nibbling on her lip as she drew.
“She’s a marvelous girl, isn’t she?”
“Charming?” That was one of those words Mr. Trimble was so fond of using.
“Yes. Most charming!” He went on for several minutes about the virtues of Miss Templeton, but I confess that I hardly heard a word because I was endeavoring to determine the relationship between the calyx and the corolla of the orange flower. From glancing at the sketches of the society members around me, I saw that most of them failed to grasp that the relationship was fixed in each species. Some of the drawings had a ridiculous number of teeth to corolla.
I was beginning to realize, however, that the Admiral’s golden rule must not be taken too literally. After my argument with the drawing tutor about the presence, or lack thereof, of pistils and stamens, I had concluded that my information about teeth and corolla might not be welcomed as much as I would have expected.
Mr. Stansbury moved on to speak to Miss Templeton, and I was left alone to my work for quite some time, until he moved on from her to speak to his other guests. At that point, she began to gesture for me. Laying down my brush, I went to talk to her.
“You let him escape!”
“I what?”
“Mr. Stansbury. You let him escape! How is word going to get around that he’s flirting with you if you don’t flirt with him?”
“Flirt with him? We were invited here to draw. And that’s what I’m doing. That is, I was drawing, but now I’m ready to begin coloring. I was just about to start mixing my paints when—”
She reached out and grabbed my arm, drawing me close. “We were invited here under the pretext of drawing, but the whole point was for you to be seen monopolizing his attentions. Really, Miss Withersby, I cannot help you if you will not try to help yourself!” Her words broke off in a hiss.
I glanced off down the aisle where I could see him speaking to Mrs. Bickwith, who was drawing one of his ferns. “I don’t see what I can do about it now . . . unless you want me to color from memory at home.” I supposed I could do that, but it wouldn’t be half so satisfactory. Though the petals were white, there was a sheen to the leaves that was difficult to capture.
Miss Templeton let out a great sigh. “It’s no good pretending that you wish to marry since your heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. No one—not your father, and most definitely not Mr. Trimble—will be alarmed if it doesn’t seem as if anyone will ever ask for your hand.”
She did have a point. “It’s just that it has been so long since I’ve drawn anything at all, save that anemone at the previous society meeting, and—”
“Miss Withersby, I begin to have serious doubts as to the efficacy of our plan.”
She was right. I nodded. “I’ll just . . . I’ll go and . . . What should I say to him?”
She gave me a long, hard look for a moment, and I felt as if I were eight years old again. “Never you mind. I’ll get him and bring him back for you. Just stay right here so I’ll be able to find you.” She squared her shoulders as she slipped her reticule over her wrist. “Oh! I just remembered.” She reached into it and drew out a book, which she thrust into my hand. “You might consider giving this a read sometime soon.”
I held it up to view the title. “Etiquette?”
“Not, of course, that you don’t already know all of those things, but I always reread the manual myself in preparation for shooting season. Or . . . I used to in any case.” She patted the cover. “Keep it as long as you like! Now then, I’m off to waylay Mr. Stansbury.”
Better her than me. I picked up her drawing pencil and completed her sketch of the palm illustration.
Miss Templeton never did get around to coming back with Mr. Stansbury, although they seemed to have quite a good conversation between them. I had time enough to finish her sketch and then return to my own illustration.
Once home, I made short work of reading the manual Miss Templeton had passed on to me. It began pleasantly enough, with the topic of conversation, by posing the question of how one could aim to be conversant without first having spent the time to consider politics and the travails of men and other questions of philosophy. As I had dedicated my life’s work to becoming ever more philosophical, I very nearly quit reading. Reflecting, however, that Miss Templeton might ask what I thought of the book, I decided I had better read it through.
It soon ventured into the requirements of having an appreciation of the arts and the reading of poetry. From there I began to think myself quite inadequate to the task when it proposed that cheerfulness and bonhomie could overcome nearly any failing. Having never been accused of being particularly cheerful, I read on with growing dread.
I was informed of the social trap of the laugh. Of the virtues of the truly graceful smile, which the author seemed to think no one adept enough to achieve. It went on to consider whether it was, in fact, rude to contradict. In short, it seemed nothing about conversation was truly sanctioned and yet everything was permissible.
There was nothing to be gained by continuing to read such equivocation and so I turned to the chapter on dinner parties and balls. It began by urging that the reader ought to go into such endeavors by banishing all thoughts of what he ought and ought not do. Which made me wonder why the author felt the need to write the book in the first place! It was truly a very unsatisfactory instruction, if instruction it could even be called.
