‘Delicately put,’ Emma said, smiling.
Emma looked round the table and noticed that everyone had finished. Two hours in Mr Watson’s company had felt like ten minutes. She sensed Luke’s gaze resting upon her, which recalled her to her duties. Reluctantly, she put her napkin aside and stood. Mr Watson was immediately on his feet to help her with her chair. ‘Shall we leave the gentlemen to talk about whatever it is they discussed when alone, Grandmamma?’ she asked, when it became apparent that the old lady would have sat there all night long, matching the gentlemen glass for glass, if someone didn’t drag her away.
Chapter Seven
Flora woke as the first fingers of daylight filtered through curtains she had not completely closed. She simply couldn’t bring herself to shut out the lovely view that she anticipated enjoying as dawn broke over the lake. Accustomed to rising early, she pushed the covers back, stretched and then scurried across the room to sit on the window seat. She draped a shawl around her shoulders, pulled the curtains fully open and sighed with contentment at the sight of the early morning mist hovering over the lake and the sense of calm it brought with it. She flung the window wide and leaned out of it, breathing in the clean fresh air, intermingled with the heady scent of budding wisteria and jasmine climbing up the old stone walls.
It was so peaceful. No church bells, no parishioners to visit, no family prayers to sit through and no demands upon her time. Her ladyship did not require her services before eleven o’clock, which was hours away. The morning stretched ahead of her, hers to occupy however she liked. It was a refreshing change and so she sat for some considerable time, uncaring if the devil made work for idle hands. She watched the sun rise slowly, hypnotised by the gentle sway of branches coming into full leaf and the feeling of utter serenity that settled over her.
‘I was supposed to come here,’ she said aloud, but softly. ‘All my life has been leading up to this point.’
She thought about the previous evening and how nervous she had felt at the prospect of dining with the earl and his siblings. But those nerves had quickly dissipated in the light of the warm welcome she had received. The earl’s three brothers, all so alike physically, were equally charming and went out of their way to put her at her ease, telling her individually how pleased they were to have finally found someone whose company their grandmother could tolerate. Privately, Flora thought that judgement might be a little precipitate. It had been less than a day. Even so, she accepted their compliments and vowed to do everything in her power not to disappoint.
The affection the family members felt for one another and saw no reason to conceal truly astonished her. So different to the rigid formality at Cathedral Close. Two whole hours spent at table! It seemed decadent somehow, and all the more enjoyable as a consequence. She’d felt awkward when the soup was served and she didn’t pick up her spoon, waiting for someone to say grace. Only the earl seemed to notice her confusion. He sent her an indolent half-smile from the head of the table, as though defying her to take them all to task for their blatant disregard of Christian mores. His lordship was not to know that she found the omission liberating.
That was the only occasion upon which the earl appeared to notice her presence. Unlike her first meeting with him in his library, when his initial suspicions about her suitability as his grandmother’s companion quickly gave way to acceptance and then guarded relief, his aura was now cloaked by something dark and menacing. He appeared preoccupied. Something had happened that worried him, perhaps accounting for the fact that she had seen him ride away from the estate late in the afternoon.
It was none of her concern, unless his preoccupation directly affected the occupants of Beranger Court, specifically his grandmother and sisters. Be that as it may, her senses remained on high alert and her worries endured. Flora already felt a great affection for all three ladies and would use her gift, her second sight—her instincts, call it what you will—to try and keep them all safe. There was no one in occupation of the house who knew of her ability to either disapprove or to forbid her from using it, and she finally had the freedom to test her powers, to discover how strong they might be and what control, if any, she held over them.
Papa had singularly failed to notice when a person harboured questionable intentions or wished another harm. But Flora had always somehow sensed it before anyone else could, leaving her in a position to nip said questionable intentions in the bud. She had tried to persuade her father that it would be unchristian not to act upon that knowledge and forewarn the person under threat, but Papa was having none of it. He would be laughed out of his responsible position within the church if he were to accede to the advice of a daughter whom many would have burned at the stake as a witch a couple of centuries previously if they had learned of her gift. And besides, his detractors would have a field day if they were aware. The clergy’s in-fighting, carried out beneath a thin veneer of Christian brotherhood, could have taught Napoleon a thing or two about underhand tactics, Flora sometimes thought. Having no desire to feel the full force of her father’s considerable anger if she was seen as the cause of his thwarted ambition, she had been obliged to use guile in order to act upon her instincts.
Until now.
Now she could be herself. The person her own grandmother had urged her to have the courage to be.
She stirred only when her legs, curled beneath her, began to cramp and when hunger caused her stomach to give an embarrassing rumble. The food the previous evening had been superb, and very rich. Flora had been too nervous to eat very much, preoccupied with watching the countess’s diet, and more especially her drinking, of which she did a very great deal. Flora had now tasted a sip of sherry and two different types of wine. The experience had not been unpleasant, and she had no headache this morning to fuel her guilt. She hoped the countess could make the same claim. Her fondness for wine explained why she would not be ready to face the day before eleven. Most ladies of quality tended to idle their mornings away in their beds, she knew, but was a luxury that Flora had never enjoyed and likely never would.
