by Y. S. Lee
“Where is Mr. Easton’s bouquet, my dear?” asked Mrs. Thorold.
“I’ve no idea, Mama.”
This was Mary’s cue to seek it out and bring it to a position of prominence.
“Very nice,” was Mrs. Thorold’s verdict. “China roses and yellow jasmine against a background of ferns.”
Angelica sighed and rolled over in her chair. “Delightful.” Her sarcasm was unmistakable.
Mrs. Thorold blinked slowly. “What does it signify, darling?”
Angelica rolled her eyes and recited mechanically. “Roses represent beauty. Yellow jasmine signifies grace and elegance. Ferns speak of the gentleman’s fascination. Therefore, the blossoms represent me, surrounded by the dark greenery of his admiration.”
Mary bit her lip to keep from grinning. At the Academy, she’d heard of the language of flowers. Somehow, though, she’d never imagined it being taken so literally.
“A very delicate compliment,” said Mrs. Thorold. “Mr. Easton is a fine prospect, my dear. Ambitious, of a good family, and it’s obvious he’s quite taken with you.”
Angelica appeared to wake up slightly. “He is rather attractive, in spite of those fierce features.” She seemed to consider. “I would have thought he was too young, Mama.”
“He is one and thirty, my dear, and a good match for you in every sense.”
“Oh. George Easton.”
Mrs. Thorold’s eyes widened. “You can’t think I meant — really, Angelica!” She seemed genuinely annoyed. “A younger son? Have you learned nothing?”
Angelica made a sour face. “I don’t see that it matters, Mama. They’re businessmen, not aristocrats with inherited titles.”
Mrs. Thorold ignored this piece of logic. “You will forget about other candidates. This afternoon, you will encourage George Easton. Miss Quinn, you will ensure she does so.”
“I take it you’ll be in your room resting, Mama?” Angelica’s jaw was tense.
“I’m going now, dear.” She paused in the doorway and fixed Angelica with a sharp look. “Sit up straight and behave prettily. Or else . . .”
The moment the door closed behind Mrs. Thorold, Angelica sprang from her chair. “Behave prettily!” she snarled. “I suppose you’ll be taking notes, Miss Quinn?”
Mary blinked. “I — well, no.”
“And reporting every word to your kind employer?”
“What?” Mary asked faintly. Angelica couldn’t be referring to the Agency. . . .
“Permit me to teach you a lesson, Miss Quinn.” Angelica leaned over Mary’s chair, her scarlet face just inches from Mary’s. The effect was rather grotesque.
Mary tried to sound calm. “What is that, Miss Thorold?”
“My mother may pay your salary, but I’ll make your life a living hell if you cross me!”
Angelica was very convincing. However, Mary was mainly relieved that her “kind employer” meant Mrs. Thorold, and not Anne Treleaven.
There must have been something in Mary’s expression that Angelica didn’t like. She glared at Mary for a moment longer. Then, without warning, she seized Mary’s burned hand, her sharp fingernails digging deep into the pink, blistered skin.
Mary sucked in a sharp breath. Her eyes watered with pain, but she managed not to scream.
Angelica stared into her eyes, daring her to move.
Mary remained perfectly still, choking down the urge to fight back.
After several seconds, Angelica let go. Her fingernails glistened red at the tips. “You’ve been warned.”
The bloodletting seemed to improve Angelica’s mood. When her callers began to arrive a few minutes later — there was one for each bouquet sent — she had achieved a reasonable degree of good humor, and there was still a faint pink flush on her cheeks. Mary returned to the drawing room, hand bandaged, in time to hear the footman announce, “Mr. George Easton. Mr. James Easton.”
George led the way with quick, eager steps. He was immaculately turned out in a silk waistcoat and patterned cravat, his boots were brightly polished, and his watch chain gleamed as brilliantly as his smile. He’d even waxed the ends of his moustache. James, a few steps behind, was very soberly dressed: gray waistcoat, plain cravat. His mouth had a slightly cynical twist to it, visible because he was clean shaven.
