by Erin Satie
That being said, it is my observation that people generally judge others in the way that is most advantageous to themselves. They may seek the respect that is due the righteous, the affection afforded the merciful, or power gained through bribery, blackmail, and the like.
I make these observations without judgment. We are more forgiving of our friends than our foes; we overlook flaws in those upon whom we depend—as you were so tempted to do, in regard to your Mr. Gavin. It is human nature.
Most of us are happiest when our advantage and our principles align. Olympia and I did a good deed when we whisked you away from the canal. We also prevented George Trenton, Lilian Crowley, and Shirley Dewitt—three people who have spoken in the cruelest terms about my ancestry—from turning the situation to their advantage. I sincerely love my guardian, the Queen, who provides for me so generously. Convenient, no?
When we introduced you around London, we gained credit for “discovering” you, which made us seem interesting and clever.
Relationships are built on the exchange of gifts. Letters are a kind of gift—one which we have now mutually exchanged. And trust is nothing more than the bond formed by the accumulation of favors given and received, each a fragile thread on its own.
You may think me cynical. Perhaps. But a cynic who calls you friend. Hopefully you will continue to say the same for Olympia and me.
Sincerely,
Tess
She hired a hackney to take her to the address Olympia had indicated on her letters—a large townhouse just beyond the borders of Mayfair, with a view of Hyde Park.
Bonny had never given much thought to what might happen if a young woman of twenty or so were given a large home and unlimited resources with which to furnish it. Had she pondered the question, her imagination would have fallen short of the reality.
Or at least short of Olympia Swain’s reality.
An impossibly handsome manservant answered the door—young, square-jawed, well over six feet tall with shoulders that spanned the width of the doorway. Bonny tried not to gape as he took her bonnet and gloves, and again when—instead of carrying them away—he positioned the hat on the marble head of one of the Roman busts flanking the door. Full-length statues lined both walls of the large, high-ceilinged foyer, and they’d all been similarly outfitted, with somber gods wearing ladies’ hats and an athlete’s spear adapted as a hook for a bright green cloak with fanciful silver embroidery.
Opposite the door, on a large plinth, stood a headless marble nymph draped in real jewelry—beads covered her arms, chains dangled from her neck, earrings glittered in the folds of her toga. It looked like a pagan altar, draped in offerings.
An altar to what though? To wealth, obviously. To wallowing in fortune’s favor. And if a young lady owed her happiness to the whimsy of chance, then she certainly ought to make regular offerings.
A delicate clattering jolted Bonny out of her reverie. The rapid tapping of hooves on tile heralded the arrival of a tiny, pink pig. Wearing a tiny, pink bonnet.
“Miss Swain grants her pets freedom of the house,” murmured the manservant. He had a German accent. “Including Mrs. Potts.”
The pig was alarming enough, but… pets?
Their destination was a large ballroom, the walls painted pink and covered, wherever possible, with large, full-length mirrors. Bonny, who’d been avoiding mirrors for so long that it was second nature, kept trying to look away from her own reflection only to encounter it again wherever she turned her head.
A fresco covered across the ceiling—painted as though the plaster were a mirror reflecting a ball in full swing, the whole crowd depicted from above, fanciful hairstyles and swinging skirts, couples whirling across the dance floor while others whispered in corners.
The overall effect was dizzying.
Olympia and Tess wore loose, uncorseted morning gowns and darted across the mosaic floor with more energy than dignity, whacking a felt-covered ball back and forth. An ancient cat with long white hair and blue eyes supervised the scene from a pedestal in the shape of a thick Ionic column.
The handsome German manservant cleared his throat.
Olympia whirled. The felt-covered ball went flying, and the cat hopped down to chase it, followed by Mrs. Potts. Tess trotted over and greeted Bonny with a kiss on each cheek.
“It’s Miss Reed!” cried Olympia. “What brings you to London?”
“My husband’s business,” said Bonny. “I wasn’t sure if I should come, but I thought I’d at least see if you were in…”
“For you? Always!” cried Olympia.
