Like a Flower in Bloom

by Siri Mitchell

  “Traditionally the waltz is danced with the woman facing backwards.”

  “Which is a contradiction in terms because one can’t face anything when one’s back is toward it. But you’re the one who is steering. Since you know where it is you want to go, it seems quite mean to keep me from that knowledge.”

  “It’s not a question of malice—it’s an assumption of trust. You must trust that I will lead you.”

  “I do. In principle. However, this hall isn’t the largest, and I keep thinking I’m going to run into the stairs, and I just don’t see how . . . Frankly, I just don’t see at all.”

  He stopped dancing, dropped my hand, and stepped back with a bow. “I think I’ve done all that I can for you, Miss Withersby.”

  “But . . . that can’t be it. I don’t feel as if I’ve learned anything yet.”

  He nodded toward the door.

  I turned to see the Admiral standing there regarding us, a frown marring his face.

  “She doesn’t know how to dance.” Mr. Trimble said the words in a tone that made me wish I could deny the accusation.

  My uncle’s eyebrows shot toward his head. “Doesn’t know how? Why not?” He was glaring at me as if it were somehow my fault.

  “Mother taught me several country dances, but otherwise, I never learned.” I was struck by inspiration. “But you don’t dance much, do you, Uncle? So I’ll just do what you do when the music starts playing.”

  “Generally, I smoke my pipe. And try to get up a game of cards.”

  That wouldn’t do. “Perhaps I could wander the gardens.”

  Both their brows spiked. “In the dark? In this weather? Without an escort?”

  “Or perhaps not. Maybe I shouldn’t go at all.”

  Mr. Trimble handed me my reticule and fairly pushed me out the door.

  The ballroom looked like a grotto with candles shimmering on their sconces and evergreens draping the windowsills. The band was playing a lively melody, and my feet itched to join in, but once the couples assembled and began their steps, I saw that it was nothing I knew how to do.

  Miss Templeton was standing in a corner conversing with her father. I excused myself from the Admiral and went to speak to her.

  I made my apologies for announcing her intended scandal, and she graciously forgave me. As we were speaking, the song came to an end, but after a slight pause, the orchestra struck up another. A man came by to ask Miss Templeton to dance, and she whirled out onto the dance floor with him. After that song came yet another. And then the musicians stopped playing.

  Miss Templeton came by, her cheeks bright and eyes sparkling. “This is ever so amusing, Miss Withersby. I don’t see how you feel satisfied just standing there not dancing. We must find you a partner!”

  “I don’t know how to dance.”

  “But surely you don’t mean—?” Her mouth dropped open, and her eyes grew round. “I’ve never heard anything more tragic! You don’t know how to dance?”

  I shook my head.

  “At all?”

  “Not dances of this sort.”

  “Oh! I wish I could blame this on that terrible Mr. Trimble, but I suppose I can’t . . . can I?”

  She looked so hopeful that I wished I could oblige her. “No.” I wanted to blame it on him too. How was it that I hadn’t realized just how important dancing could be?

  She went off to the refreshments table with her dancing partner, and I was left standing next to the Admiral. He stood stiffly, arms clasped behind his back, looking quite stern. It occurred to me then that perhaps the trouble with my lack of beaux wasn’t me. Perhaps it was him.

  “You could dance, Uncle, if you’d like. Or go smoke your pipe. Please don’t feel you have to stay here beside me.”

  “I couldn’t leave a likely lass like you unattended.”

  The dances were quite wondrous to behold. I wouldn’t have minded being taught how to do them. But there were so terribly many of them, it seemed as if it would be difficult to keep them all straight.

  During one of them, Mr. Stansbury approached. He bowed and then crooked his arm. “Would you care to dance, Miss Withersby?”

  “I don’t think so. No.”

  He blinked.

  18

  Oh dear. I’ve said the wrong thing again, haven’t I?”

  “Not if you don’t want to dance with me. A girl ought to have a say in the matter.” He spoke the words rather stiffly.

