Bed of Flowers

by Erin Satie

  Or perhaps her own feelings colored her perception of the environment. Her dreams of marriage had certainly never included spending her wedding night alone. But she was tired, the bed comfortable, and she slept well enough.

  The next morning, she received her first letter as mistress of Woodclose.

  Dear Lady Loel,

  You have acquired a title! My quill is quivering with glee. Why was this excellent news so difficult to obtain?

  Miss Kelly refused to “gossip” about the recent turn of events—her unimpeachable loyalty is galling, to say the least. After I informed her that my most recent letters to you had been returned unopened, she did provide me with your new name and address.

  Tess tells me that your Lord Loel is not seen often in town, which is dire news indeed. Please unravel this mystery! Better yet, show him the error of his ways. In fact, I challenge you to have him here within a month. You will introduce him to me, and I will form my own opinion. I will keep it to myself, however, until you’ve shared your conclusions about The Widow.

  Awaiting your reply,

  Olympia Swain

  PS — Debrett’s tells me Lord Loel is only twenty-six! So young for a peer in his own right.

  Bonny immediately sat down to write back.

  Dear Miss Swain,

  Please accept my apologies. I never received your letters, or I would have replied earlier. I compose this reply in haste, before my courage deserts me.

  I am married because I was caught in a compromising situation. It wouldn’t be proper to discuss the details with a respectable young lady—a description I can no longer apply to myself—and, what’s more, I find I’m unwilling to tarnish your opinion of me any more than is necessary.

  I had such high hopes for our friendship. It grieves me to know that, through my own actions, I have brought it to a premature conclusion. You needn’t waste your time on pity; I seem to have stumbled into a happy marriage. For my part, I will be wishing you all the good things life can offer.

  Sincerely,

  Bonny, Lady Loel

  She folded and sealed the letter as soon as the ink was dry, so that she wouldn’t have to look at it, and joined Loel in the greenhouse.

  “Here,” he said, pointing to a Phalaenopsis. “How many petals does it have?”

  Bonny counted and answered, “Five?”

  “Three,” answered Loel. “These three are sepals. Only the remaining two are petals. The third petal is modified to ensure the spread of its pollen, like so, with a lip where insects can land, a hollow throat with something tempting inside. Perhaps a drop of sugar water, perhaps the scent of rotting meat.”

  “Rotting meat?” Bonny had echoed.

  “Oh, indeed. Let me show you. It’s not pretty, but collectors take an interest.”

  Bonny found it repulsive. Almost entirely green except for a sort of… mouth-shaped bloom the dark, brownish red of dried blood. She was bent over it, trying not to gag, when Cordelia’s voice echoed from the entrance.

  “Bonny?”

  Loel waved her away, and she hurried to meet her friend. Bonny had been trying not to think about Cordelia—if Mrs. Henley had done as she’d promised and spread the news of Bonny’s shame far and wide, Judge and Mrs. Kelly would have forbidden Cordelia from ever seeing her again.

  But Cordelia looked as she always did, calm and unruffled, carrying a basket loaded with books on one arm.

  “Cordelia? What are you doing here?”

  Cordelia set her basket on the table and shook out her arm, rubbing the crook of her elbow where the handle had left a red mark. “I came to ask you a question.”

  “Anything.”

  “You told me you’d have to skip our delivery rounds because you were here, taking care of a desperately ill man.”

  Bonny nodded.

  “Did you lie to me?”

  “No.”

  Cordelia narrowed her eyes. “Did you withhold the truth, intending to mislead me?”

  “No.” Bonny took a seat at the table, gesturing for Cordelia to do the same. She owed her friend an explanation.

  But Cordelia remained exactly where she was, upright and uncompromising. “I don’t see how that’s possible. How ill could he have been?”

  “Very. He suffers from malaria.”

  “Malaria?” Cordelia’s eyes flashed. “So Mrs. Henley lied?”

  “No.”

  “She couldn’t have been telling the truth. Bonny, she said Lord Loel was naked, or near enough to it, and that you were… embracing intimately. To listen to her, you were on the verge of coupling out in the open.”

