by Ruth Axtell
The tightness that had lodged in her chest since that evening eased as she studied his profile. Even his ears turned red when he blushed.
They spoke no more after that, and she turned her attention to the couple dancing down the line. Cubby came to stand behind her and chatted with her a few minutes as she stood in line. Another gentleman approached Mr. Marfleet and engaged his attention.
When it was their turn to dance down the line, Mr. Marfleet took her hand in his and led her in the chassé and pas jeté assemblé. They both performed their steps with much more ease than they had the waltz, and she could see he was accustomed to dancing the country dances.
“I meant what I said earlier—please don’t feel you must attend my lecture.”
“Not at all,” she answered without thinking. “I am very interested in hearing about the plants you saw in India. I only wish my father could be there.”
“Is it too far for him to come?”
“Yes, for he dislikes to travel. Besides, there is no place for him to stay. He has a brother in London, but he is not presently in town.”
“That is a pity.”
“I shall write him all about it, however. He will enjoy that.”
“Do you enjoy gardening yourself?” he asked as they were performing another allemande.
“Yes, very much.” She was so relieved that he seemed to have forgotten her conduct the other evening that she answered with enthusiasm. “I love to plant seeds and watch them sprout, then tend the seedlings until they become full-fledged plants and produce flowers or fruit or vegetables or whatever the case may be. My mother and I tend quite a large kitchen garden, and then we have several flowering beds and fruit trees, of course. And then I help my father in his greenhouse with all his experiments.” She laughed. “He has had many more failures than successes.”
Mr. Marfleet seemed interested in all she was saying. “That is to be expected. What was one of his successes?”
“He has named a peony he produced. It’s a beautiful pink shade, a double blossom.”
“I should like to see it.”
They separated for a few moments.
When the dance ended, she felt so in charity with him that she didn’t object when he went to fetch her some refreshment. She didn’t know whether to be amused or piqued that he didn’t ask her what she wanted and then brought her a glass of lemonade.
She strove to detect some censure in his demeanor but found none. They continued discussing gardens and gardening. He told her of some of the exotic flowers he’d seen in India. “Jasminum—or jasmine,” he said, startling her with the use of a form of her name, “is a flower much in evidence in India. You catch its scent everywhere on the hot, humid air.”
She listened with interest.
His brows drew together. “Unfortunately, in India, so many flowers are used as offerings at temples. White and fragrant flowers like the jasmine are used particularly for worship of deities.”
“What was it like to convert these people?”
He smiled ruefully. “That is not a question I can answer in a few minutes on a dance floor.”
“Oh.” She felt chastened for her naïve inquiry.
“But it is a question I should like to attempt to answer.” He cleared his throat. “Perhaps . . . we could make an excursion to Kew Gardens. I mean you and Miss Phillips, of course. There is quite a collection of exotic plants there—if you are interested.”
She didn’t reply right away, mulling over the idea. She would indeed enjoy visiting another part of London. And if Megan came along, it should be all right. “Thank you,” she said at last. “I shall discuss it with Megan and . . . and we can give you our reply at the lecture, unless”—she felt her cheeks burn—“you will be too busy then.”
His slate-blue eyes smiled down into hers, and she could almost forget he wore spectacles. “I shall not be too busy. I shall see you there.”
Lancelot bowed and forced himself to walk away from Miss Barry although he should have liked to stay and talk more with her. But others had approached her, and he felt it best to withdraw for now. He still felt on fragile ground with her, like a gardener coaxing a seedling in a heavy soil.
His heart was buoyed up, however, after their conversation. It confirmed what he’d always felt about her—that they were kindred spirits, in spite of her quickness to take offense with him.
He relished talking to her about his missionary experience. He sensed she would understand and that with her he could be honest and forthright, sharing his hopes and disappointments, the many failures and few bright spots of success.
His optimism didn’t last long. His spirits plunged when he saw St. Leger escorting Miss Barry onto the dance floor for a waltz.