Reading further, I found the information for which I had been looking: actual rules that might be followed. Eat peas with a fork. Curry and desserts must be eaten with a dessert spoon. If there is a sauce, it must be poured to the side of the plate. Help fish onto your fork not with a knife but with a piece of bread. Only fingers ought to be dipped into finger-glasses. Never gargle at the table.
Thank heaven I had never thought of doing such a thing.
At private concerts, ladies are seated in the front, with the gentlemen behind them. Finding fault is never acceptable—which seemed to contradict the previous discussion of contradiction. Never offer a person the chair from which you have just risen. Do not drum on the table with your fingers.
Ha! I knew Mr. Trimble was not the gentleman he wished so badly to seem.
The next evening, I attended a musical r
ecital and took particular care to avoid doing any of those things prohibited in the manual. When Miss Templeton waved her fan at me from across the room, I started toward her . . . but then remembered that no polite person would use a fan in such a manner. So I started back . . . but then recalled that generosity of spirit and the forgiveness of foibles was required of those who consider themselves mannered. Caught between coming and going, I stood there for some moments. Miss Templeton came to my rescue by crossing the room to meet me.
“How did you find the music?”
“Quite nice.”
She smiled. “I did too! Ever so nice. And I saw that Mr. Stansbury took a seat next to you.”
He had. But, really, he ought not have. If he were a true gentleman, he would have left that first row to the ladies. But he could not truly be considered a gentleman, could he? He’d made his money; he hadn’t inherited it. So . . . that rule could not apply to him, could it?
Miss Templeton was looking at me as if she were expecting some sort of reply. “Yes. Yes, he did sit next to me.” Did this conversation fall under the sort of thing that was too trifling to speak of?
“And what are you doing tomorrow after church, if I may be so rude as to inquire?”
I sighed. “I shall probably do nothing worthwhile even as I am thinking the whole time of all the things Mr. Trimble is doing that I would like to do instead.”
“That will never do! If your father sees you at home all the time, then he’s not likely to imagine that you will ever not be there. The King’s Head Field Club meets on Sunday afternoons. A person so impassioned of plants as you are ought to go. I go. We should go together. I think it will be much more successful than the watercolor society. It’s a much better fit for your talents.”
“My general opinion of field clubs is that they’re composed of people who don’t know anything at all about the plants they claim to love.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. I should not have said that. Being polite was so very difficult.
“Well, then you must certainly go—and I must beg to differ as I consider myself quite above the average field club member. And would your father not fear for himself if you cease working on his behalf and instead begin to seek the company of those you had formerly chosen to scorn?”
I didn’t quite follow her logic, but as she was the expert in this sort of thing, I found myself agreeing.
“So you’ll meet me at the King’s Head, then?”
“At the King’s Head? Isn’t that a pub?”
“It is. It’s where the club meets. At the pub. Hence its name: The King’s Head Field Club. The meeting starts at one o’clock. And don’t be late!”
I returned home that night to find Mr. Trimble sitting at his desk, letter in hand, looking right past me at . . . I turned to look, but there was nothing of any interest behind me in the hall. “Mr. Trimble?”
He blinked. “Miss Withersby.” He stood so quickly his chair almost tipped over.
“May I help you?” I hated to say the words. In fact, I had vowed never to offer my help to him in any way, but his manner was so odd. He looked ill.
As I spoke, he shoved the letter into his coat pocket. Now he was staring at me with a guilty sort of look. “No. Thank you. Just some correspondence that has caught up to me. Does your hunt for a husband progress, Miss Withersby?”
“Yes. Quite well, thank you.”
He nodded rather absentmindedly. “You don’t find society too demanding?”
“I find it inscrutable.”
He squinted. “Pardon me?”
“I don’t understand the rules. Miss Templeton gave me a book on etiquette, and I was hoping it would educate me on those things I haven’t understood, but it has only confused me more. If I’m to believe what I read, I should hardly be allowed to speak. Miss Templeton speaks all the time, however, and I noticed the same of nearly all of the women in town. There must be some method to it, but even upon examination, I have not been able to discover it.”
“It’s quite simple, really. You must stop thinking of conversation as a sort of examination and start thinking of it as a game. The point is not to be the person at whom it stops. It’s rather like a game of twirling the trencher.”
“I’ve never heard of it.”
“Come. You must have played it in your youth.”
“I have not. I never have.”
He said nothing.
I said nothing.
A great and familiar silence fell over the room. “See, this is what always happens to me.”