  “Perhaps she exaggerated a little,” Bonny ventured. She really couldn’t be sure. “He was on the mend— I had only planned to stay a little while, to bring him something to eat and make sure he could manage on his own…”

  “Did he force you?”

  “No!” Bonny shook her head, her hands, her whole body in instant negation—Loel was the innocent in this. “He made no advances at all… If you must know, I did.”

  “You,” Cordelia repeated flatly.

  Bonny nodded.

  Cordelia’s eyes narrowed. “And this had never happened before?”

  “Never.”

  “Are you sure? You bend the truth sometimes.”

  “Not when the answer is so important!” Bonny cried. And then, perhaps more convincingly, “And not with you.”

  Cordelia finally sat. She propped her cheek on her palm and considered Bonny in her steady, unhurried way. “I was prepared to be very angry with you.”

  “But now you’re not?” Bonny asked hopefully.

  “I’m still thinking about it. Bonny, you could have gone about this any other way, and it would have been better.”

  “I know.”

  “You were in a difficult position,” Cordelia continued. “But what does that excuse? We all are.”

  “And now I’ve made things even more difficult for you, for Margot…” Bonny blinked back tears. “I’m sorry, Cordelia. I am so sorry.”

  “I’m sure you are.” Cordelia sighed. “Meanwhile, everyone knows about Mr. Gavin’s attack on Lord Loel. Word is beginning to spread about his child. But he’s as popular as ever.”

  “What?” Bonny gasped. “I don’t believe it.”

  “You might be a fool… but he’s a villain, and he’s not sorry at all. What’s worse, no one expects him to be.”

  “I wonder…” Bonny spoke tentatively. She didn’t mean to make excuses, but she’d had a lot of time to think. To remember, to question the choices she’d made. “I wonder how I liked him so well for so long. Why was I so slow to change my opinion of him? The truth seems obvious to me now. Why wasn’t it before?”

  “I wish I knew,” said Cordelia. “Do you remember when we met Mrs. Rhodes? We sat in her parlor, and we ate her pie, and on our way home, I kept thinking to myself that if we can’t value this woman, it is our values that need changing.”

  “I thought the same thing.”

  Thought it, then had done nothing.

  “Bonny, I wish I could be angry at you,” said Cordelia. “It would be so much easier. But I’m not. I’m angry at everyone. The whole world.”

  “Then the world had better beware,” Bonny teased.

  “Yes,” Cordelia agreed without any humor at all.

  Bonny’s heart swelled almost to bursting. “I am going to miss you so much.”

  “What do you mean, miss me?”

  “Haven’t your parents forbidden you to see me?”

  “It’s not their decision.”

  “But Cordelia… what if they find out you’ve visited? What will you do?”

  “They’re going to find out very soon.” Cordelia gestured to her basket. “It’s time for our deliveries.”

  “You can’t be serious.”

  “On the contrary. I could not be more serious.”

  “I can’t go into town,” Bonny protested.

  “I am your friend, Bonny. I’ll sta
nd by you, no matter what anyone thinks. But I can’t hide from our members. Don’t make me do this alone.”

  “All right. I’ll tell Loel…” Bonny paused. “Would you like to meet him before we go?”

  Cordelia agreed, so Bonny led the way. They found Loel on his knees by one of the stoves, stripped down to his shirtsleeves as usual, the cotton damp and clinging to his broad back.

  “Loel?”

  He stood, arching an eyebrow at Bonny as he brushed soot from his thighs.

  “I’d like to introduce you to my friend—Miss Cordelia Kelly.” Bonny gestured to Cordelia who, she realized belatedly, was staring fixedly at the paving stones.

  “Apologies.” Loel gestured at himself. “I wasn’t expecting visitors.”

  “I’m sorry to intrude,” said Cordelia.

  “We have plans in town,” said Bonny. “Unless you need me for something?”

  “No.”

  “All right.” Bonny steered Cordelia toward the door. “I’ll be back soon.”

  Cordelia didn’t look up until they were outside.

  “That was my fault,” said Bonny. “I could have guessed he’d be in his shirtsleeves.”

  “He just… walks around like that?”

  Bonny nodded.