Wanting to walk away yet powerless to do so, Lancelot watched the same movements he had put Miss Barry through so awkwardly. St. Leger was an accomplished waltzer, and Miss Barry’s movements were more graceful in response. He held her even more closely than Lancelot had, transforming the dance into a sinuous, seductive courtship.
“They look so well together.”
He ignored his sister, who’d appeared at his side.
“Why didn’t you ask her for the waltz?”
“I’ve already waltzed with her.”
“And?” she prompted when he was not forthcoming. “What happened?”
“We bumbled our way through it.”
“She’s improved since then.”
“She is with a vastly more competent dance partner.”
“Mm.” Her single syllable neither denied nor confirmed his statement. After a moment she said, “She’s comely enough, though I don’t see what has you all tied in knots. But then I scarcely spoke to her.”
He glanced at her. “Precisely. You don’t know her.” The words came out more harshly than he’d intended.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I don’t. I am sure there is more to her than first appears.” When he said nothing, continuing to watch as his hope diminished with every pirouette and pas de bourrée across the dance floor, his sister asked, “Do you think she’ll come to the lecture?”
“She said she would.” He added, “She may even come on an excursion to Kew Gardens. She said she’d discuss it with her friend Miss Phillips.”
“That would make a fine outing.” Delawney’s voice quickened with enthusiasm. “It would be a daylong excursion. You could even take a picnic.”
“Yes, perhaps.” He battled hope and despair as he followed the dancers. Mr. St. Leger’s arms lingered around Miss Barry far longer than Lancelot’s had in the same movements.
Jessamine felt like a princess or a fine porcelain figurine of a ballerina being led in the precise dance steps, one moment in her partner’s arms, the next facing him, each dancer performing his individual steps one after the other in perfect succession.
It made her think of marriage—two people joined as one in God’s sight, distinct yet moving in synchronization.
“You look deep in thought,” Mr. St. Leger whispered in her ear when he had his arm around her in a close embrace for the pirouette.
“I’m merely concentrating on my steps lest I shame you on the dance floor.”
“You could never do that.” He smiled down into her eyes as he twirled her around, making her feel as if he saw only her of all the women present in that vast ballroom.
She smiled tremulously in response. “It is only my second attempt waltzing.”
He drew an eyebrow upward. “They do not waltz in your village?”
She shook her head. “And if they did, Papa would be scandalized to see his daughter doing so.” She giggled. “Remember, he is a vicar.”
“Ah. It wouldn’t do for a vicar’s daughter to be held by a man like this.” He took her once more in an embrace, closer this time than the previous one.
“It is unfair you should dance so well when you never practice,” Jessamine said with a pout.
“Who says I don’t practice?”
&n
bsp; When the dance ended, Jessamine was breathless but not from the exertions, which were far less strenuous than those of a country dance.
Mr. St. Leger brought her a glass of champagne and said, “Perhaps you would care to take a turn outside.” His dark-blue eyes held hers. “I believe we left unfinished what we began the previous time . . .”
She tried to laugh, but it came out sounding like a nervous choke. “Perhaps some things are better left unfinished.” She took a sip of the sparkling liquid to hide her embarrassment.
“Do you think so?” His gaze seemed to measure her. “I would not have taken you for one to retreat from a . . . challenging experience.”
Her cheeks flushed. “Perhaps it is because I am only a vicar’s daughter.”
“I think you are much more than a simple vicar’s daughter.” His gaze lingered on her lips.
At that moment she was saved from replying by the approach of Megan and Captain Forrester. “How brave you were to dance the waltz. You looked so graceful together,” Megan said.
“I didn’t dare ask Miss Phillips to dance it myself,” Captain Forrester put in with a rueful smile. “She may have had lessons, but I shall have to hire a dance master myself now that I have a reason to dance it.”