“Conversation, my dear Miss Withersby, is a very fragile creature. You must nourish it if you would have it survive. Its favorite food is a question. When I mentioned twirling the trencher do you remember what you said?”
“I said I had never played it.”
“And I said?”
What had he said? “You said I must have played it in my youth.”
“And what did you reply?”
“That I had not.”
“And then?”
“The conversation stopped.”
“You made a statement. Could you think of a question you might have asked instead?”
“About what?”
“In answer to my saying you must have played it in your youth.”
“Was there something questionable in that? If there was, I fail to see it.”
“Miss Withersby! You are the most exasperating—!” He took a deep breath. “Forgive me. You are one of the most intelligent women I know. You have not learned your science by giving statements, have you? Isn’t all your progress in botany made by asking questions?”
“Of course it is.”
“And why?”
“Because there’s so much to be discovered. If I don’t ask questions, then how will I learn anything?”
“Exactly. You’re approaching conversation all wrong. The point is to learn something.”
“About what?”
“About anything! About the person to whom you’re speaking. About the topic they’re speaking on. You’re missing fascinating bits of information because you’re failing to ask questions. You’re simply waiting to be asked them. Waiting to give answers.”
Perhaps he was right.
“Shall we try again?”
I tried to think of something else to say, but what other remark could I make about a game I had never played? “I . . . I have never played the game but . . . perhaps I might like to.” I paused as I reconsidered. “That’s not strictly true, Mr. Trimble. As a general rule, I don’t like to play games, but—”
He was laughing.
“I fail to see anything amusing in—”
“I’m sorry, Miss Withersby, but you’ve never said a truer thing. The whole problem is that you don’t like to play games. I cannot tell you how much I admire that, but I will tell you a secret. Most people say things they don’t mean all the time.”
I felt my mouth drop open. “You mean to say they lie? On purpose?”
“I wouldn’t call it lying. In any case, you were telling me you’d never played twirling the trencher . . . ?”
“Perhaps . . . perhaps you could explain to me how to play that game since I’ve never played it before?”
He clapped. “Brava, Miss Withersby. Well done! And because you asked a question, now we can have a conversation.” He proceeded to explain to me how to play it. Something about spinning a trencher or tray on its end and someone having to pick it up before it falls. But when he was finished he looked at me as if expecting something.
“Now I suppose I am to ask you some other question.”
“That would be quite agreeable.”
I didn’t care about spinning trenchers and I could see he was going to be quite obstinate about this whole thing, so I tried to think of something else I didn’t know that I could discover. That’s when I began to see how I could use this exercise to my advantage. To get him to leave, it might be useful to determine from where it was that he’d come. “Where, in fact,
are you from, Mr. Trimble? I don’t believe you’ve ever said.”
“The east.”
“As in . . . Kent? Or India?”
“I wish I could say I was from the subcontinent. I hope one day to journey there.”
“I do as well. I dream of seeing a lotus in its natural state. Do your interests there lie in botany?”
“Partially. I’ve also heard there is a good living to be made in that colony from tea.”
“You are quite unexpected: a sheep farmer with an interest in flowers and a passion for tea.”
“I would say you are quite unexpected as well, Miss Withersby, with your unnerving combination of highly developed intellect and unspoilt beauty. Your appeal is the same as that of a Scottish heath.”
“. . . I . . . can’t think that any of those things go together.”
A flush had crept up around his ears. “Forgive me. It was meant to be poetical.”
He saw me as a Scottish heath? How was I to respond to that? The etiquette book didn’t cover how one should reply to poetical men.
When I next saw Miss Templeton, at the field club meeting, I kept Mr. Trimble’s words about conversing foremost in my mind. He had told me that a question answered begs a question in return, so when she asked if I was well, I told her I had the most pernicious crick at the base of my neck. I then asked a question in turn. “But how is your scandal coming?”
We dropped a curtsey at Mr. Shandlin, but before he could acknowledge us, she drew me past him over to a secluded pair of chairs toward the back of the room. As we passed by people who were eating and drinking, I wondered if we might not be served refreshments during the course of the meeting. I hoped so.
“How clever of you to remember my scandal! I’ve taken my maid into my confidence on little things now and then, such as my suspicions that I look much better in pink than in green. Quite soon I feel I’ll be able to ask her outright how one goes about such things. Papa is getting quite anxious that I marry, so I feel as if my time runs short. And you? Does our plan seem to be succeeding?”
Like a Flower in Bloom Page 17