  “All day?”

  “It’s very warm in the greenhouse!”

  Cordelia walked at Bonny’s side down the drive, oddly silent, eyes wide and as rattled as Bonny had ever seen her.

  “I’m beginning to understand how you ended up in this situation,” Cordelia said finally.

  “What do you mean?”

  “He doesn’t walk around half-dressed by accident. He means to tempt you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Bonny protested. “He’s spent too much time alone, that’s all. Of course, eventually, he began to forget the proprieties… anyone would. And he didn’t choose to be a pariah.”

  “I’m trying to say that he’s handsome, Bonny.” Cordelia snorted. “And that he knows it.”

  “So is Charles Gavin.”

  “And that served Mr. Gavin very well, didn’t it?” Cordelia slanted a glance at Bonny. “I suppose you prefer kissing Lord Loel?”

  Bonny blushed.

  “Well.” Cordelia blinked. “That’s certainly a new reaction.”

  “It’s like night and day, Cordelia. One word shouldn’t be able to describe two such different experiences.”

  Cordelia’s eyebrows shot up, but she didn’t ask any further questions. They reached town soon enough, and conversation became difficult.

  Their first stop was the chandlery. They stepped through the tinkling door, where Mr. Shaw sat behind his counter as usual.

  Bonny smiled, though her stomach twisted. “Good morning, Mr. Shaw.”

  “Lady Loel, is it?” Mr. Shaw slapped a book on the counter and flicked it across the smooth wood. “This belongs to you. Mrs. Shaw doesn’t care for another.”

  “Perhaps Miss Kelly could return alone—”

  “Mrs. Shaw no longer chooses to participate in your library.” Mr. Shaw glanced meaningfully at the door. “Unless you wish to purchase anything…”

  “No. Thank you, Mr. Shaw.”

  Back in the street, Bonny took Cordelia’s hand and squeezed. She did not think any friendship should be put to such a test—she would not have blamed Cordelia for abandoning her. The fact that they were still standing side by side was extraordinary.

  Cordelia took a deep breath. “On to Mrs. Andrews.”

  Mrs. Andrews stepped out of the salter’s before Bonny and Cordelia could enter. “Best if you don’t come in.” She handed over her book. “We have customers.”

  “I see,” said Bonny. “Thank you for returning the book. Can we give you—”

  “No, thank you.” Mrs. Andrews interrupted. “I’ve had enough of reading.”

  They visited Mrs. Morgan’s tiny cottage. She answered their knock, disheveled and tired, children squabbling in the background. But she lifted her chin haughtily as she returned her primers, saying, “I’m only opening the door to you so I can give you these—and I hope, for the good of the community, that you’ll return them to Mrs. Henley.”

  Some of the women who cut them had dandled Bonny when she was a baby. She’d trimmed hats for them in the summer, knitted scarves for them in the winter. All those years of shared experiences, of joy and suffering and bickering and support, had come to a close. Just like that.

  Even Mrs. Rhodes turned them away. “I’m sorry,” she explained, a baby at her breast. “I can’t afford any more scandal. I have to be so careful.”

  At the end of their circuit, Cordelia’s basket overflowed and Bonny carried a stack of books piled up to her chin. Cold-faced women watched their progress from their curtained windows. Three men peeled away from the Black Lion to trail them as they crossed the main street.

  Bonny’s mouth went dry. She recalled finding Loel on the floor of his greenhouse, bruised and insensible, and wondered if it was her turn.

  “If anything happens,” she murmured, “you should drop the books and run.”

  Cordelia spared Bonny a brief, contemptuous sidewise glance. “No.”

  “Cordelia—” Bonny hissed, but it was too late. They’d reached the green, where a crowd had gathered. Mostly men, of all ages, but a handful of young women clustered by the church with netted veils pinned to their bonnets, shielding their faces.

  A boy darted out from behind a tree and shouted, “Whore!”

  Bonny recognized him. He was one of Mrs. Morgan’s. She’d visited his home every other week for months. Shock froze her in place, and so she made an excellent target for the clod of… of… muck that he threw at her, brown and wet and foul-smelling. It hit the stack of books, knocking them out of her arms, and then another landed on her left breast, right over her heart.