Mr. St. Leger looked at him in his braided blue uniform. “I take it you have been away from London these past years if you missed the introduction of the waltz. Now that it has received the nod of approbation from Almack’s, it is even acceptable to a vicar’s daughter.” He ended with an amused glance at Jessamine.
Captain Forrester laughed, missing the significance of the reference to vicars, though Megan gave her a curious look. “That is so.” He held out his hand to Mr. St. Leger. “Captain Alexander Forrester, lately of the HMS Pelican.”
“St. Leger. Pleased to make your acquaintance,” he replied, clasping Captain Forrester’s hand. “You must have seen some action.”
“My fair share. In recent years, though, I have been mainly in the West Indies amassing my fortune,” he said with a smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “Capturing privateers and their prizes.” His gaze rested on Megan. “Now I am ready to retire from the navy and settle down.”
They discussed a little more the battles he’d seen before he and Megan moved away to dance a Scottish reel, which Captain Forrester declared to be more in line with his abilities.
Before Mr. St. Leger left her, he invited her for another ride in the park, which she accepted with pleasure, relieved he’d forgotten his suggestion to go onto the terrace.
Jessamine spent that night with Megan. It had seemed foolish, even churlish, for her to turn down the invitation when the ball was being held partly in her honor at Céline’s house, and they all knew it would go until dawn.
After their maids had left them, she and Megan sat in their night rails on Megan’s wide bed.
“Captain Forrester seemed very nice,” Jessamine began, curious to hear Megan’s impressions of the dashing naval captain.
Megan’s face shone. “I feel as if we’ve known each other forever and are only now meeting.” She shook her head in wonder, twirling the end of her braid in one hand. “It is very strange, I admit, to say that. Perhaps it’s because he knew Rees and we spoke a lot of him at first.” She lifted her shoulders. “And from there, everything else just seemed to follow naturally.”
“I’m so glad. I was beginning to fear the season would be over and no gentleman had tugged at your heartstrings.”
“What about you? You seem quite fond of Mr. St. Leger.”
Jessamine looked down at the bedcover, her finger following a curve of an embroidered pattern, as she struggled to articulate as clearly as Megan had but not feeling nearly as sure. “He makes me feel beautiful and . . . desirable,” she said finally.
Instead of looking shocked that a vicar’s daughter would use such a word, Megan’s tone was gentle and understanding. “I suppose we all want to feel that.”
Jessamine smiled sadly. “You know, Rees never made me feel that way.” Before Megan could refute her words, she added quickly, “He was everything that was kind and respectful, but there was always such reserve in him. He treated me much more as an older brother would, not as a suitor.”
Megan sighed. “I’m sorry. I know he cared very much for you, even though, you are right, he was always very reserved about his feelings. He never confided them to Mother or me.”
“I don’t think he was ever in love with me.” There, she’d said it, and felt no sharp stab of pain.
Megan pursed her lips. “I don’t think he knew what it meant to be in love.” It was the first time Megan had expressed such a thought. She and Rees’s mother had been Jessamine’s staunchest allies in wanting a union between the two.
Megan continued soberly, hugging her drawn-up knees, as if only now coming to these conclusions. “He spent so many years just taking care of Mama and me and paying off the debts left by Papa that he learned to put aside his own wishes.”
“Until he met Céline.”
Megan’s gray eyes met hers. She tried to say something, but no words came.
“It’s all right.” Jessamine touched her hand. “It’s funny. It doesn’t hurt quite so much anymore to acknowledge it.”
Megan smiled. “Because you met Mr. St. Leger.”
Jessamine shook her head slowly. “I think more because I met Céline.” She smiled sadly. “Could any man help falling in love with her?” There was no bitterness in her tone.
“I suppose not. And don’t forget, Rees was living under her roof, seeing her every day, and before long, he suspected she was in trouble. You know how gallant he is. He cannot resist protecting someone.”
“Yes.” She sighed again, turning away. “If he felt anything for me, it was because of that chivalrous side of him.”