She tied a robe over her nightgown and slipped across the corridor to make use of the modern bathroom, a luxury that caused her to linger, making the most of the facilities. She then returned to her room, pulled on a favourite old mulberry muslin gown and wondered about her hair. She wouldn’t risk her usual style—not after all the complaints the countess had made about it—so she compromised with a hastily fixed and rather untidy bun at her nape. Several strands were already escaping but no one would see her this early and probably wouldn’t care much about her appearance even if they did.
With her hair fixed, she wondered what she was supposed to do about breakfast. Unwilling to wait and find out, she wandered downstairs and decided to take a turn around the lake until others stirred. That way she would be better prepared for any objections the countess put up about uneven terrain or muddy paths.
She found an open side door and let herself out, not bothering with a shawl, or even a hat—a truly shocking and very emancipating act of defiance. The eldest daughter of the Canon Chancellor of Salisbury Cathedral venturing out of doors without hat and gloves. Whatever was the world coming to? Outside on the terrace, she threw her arms wide to greet the day and her head all the way back, feeling her bun strain against the pins that she hadn’t fixed properly. A soft breeze touched her cheeks but before she could enjoy the experience and breath the fresh, clean country air deep into her lungs something brushed against her legs. She stifled a scream that would have roused half the household and was glad she had done so when she glanced down to see Zeus attempting to climb his way up her skirts.
‘Oh, it’s you,’ she said, reaching down to smooth the top of his head. ‘Where did you come from?’
Tail aloft, Zeus remained with Flora as she stepped onto the lawns and made her way to the path that circled the lake. Moorhens searched for their breakfast, gliding in and out of the reeds with effortless grace. Male frogs croaked in disharmony in a
n effort to attract a mate. Jelly-like masses of frogspawn visible in the shallows spoke of their success. Zeus crouched, swishing his tail, green eyes focused with evil intent upon a duckling that had strayed from its brothers and sisters, too close to the water’s edge. Sensing danger, Flora flapped her hands and sent it paddling back towards its siblings. Zeus transferred an accusatory look towards Flora and gave an indignant meow.
‘You are not hungry and that poor duckling deserves to live,’ she told him as she commenced her walk. ‘Stop being such a bully.’
She discovered benches located at the most advantageous viewpoints and a small boathouse that she’d not seen from her chamber window. A couple of small craft rocked gently in the shallow water beneath the stilted structure, and Flora idly wondered who made use of them. She somehow couldn’t see the earl finding time to idle away in a punt.
‘Now this is my idea of heaven, Zeus,’ she told the cat. ‘You do not know how fortunate you are.’
Flora paused at the far end of the lake to look back with appreciation at the house itself, bathed in early morning sunshine that painted its stone walls in shades of pink and gold. Someone was watching her. She couldn’t see who but she didn’t doubt her instincts. Her gaze was drawn towards the windows of the master bedchamber and there he stood. The earl. In shirtsleeves still, she thought, squinting because she was too far away to be sure. But he seemed in no particular hurry to move from the window and continued to stare aimlessly at the view. She raised a hand to indicate that she had seen him. He jerked out of his reverie, noticed her and responded to the gesture before moving away from the window.
‘Come along then, Zeus,’ she said to the cat, who had kept pace with her, occasionally darting into the reeds in pursuit of some creature she failed to see. Thus far, his fishing expeditions had brought him no success. ‘Your mistress will wonder what has become of you, I dare say. Although perhaps not. You are she are both independent spirits, which is why you get along so well.’
They returned slowly, following the path on the far side of the lake that meandered back towards the house. It was firm underfoot and not especially uneven. If the countess wore sturdy footwear, she would manage it easily enough.
Flora allowed her mind to wander, smiling as she thought of Lady Emma’s rather obvious interest in Mr Watson. Not that she blamed her for enjoying his society. He was an attractive gentleman, and familiar to her. On the cusp of womanhood, and with no mother’s guiding hand, Lady Emma probably felt bewildered. But if she wasn’t keen on undergoing a season, she could do a great deal worse than set her cap at her brother’s friend. Flora’s difficulty was that she couldn’t decide if Mr Watson returned her interest. He had chosen to sit beside Lady Emma and appeared to go out of his way to entertain her, but that might simply be a gentleman showing deference to the lady of the house.
Frustratingly, by the time Flora noticed Lady Emma’s wide-eyed, captivated looks saved exclusively for Mr Watson they were already seated at the table and she was too far away from him to be able to sense his feelings. If he was embarrassed by Lady Emma’s display, at least he had the good manners not to show it. She would find out more about him, and if she deemed it advisable, she would either encourage or dissuade Lady Emma’s ambitions accordingly. She could hear her father’s stern voice echoing inside her head, adjuring her not to interfere in the affairs of her betters. All well and good, but Lady Emma needed a guiding hand. Flora wasn’t very much older than Emma and knew next to nothing about romantic aspirations, but she did know when a person was worthy of regard and would use that knowledge for the greater good of the earl’s family.