Very properly, Angelica greeted the elder brother first. “Mr. Easton! I must thank you for that exquisite bouquet. How did you know that I adore China roses?”
George bowed ceremoniously over her hand, then straightened and glanced around the room. “I am impressed that you remember which bouquet is mine, Miss Thorold.”
She gave a tinkling laugh and presented her hand to James. “I must confess that I remember only my favorites.” Settling herself in the middle of an unoccupied sofa, she glanced over her shoulder and said carelessly, “Ring for tea, Miss Quinn.” With a graceful gesture, she invited the brothers to join her.
They sat.
Mary rang the bellpull.
Tea arrived.
From her place in a straight-backed chair near the window, Mary was in a good position to watch them maneuver and flirt. Angelica’s manner was girlish and playful and focused very much on James. She tossed an occasional remark to George to prevent him from wandering away, but her preference was obvious. Mary couldn’t be certain whether this was to spite her mother or because she genuinely preferred James.
Mary kept her mouth shut and pretended to knit. Her hand throbbed. For someone who played the pianoforte, Angelica had very sharp fingernails. After a little while, though, the conversation took an interesting turn.
“What I object to,” said James, “is the way Florence Nightingale has become a sort of modern-day saint. Nursing soldiers was one thing, but she’s now the center of a ridiculous cult. When you think of those foolish young ladies leaping onto the first train bound for the Crimea . . . it was dangerous and utterly irresponsible.”
Angelica tinkled with appreciative laughter. “Oh, how true!”
“Every bored old maid in England now thinks herself fit to play battlefield surgeon,” he continued with lazy disdain.
“Without those ‘bored old maids’ in the Crimea, English losses would have been much greater.” Mary managed to surprise herself: that clear, caustic voice was hers. Was she mad, intruding into their private conversation?
All three pivoted toward her.
James merely elevated his eyebrows. “True. But I am speaking of the tendency to romanticize the nursing profession. . . . It is a messy, ugly business, and so very few young ladies seem to understand that.”
Mary raised her eyebrows back at him. “Certainly, the newspapers made Miss Nightingale and her nurses into heroines. They also romanticized the soldiers, and plenty of foolish young gentlemen still manage to buy commissions.”
He sighed patronizingly. “When men enlist, they know they are risking their lives. When gently bred young women flock to a military encampment, they not only endanger themselves; they also distract those who must look after them and who ought to be thinking of other things.”
“And males are only too eager to blame all their shortcomings on the distraction represented by females,” Mary retorted. “As though nurses are the only women in an encampment!”
George’s jaw dropped at her rather obvious reference to prostitutes.
James grinned.
“I had no idea you two were so well acquainted,” snapped Angelica, her eyes small and hard.
James seemed not to notice her tone. “Indeed,” he said blandly, “I have not had the pleasure of a proper introduction.”
George’s face was rigid with disapproval.
Angelica could hardly refuse, although her voice was icy. “May I present to you Miss Mary Quinn. Miss Quinn, George and James Easton.”
George shook her hand as briefly as possible. “A pleasure,” he mumbled, his face suggesting anything but.
James bowed deeply over her hand, his lips not quite touching her fingertips. “Encha
nté, Miss Quinn. I delight in meeting dangerous radicals.”
She muttered something and snatched back her hand.
“Speaking of nursing . . . I hope your hand is beginning to heal nicely.”
Her right hand was on fire. “Yes, thank you.”
“Did the special salve help at all?” His tone was vaguely . . . insolent, she’d have said, except that he was her social superior.
Mary’s chin lifted a fraction. “Indeed it did.” If anything, the greasy ointment seemed to make everything worse.
“Such a relief to hear that,” he murmured. “And how very kind of that gentleman to assist you so promptly. . . . One of the family, is he?”
What was he driving at? “Mr. Gray is secretary to Mr. Thorold,” she explained in her starchiest voice.
“Ah. I thought I’d seen him before. Have you known him long?”
“Only for a few days, since I was engaged by Mrs. Thorold.”