  “Coward!” Cordelia cried—but not to the boy. She’d seen past him, to his father lurking in the distance. “You send a child to attack a woman and call yourself a man?”

  Bonny kept her voice low. “Cordelia, don’t.”

  Cordelia swung around, pinning one of the men trailing behind them with her diamond-hard gaze. He held a rock.

  “Go on,” taunted Cordelia. “Show us how brave you are.”

  The man actually cringed, clasping his hands over the stone he’d been ready to throw and holding it tight against his middle.

  Something thudded painfully into Bonny’s back. She whirled and saw the Morgan boy had darted close again, ready to let fly another stinking missile. Had he stored a pile of them nearby?

  She braced herself but didn’t try to soften the blow. The boy swung his arm up and back, launched his muck… but it landed harmlessly in the grass, about halfway between them.

  His aim had been perfect three times and could have been for a fourth. He’d faltered.

  Still holding the boy’s gaze, Bonny bent and began picking up the books she’d dropped, stacking them one by one. At least he’d hit the spines… some of them might be salvageable.

  When she had them all, Bonny stood. “Let’s go,” she whispered. “Right now.”

  Cordelia didn’t budge.

  “The people who can hear you have,” Bonny insisted, flicking a quick glance toward the women by the church—one of them had edged away from her companions and stood with her hand covering her mouth, agape in horror. When she was sure Cordelia had seen, Bonny directed her gaze toward a man who stood on his porch with his arms crossed over his chest, surveying the green with a warning glare. He was bearded, in his middle years, expensively dressed, and obviously ready to intervene.

  “Please,” Bonny whispered.

  Cordelia relented. They plodded across the green, the crowd dispersing as they went. By the time they’d reached the other side, they were alone.

  Bonny didn’t know what to say when they reached Cordelia’s doorstep. She’d disappointed her parents, she’d blighted her sister’s future, and she’d taken her dearest friend’s greatest
passion, one she’d worked for years to nurture, and killed it.

  She hadn’t wanted any of this to happen. She hadn’t intended any of it. But she couldn’t fix a thing. Not a single thing.

  “Cordelia, I am so sorry. I wish there was something I could do,” Bonny said. “I wish I could go back in time.”

  “I’m glad that you can’t,” returned Cordelia. “I understand my neighbors now, and I’d rather see them for what they are than enjoy their company.”

  Bonny didn’t reply because she couldn’t agree, but pressing her point would have been ungrateful.

  “Think about it, Bonny. Do you wish you were married to Charles Gavin?”

  Bonny shuddered.

  “I didn’t think so. The past looks rosy because ignorance is bliss—but that’s the only bliss you would have known, and it wouldn’t have lasted long. It’s better to know the truth.”

  Bonny hugged Cordelia. “I do love you.”

  Cordelia hugged her back, awkwardly, and then she had to go inside. Bonny returned alone to Woodclose. It meant something to know that Cordelia stood by her not just as a friend but as Cordelia, the woman whose judgment Bonny respected, whose courage Bonny had always tried to emulate.

  But wishing she could be more like Cordelia just made Bonny feel worse, because Cordelia would never have gotten herself into this mess. She was a better friend than Bonny deserved. And though the same could not be said for the rest of New Quay, Bonny still wanted to belong. She still wanted their friendship and admiration, a place in their community.

  She would never have it again. Not ever.

  She turned up the drive to Woodclose in the afternoon and reached the yard right as Loel tossed an armful of rotted orchids into a wheelbarrow already brimming over with dead flowers, all headed for the compost heap. They were black and brown and slimy, with a few delicate petals fluttering in the breeze.

  She walked past without a word, into the greenhouse. She stripped off her clothes, unbuttoning her ruined dress so that she could step out of it when she reached the water basin in the back. She dropped her bonnet and gloves, tossed her petticoats and stockings into a heap before plunging her arms into the water. The muck had dried while she walked home and needed to be scraped off. It fell away, but that wasn’t enough; she scrubbed her arms, her bosom, filled a bucket and used it lather her hands with soap.