  “It’s not that I don’t want to dance with you. I might. Or I might not. It’s difficult to say, really, because I don’t know how and it looks quite complicated.”

  His shoulders relaxed and he moved to stand beside me, hands clasped behind his back. “To tell the truth, it is rather complicated. And I didn’t know how to dance either until I hired an instructor to teach me at the grand old age of thirty years.”

  “Mr. Trimble warned me not to try. He seemed to think I would make a fool of myself.”

  “Do you always listen to this Mr. Trimble? He seems to have a rather poor opinion of your skills.”

  “There’s really no one else to listen to. He’s my father’s assistant, you see, and he’s the only one who knows anything about any of this.” I paused to slide a look toward the Admiral and leaned closer. “Except for my uncle. He’s been wonderful about it all but rather lacking in conveying many of the practical suggestions on how to actually get on in society.”

  Mr. Stansbury smiled. “I’d say you’re getting on quite well.”

  “I don’t think that’s strictly true, but I do appreciate your kindness.”

  “Then perhaps you would reconsider your answer.”

  “I don’t think I ought to. Mr. Trimble was rather definite in his pronouncement.”

  “Miss Withersby, if by some slight chance you were to make a mess of things on the dance floor, it would be entirely your partner’s fault. Any man worth the name should be able to cover for his partner’s mistakes.”

  “Should he?”

  “He should. And I suspect your Mr. Trimble is not quite the man he’d like to be.” Mr. Stansbury adjusted his gloves and extended his hand toward me.

  I placed mine into it. “If you’re quite sure . . .”

  “I am.” He pulled me close and placed his hand to my waist. “And I happen to know that this next dance is a waltz.”

  Oh dear. What was it Mr. Trimble had said? To hold myself rather loosely.

  I tried, but it had the effect of making my knees quiver.

  Alarm spread across Mr. Stansbury’s face. “Are you feeling well?”

  “Yes. I think I am. That is, I expect to be feeling much better once this dance is over.”

  “Just allow me to lead and we’ll be fine.”

  I tried. I really did. He swung me about the room, and I started to understand what was meant by the music having a three-count. At one point, however, I stepped quite firmly on his foot. “I’m so very sorry.”

  “Don’t mention it, and neither will I. I can’t think that anyone noticed. Do you see? They’re all concentrating on their own dancing.”

  He was right. They were.

  Mr. Stansbury was quite encouraging. More than Mr. Trimble had been. Perhaps we weren’t as graceful as Miss Templeton and her dancing partner, but by the time the song ended, I was enjoying myself.

  I curtseyed. “Thank you, Mr. Stansbury. And I apologize for my lack of grace.”

  He bowed. “Never apologize for being courageous, Miss Withersby.”

  Miss Templeton danced with Mr. Stansbury next. It was a dance I would have liked to have known how to do, as it was quite vigorous. It seemed there were some things Mr. Trimble didn’t know!

  “I wonder, Miss Withersby, would you care to dance?”

  I was startled from my thoughts by the rector. As I found him a thoroughly agreeable man, I was loath to refuse him, but I didn’t see what else could be done. “I don’t suppose I ought to lie to you, Mr. Hopkins-Whyte. I barely survived a waltz with Mr. Stansbury. T
o be entirely truthful, I suppose you might say that he just barely survived a waltz with me. I don’t think it possible that I could tempt fate twice in a night. And I’m afraid I don’t know any of the other dances.”

  “Pity. I’ve always found dancing a wholesome amusement.”

  “Perhaps one day I’ll learn.”

  He smiled at me.

  I smiled at him.

  There was silence . . . except for the musicians, of course. And the sound of the dancers’ feet. There must be something I could say to him. Mr. Trimble’s words came back to me. I must ask a question, make some sort of discovery. What I really wanted to know, of course, was how his wife died, but I supposed it wouldn’t be polite to ask. “Are . . . the children doing well?”

  “Yes. Very well. Thank you.”

  So much for the children.

  “And the rectory? Do you find it agreeable?”