He raised one eyebrow. “I’d no idea you were so recently engaged. You seem so very familiar with the house.”
Mary gritted her teeth. “You, too, seem to know the house — and the family — quite intimately.”
His lips twitched in a familiar way. “Intimacies can spring up so quickly, can’t they? That between you and Mr. Gray, for example . . .”
Angelica’s expression underwent a sudden change from bored irritation to avid interest.
Mary frowned at him repressively. “I’m afraid intimacy is entirely the wrong word, Mr. Easton. Mr. Gray merely showed polite concern for my injury.”
“Mr. Gray’s ‘polite concern’ was extreme,” James persisted. His mouth curved in a mocking smile. “Few husbands show such tender care to their wives.”
Angelica’s smile was hard and brittle. “Michael Gray fawns over all young females,” she snapped. “It is his greatest fault. Papa says so,” she added, as though that settled the matter.
George turned to her immediately. “I hope he does not tire you with such cloying attentions, Miss Thorold.”
“He wouldn’t dare!” Angelica tossed her head like a rebellious heroine in a novel. “He knows his place.”
“I’m relieved to hear it.”
“I hope you, too, know your place, Miss Quinn,” drawled James.
Her face flushed with anger. “Are you lecturing me, Mr. Easton?”
“No, I am merely observing that young women in your . . . position . . . sometimes find themselves in rather awkward situations.” He managed to make the word “position” sound particularly offensive.
Mary drew herself up in her chair, spine like a plumb line. He was alluding to more than the wardrobe incident. Fragments of last night’s conversations came back to her: he was accusing her of being someone’s mistress. But whose? Thorold’s? Michael’s?
James lounged back in his chair, crossing one ankle over the other knee. “Merely that governesses and paid companions occupy such a delicate place in the social hierarchy. . . . If a secretary — or another male — behaves inappropriately toward them, what recourse do the poor things have?”
Mary was livid. “You have a distinct interest in the powerlessness of women and strong ideas of where they do and do not belong.”
Angelica suddenly spoke, her cheeks scarlet. “Are you — are you casting aspersions on my family, sir?” From the quaver in her voice, it seemed that she, too, had heard something about the former parlor maid.
The cursed man looked amused at the reaction he’d created. “Oh dear, I seem accidentally to have offended both of you. I beg your pardon, Miss Thorold.”
Once again, Mary fought the urge to punch him.
Angelica still looked vexed.
George jumped in anxiously. “My dear Miss Thorold, my brother was speaking generally; no reflection upon you or your household was intended.” He turned to his brother ominously. “Isn’t that right, James?”
“That’s right, George.” James’s tone was mild and suggested that all this fuss was someone else’s doing.
Angelica’s neck remained stiff, but in a few moments she relented. “I suppose it is a compliment that you respect my intelligence enough to discuss such matters with me.”
“Naturally, my dear Miss Thorold.” James’s voice held a suspicion of laughter, but Angelica seemed to enjoy his use of “my dear.” He turned that dark, persuasive gaze onto Mary. “Miss Quinn, I do hope we understand each other?”
She widened her eyes in mock innocence. “I believe we do, Mr. Easton.”
“I am so relieved.” Quite suddenly, James stood up. “I’ve been enjoying myself so much that I nearly forgot my next appointment. Thank you for the tea and the delightful conversation.”
George looked startled. “What appointment?”
James smiled. “No need for you to rush off, Brother. I’ll see you this evening.”
Angelica blinked, her little pink mouth agape. It may well have been the first time a gentleman had left her company before she dismissed him. “Oh. I see.” She blinked again, then rallied. “Good-bye, then. Until next time?”
“Until then. I’ll see myself out. Good afternoon, Miss Thorold.” He was at the drawing-room door when he turned to glance over his shoulder. “And Miss Quinn . . .”
She arched one eyebrow.
“Dare I fear you’ll say ‘good riddance’?”
The letter was addressed to G. Easton, Esquire, but when James saw the postmark, he opened it anyway. A brilliant grin lit up his face, and he went tearing across the main office to his brother’s private room.