“I think he saw you as a shining example of womanhood, the kind of woman he wished for a wife and helpmate—devout, modest, caring, and generous-hearted. He has seen what a fine daughter you are, following your mother’s example, helping your father with both his church duties and in his botanical pursuits.”
“But that ‘ideal’ of womanhood is not what men fall in love with. It is not what he saw in Céline.”
“Yet she has grown in her devotion to God since meeting Rees. We have gotten to know each other better now that I live here, and she has told me how her faith has deepened, especially when she and Rees were forced to part and she thought never to see him again.”
“I scarcely know her but can find no fault in her,” Jessamine was forced to concede.
Megan took her hand in hers. “And you will grow to see that even more and come to care for her as I do. As for that ‘type’ of woman men don’t fall in love with, do not be so sure. Mr. St. Leger certainly seems attracted to you, even if he doesn’t see you the way Rees did.”
“What do you mean?”
Megan seemed to consider before she replied. “I mean I think Rees saw your worthiness to be a good wife. I-I’m not sure that is what Mr. St. Leger sees.”
Jessamine mulled on her words. “If Mr. St. Leger sees me as a beautiful and desirable woman, I prefer that,” she said at last.
Megan’s gray eyes seemed troubled. ”I think Mr. Marfleet does see and appreciate those good qualities in you, but he is not hampered by all the constraints Rees suffered under.”
“I think Mr. Marfleet sees nothing but things to reproach in me.” Jessamine shook her head. She squared her shoulders. “Besides, if I am ever interested in falling in love again—which I am not—the man must see me with all my faults and sweep me off my feet and lose all his reason because of his overwhelming passion for me.”
“He must be an extraordinary man indeed!”
They both fell back on the bed laughing.
As she lay on her back and stared at the ceiling, she thought of the heady way Mr. St. Leger made her feel when he’d held her in the waltz.
“I believe we left unfinished what we began.” She
shivered. When would he seek to finish that kiss?
14
Jessamine and Megan entered the imposing doors of the Royal Institute a few afternoons later. They followed the crowd that had gathered on the pavement outside.
Jessamine remembered their first sight of the Institute so many weeks ago. She had avoided this street and nearby Grafton Street since that embarrassing day when Mr. Marfleet had caught them lurking outside his residence.
How silly and naïve she had been then. In the ensuing weeks of parties, balls, and theatrical events, she felt she had changed much from that brokenhearted girl who’d run to London to begin a new life.
“Your father would enjoy seeing the inside of this place,” Megan whispered at her side.
“Indeed,” she whispered back then wondered why she was whispering. There was a growing drone of voices around them as more people filled the vast marble entryway.
They continued following the crowd until they entered a semicircular theater with a lectern down at the center.
“To think we know someone who belongs to this august scientific body,” Megan said once they were settled in their seats. They were about halfway up since the best seats had already been taken by those arriving ahead of them.
“Yes . . .” She felt awed by her surroundings and was trying to reconcile her image of the slightly stammering, slightly clumsy man she knew as a missionary and clergyman, with the image of a respected man of science. The comparison shouldn’t have been so difficult since her own father had a similar dual role. But her father was a simple country parson with no claim to scientific renown, content to putter in obscurity in his greenhouse and gardens.
A quarter of an hour later, a gray-haired gentleman, his powdered hair in an old-fashioned queue, was pushed to the stage in a wheelchair. He introduced himself as Joseph Banks.
Jessamine turned to Megan. The eminent naturalist Sir Banks was introducing Mr. Marfleet? As she listened to his liberal praise, calling Mr. Marfleet one of his most promising protégés, entrusted by him as one of his emissaries sailing the globe and collecting plant species wherever they went, her amazement grew. He boasted that Mr. Marfleet was one of their youngest members, having been invited to become a fellow at the age of twenty-three for his contributions in Linnaean taxonomy while at Cambridge.