  “Quite.”

  Fiddlesticks. That hadn’t gotten me very far. “Because . . . the old rector thought it quite drafty. He was always going about with a muffler around his throat. But you don’t find it so?”

  “No.”

  “Well . . . good. That’s good then.”

  There must be something about the man that was worth discovering. Something that I could ask him. No questions about flowers, though, for he was bound to speak of his collections, and all in all I didn’t think I could bear it this evening. What else was there? . . . His preaching? “Have you prepared the sermon for this week?”

  “I prepared my sermon weeks ago. I like to do them all in one go, you see. At least I do once I’ve settled on a theme. Or a book. Books are easy.” He’d become quite animated. “Not perhaps, Leviticus, of course. I don’t know if I’ve ever heard anyone preach on Leviticus, but James, for example, is easy. Easier. That’s what I ought to have said. Because James is emphatically not easy. There’s hardly a more challenging book in the Bible. Would you not agree?”

  “Me?”

  “Is there a book you find more challenging?”

  “Than James?”

  He was looking at me as if he really wanted to know.

  “I suppose . . . I always found it rather difficult to understand Job. God speaking through storms, and Job’s friends saying such terrible things and him being in such dire straits and . . . all in all . . . I’m not quite certain what to think of it exactly.”

  “Job is one of my very favorites. I like to think that I specialize in the difficult. And possibilities. I don’t think there’s anything finer than trying to understand the mind of God.”

  “I’d always thought He’d said it was beyond understanding.”

  “It is, of course, but that doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try. Or at least try to discern the patterns of it.”

  “Patterns. I specialize in patterns myself.” Or at least I had done. Until Mr. Trimble had come. Now he was specializing in my patterns.

  “So you do understand, then. If we think of the juxtaposition of God’s grace and mercy.”

  “His wrath and love?”

  “Yes. Exactly! Grace and mercy. Wrath and love. It’s difficult sometimes to think of them as part of the same pattern.”

  “Yes. I suppose it would be. Rather like honeybees and oak trees.”

  He blinked. “Honeybees and oak trees?” He fell silent for a moment. His eyes narrowed. And then they widened in surprise. “Honeybees and oak trees! Yes. I see it now! Honeybees can be quite a nuisance, especially if they make a nest in a tree, and yet they’re quite beneficial, aren’t they? Without bees, how would anything get on?”

  “And how would we have any more oak trees if the bees didn’t—” I broke off, remembering what had happened the last time I spoke of the reproductive organs of flora. “That is . . .”

  He was patting about at his pocket and ended by pulling out the nub of a pencil and a small notebook. “Do you mind if I write that down? It might come in handy sometime.”

  “Please do.”

  “You wouldn’t mind if you heard me mention that phrase from the pulpit sometime?” He was waiting for my answer, pencil poised above the paper.

  “Not at all.”

  “Marvelous!”

  “You ought to join the King’s Head Field Club. I’m told they speak of flowers in platitudes all the time.”

  “Do they really?” He looked as if he was torn between accepting or refusing the invitation. “I think not. I’ve troubles enough with my collections already. I don’t need to add any more to their number. Although . . . people would probably expect me there, wouldn’t they?”

  “I’ve been told the old rector was quite faithful in attending.”

  “He probably was.” He said it quite miserably. “When do they meet?”

  “On Sunday afternoons, at the King’s Head Pub. They didn’t take an excursion last week, but Miss Templeton thought they might at the next meeting.”

  “I had meant to ask you, Miss Withersby . . . You said one time that you also specialized in correspondence . . . ?”

  “You might say writing letters is a significant part of my life’s work.”

  “I wonder if I might be able to convince you to help me with some of mine.”

  “I’m sure they couldn’t be any more difficult than those I’m used to writing.”

  Miss Templeton came up with Mr. Stansbury in tow. “What a splendid dance this has been! And I’ve heard they’re going to start serving dinner now!” She let go of Mr. Stansbury’s arm and took up my hand. “Let’s go. I want to see the dining room when the doors are opened.”