“We got it!” he bellowed, bursting through the door. “We’re in!”
George jerked upright and scowled. “Bloody hell, James, can’t you learn to knock?”
James thrust the letter in his brother’s face. “Look! The railway contract. In India. We’re going to build railways in India. We break ground in September, which means — my God — you’ll have to leave by the end of the month! Earlier, if possible.” He began to babble on about booking passage and quinine tablets but soon ground to a halt. “George? Are you listening?”
George looked up from his blotter. “Mm?”
“This is the biggest contract Easton Engineering has ever won, and you’re going to go to India, and you look like someone’s just stolen your accordion. What’s wrong with you?”
George heaved an enormous sigh. “She has, in a way.”
“I don’t follow. Who’s ‘she’?”
“Miss Thorold, of course. At the party, I told her that I was a musician, too, and she seemed interested, but when I said I played the accordion, she — she laughed!”
James hid a smile. “Well, perhaps she was laughing sympathetically.”
“It’s no use. She thinks I’m a clown.”
“That’s not true,” lied James valiantly. He noticed, for the first time, that George’s desk blotter was covered in doodles: Mrs. George Easton. Angelica Easton. George & Angelica. The most popular was simply Angelica, surrounded by curlicues and hearts and arrows.
George rubbed his face. “The poets are right: it’s a disease. I can’t sleep, I can’t eat, I can’t work. . . . She’s all I can think about.”
“You ate a big dinner last night.”
“That was different.”
“Because it was roast chicken?” James tried not to laugh. “Come on, George. There are dozens of girls who’d marry you. Why Miss Thorold?”
George glared at him. “That question shows how tragically little you know about love.”
“I’m rather relieved, if this is the other choice.” James indicated the blotter. “You’ll be writing poetry next.” George flushed from his hairline to his collar, and James began to laugh again. “No! Really? Oh dear.”
“Are you quite finished mocking me?”
“Never, old chap. But let’s talk about this new railway in Calcutta.”
“What about it?” George sounded miffed.
“What do you mean, ‘what about it’? You’re going to be
building it in a couple of months’ time! In fact, it’s just what you need. It’s been too long since you’ve taken the lead role on a job, and it’ll take your mind off Little Miss Whosit.” James was genuinely enthusiastic. “In a fortnight’s time you’ll be on a boat, bound for the beautiful, spice-laden East, and all thoughts of Miss What’s-her-name will have vanished from your thick skull.”
George sat up straight. “Two weeks?”
“Well, you’ll want to —”
“But that’s plenty of time!” His eyes brightened and he smiled at James for the first time. “I can easily manage it in a fortnight!”
“Of course you can,” said James, relieved. This was more like the old George.
George looked him straight in the eye. “Do you really think so?”
“Yes.”
He sprang over the desk and shook James’s hand enthusiastically. “Thank you! Your confidence means a great deal to me. I know you’re not terribly interested in the matter yourself, and for a while you were downright dismissive of the whole thing, but it’s smashing to know that my baby brother supports me —”
Not interested? Downright dismissive? Of the India job? James suddenly had the uncomfortable sensation that they were talking at cross-purposes. “Er — my confidence in what respect, George?”
“Why, for my marrying Miss Thorold and taking her to India with me!”
Oh, no. Oh, no. “That’s what you meant?”
But George had stopped listening. “She’s a healthy girl, not like her mother. The climate will pose no threat to her. And the romance of India — the beauty of it, as you said — will help me to win her!”
James sighed inwardly. Worse and worse. He’d been quietly opposed to the Thorold connection from the start, having heard some unsavory rumors concerning Thorold’s business. However, he’d also been confident of ferreting out the truth before George got as far as a proposal — hence that search of Thorold’s study. But a whirlwind courtship was a different matter. Even if Angelica seemed lukewarm, her parents were enthusiastic. They could force her to accept George’s offer. James had very little time in which to act. And so far — thanks to Miss Quinn — he’d learned nothing.