She was curious to know what had been preoccupying the earl the previous evening and why. And now, this morning, she had caught him staring absently out of his window, obviously not captivated by the scenery, which must be as familiar to him as it was delightfully unique to her. He hadn’t been watching her, either. Why would he? Flora knew that he hadn’t seen her until she raised her hand.
‘Remember your place,’ she muttered, aware that she could so easily get carried away by her good intentions. Freedom from the restrictions that had held her back all her life could so easily blind her to caution. ‘Come along, Zeus. I expect breakfast will be served by now.’
She re-entered the house through the same side door. Her nose twitched when the smell of freshly cooked bacon assailed it. She followed the aroma to a breakfast parlour and slipped into the room, where covered tureens sat upon the sideboard. The room was devoid of human presence, but for a uniformed footman standing to one side. He looked surprised to see her but quickly recovered his aplomb and asked her if she would like coffee. She would, and helped herself to some tempting morsels from the tureens whilst he served it to her. She muttered a quick prayer of thanks and picked up her knife and fork.
She had barely taken two bites before another person entered the room. She sensed without looking up that it was the earl.
‘Miss Latimer.’ His congenial tone barely covered his surprise. ‘I did not expect to see you in here.’
Explaining, she supposed, why the footman had looked astonished by her arrival too. ‘Should I not be here?’ she asked.
‘You are very welcome,’ he replied, heaping his plate and seating himself across from her. ‘It’s just that the ladies usually break their fasts in the privacy of their own chambers.’
‘I thought they might, but I would prefer not to put anyone to that much trouble. I am an early riser, you see—’
‘A natural consequence of your upbringing, no doubt.’
‘Quite. I was just exploring the path around the lake and—’
‘I saw you.’
She glanced up at him, sensing something she was unable to identify in his tone. ‘I know.’ She held his gaze for a protracted moment but was the first to look away. ‘I have persuaded the countess to take a turn around it with me later this morning—’
‘Have you indeed? Well done! She prefers not to leave her rooms much nowadays. The fresh air will do her no end of good.’
So would opening her windows occasionally, but Flora refrained making that particular point. ‘Precisely. Anyway, I wanted to make sure that the path was even. I don’t want to be held responsible if she takes a fall and turns her ankle. However, it seems perfectly fine.’
He smiled at her. ‘I am glad you are here, Miss Latimer. Your presence has relieved my mind of one very major difficulty.’
‘Save your thanks until I have been here a little longer,’ she replied, pleased by his praise. ‘I might have won the first skirmish with your grandmother but I fancy she is even now plotting ways to even the score. She does so enjoy her battles of will.’
The earl laughed. ‘No question.’
Their conversation was interrupted by the arrival of Mr Dalton and shortly thereafter the earl’s brothers and Mr Watson drifted in. Feeling as though she was trespassing on a male preserve, despite the fact that they greeted her with politeness, she quickly finished her meal and excused herself, waving them all back into their chairs when they made to stand.
Flora returned to her room, offering her reflection a wry smile when she glanced in the mirror and saw that her bun had collapsed. She looked terribly unkempt. It was kind of the gentlemen not to mention the fact. She tidied herself up, glanced at her despised hat—the only one she possessed, which made her look as though she had an inverted flower pot on top of her head—and decided that the countess would probably enjoy her rebelliousness if she went without it. She took herself off next door, unsurprised to find Sandwell fussing over the countess.
‘I was just now telling her ladyship,’ she said, glancing up at Flora and sending her an accusatory look, ‘that there’s a sharp nip to the wind this morning and she would be better advised not to leave the house.’
‘Good morning, my lady,’ Flora said politely. ‘Good morning, Miss Sandwell. Her ladyship must make up her own mind, of course, but I took a turn around the lake myself earlier this
morning and the wind caused me no inconvenience. Ask Zeus if you require confirmation. He came with me.’
Sandwell looked highly affronted and took a deep breath, clearly determined to make her case, but the countess silenced her with a careless wave.
‘Go and fetch a hat, child,’ she told Flora. ‘I assume you possess one. You can’t show yourself in public like that.’
In public? Disappointed by her conformity, Flora bit back a smile, tempted to tell her charge that it was too late. All of the gentlemen in the house just saw her looking considerably worse, and that was about as public as Beranger Court got.
‘As you wish,’ Flora replied, glancing at the countess’s attire, both relieved and disappointed to observe that she wore a traditional walking gown, albeit too thick for spring and rather dated in appearance. ‘Sandwell, have the carriage ordered.’
‘The carriage?’ Flora looked confused. ‘I thought we had agreed to walk this morning.’
‘That will have to wait until tomorrow. I promised you yesterday that we would replenish your wardrobe. Saints alive, child, you are a disgrace!’
‘Ah.’
The old lady narrowed her eyes at Flora. ‘You thought I would forget.’
‘I did not imagine that your ladyship was serious.’
Sandwell gave a disgruntled huff and left the room to do as she had been told.
‘I shall have to pension her off soon,’ the countess remarked, watching her go. ‘She’s getting ideas above her station and will insist upon trying to tell me what to do.’
‘She is only thinking of you, although one imagines she would know you well enough by now to realise that you don’t take well to being dictated to.’
A Sense of Belonging (Perceptions Book 1) Page 9