  She positioned us just to the side of the doors so that when they opened we were given a grand view.

  “Oh!” She gasped the word. “It looks just like a dream.”

  It did. With bowers of palms and potted ferns in abundance and silver candelabras twinkling on the tables.

  I was seated, as before, between Mr. Stansbury and the rector. As we began to eat, I recognized a fault in Mr. Stansbury, but remembering the words in Miss Templeton’s book, I tried my very best to be polite. Formerly, I would have told him of his mistake, but the etiquette book advised silence on such matters. Although, if no one spoke of poor manners it was a wonder anyone knew how to correct their flaws.

  Perhaps the idea was to learn by observation. That made sense, since it was the way I’d progressed in botany. But then I realized a person like me who knew nothing at all about etiquette might learn exactly the wrong thing by observing a person like Mr. Stansbury. That put me into a muddle again. It was quite exhausting eating dinner now that I knew how it ought to be done. On the whole, I confirmed that I would rather spend my time alone, at home.

  Mr. Stansbury sent me a glance. “Is anything wrong, Miss Withersby? You seem quite unlike your normal self tonight.”

  “I’m just trying to do the right thing.”

  “That’s very admirable.”

  “I only hope that I succeed in actually doing it.”

  “As we all should.”

  “Do you ever fear, Mr. Stansbury, that you’ll never remember all the things you’re supposed to be doing at these kind of events?”

  “I used to, but then I decided I could spend my time worrying about doing the right thing in the eyes of people who were just waiting for me to do the wrong thing, or I could please myself instead.”

  I met his gaze. “Thank you. I’ll have to remember that.”

  Miss Templeton and I met the next morning to walk to the rectory. From there, we would continue with the rector on a ramble to The Hollies.

  As we walked along, I couldn’t help feeling a bit saddened by the night’s hard frost. It was expected, of course, in mid-October, but as far as the eye could see, grasses lay bent and browned. Since it was only Miss Templeton accompanying me, I felt that I could speak freely. “Is there any news on your scandal?”

  She colored like a rose. “No. Not really, no. Once my maid told me what that sort of thing entails, I decided I had better come up with a
different plan.”

  “Have you, then?”

  “I must tell you, Miss Withersby, that I have not. I am completely stumped and must confess my spirits to be miserably low. I feel as if I hover at death’s door. Not even the thought of a dinner party can cheer my soul.”

  “I suppose I shouldn’t bother you for advice in dressing my hair in a new style?”

  “Oh! Please do. It is probably the one thing guaranteed to restore my zest for living.”

  She spoke of the gown she planned to wear to the next dinner party and of my gown, and by then we were in sight of the rectory.

  “Now is when you must begin to look infatuated with the very idea that all of that could one day be yours.” She gestured toward the house.

  All of that? All of the children and all of those poorly preserved specimens? I could hardly bear the thought.

  She waved a handkerchief. “I think that must be the rector!” She waved it again. “Can you not put down your vasculum? You should be waving too.”

  We waved as we approached, and the rector came across the yard to meet us. At least he had his vasculum thrown across his shoulder in the right direction today.

  “It’s rather cold for this sort of thing, isn’t it?” He had a muffler wrapped round his head and mitts on his hands. He gave a glance toward the rectory. “The nurse has charge of the children and I’ve a parishioner coming to visit at noon, so shall we be off?”

  I gestured down the lane in the direction of The Hollies.

  “What is it we’re meant to find?” Miss Templeton had stopped in the middle of the lane. “Everything’s dead, Miss Withersby. Maybe we ought to just repair back to the rectory for a nice cup of tea.”

  “Not everything has died, I assure you.”

  We passed several groups of cyclamen on the way, and then I led them out into a meadow, taking care to walk around some goldilocks asters that were still in flower. When I turned back to check their progress, what I saw alarmed me. “Stop!” My cry rang out across the field.

  The rector threw up his hands to help maintain his balance, and Miss Templeton shrieked. “What! What is it?”