“Here anyhow,” added Tess. “I wouldn’t recommend too many public outings for you just now—but it’s wonderful to visit.”
“And your timing couldn’t be better, as I’d invited Tess over for tennis. I’d ask you to join us, but it takes an even number of players,” said Olympia. “Why don’t we take you out to the garden? I’m ready for a bit of refreshment.”
Olympia hooked her elbow around Bonny’s and Tess mirrored the gesture. Together they marched her outside. The garden was small, with a small table under a shaded bower and a few chairs positioned around it.
The table appeared to be made of amber. Golden, translucent, full of bubbles and bits of dirt and debris on closer examination, even a few insects.
The cat followed at a stately pace, leaping onto the arm of a wrought iron chair. It began to groom itself while the pig ran circles around the chair, making desperate noises when a maid appeared with cold lemonade and dishes of candied fruit.
Olympia lifted the pig into the seat of the chair. “This is Mrs. Potts. And the cat is Aunt Emily. I like to give my pets names that might lead eavesdroppers to believe that I spend a great deal of time around nice old ladies who take naps and get indigestion.”
Bonny’s eyes went wide. “Does that work?”
“I think so.” Olympia gestured to her companion. “It was Tess’s idea.”
“Here’s how I think about it,” Tess explained. “When an actress prepares for a performance, does she change her clothes and call it a day? Or does she add a wig and paint her face? A good disguise has layers. Like an onion.”
“I see,” said Bonny, who did not see at all.
“Tess’s usually right about these things. And besides, I’d originally named my cat Empress Magnifique. I wasn’t sorry to have an excuse to rectify that mistake.”
Bonny tasted the lemonade—tart, sweet, and excellent.
“That’s better,” said Tess. “I suppose Cordelia remained in New Quay? How is she? We haven’t had any letters recently.”
“It’s my understanding that she’s in London somewhere,” Bonny replied. “I’d been hoping to have news of her from you.”
“In London?” Olympia repeated. “With whom? Where is she staying? Why hasn’t she visited?”
“She’s alone, as far as I know. She may have kept her distance for the sake of your reputations, as I’d thought to.”
Olympia and Tess exchanged a glance. They didn’t look as much alike as Bonny had originally assumed. At first they’d seemed like mirror images painted in different shades. But Olympia had a square jaw, Tess a more slanted one. Olympia’s lips were lovely but on the thin side; Tess’s were very full. Olympia had a broader forehead, Tess a higher one.
They were quite different in appearance. The similarity lay in their mannerisms; they had the same posture, the same enunciation, the same way of tilting their heads. They behaved like siblings without being siblings.
And, quite clearly, they could speak whole sentences to one another with a glance. Perhaps full paragraphs.
“Why don’t you tell us what happened,” said Tess.
“It’s my fault, more than a little… She’s had a strained relationship with her parents for some time, because she’s been reluctant to marry. But the final break came after she defied them to remain friends with me. The last I saw her was nearly a month ago, when she left for the train station.”
&nbs
p; “We’ll have to find her,” said Olympia. “How long will you be in town?”
“Only a few days, I’m afraid. My husband owns a nursery, and we can’t leave it for long.” Loel had borrowed a gardener from a larger nursery where he had connections, but it was a temporary arrangement. “I’m sure she’s fine, but that’s part of the problem… if she were less capable, I think it would be easier for her to ask for help.”
“An interesting observation,” said Tess. “You don’t think she’s avoiding us, do you?”
“I can’t imagine why she would.”
“Then we’ll find her. And if you hear from her, will you let us know?”
“Of course,” said Bonny.
They chatted for a little while longer and even tried to teach Bonny to play tennis—Olympia had taken it up after learning that French kings had favored the sport—and Bonny enjoyed herself, though she hardly ever made contact with the ball.
Bonny returned to the hotel feeling better than she had in ages. She liked Olympia and Tess. Really liked them. While their city polish gave them hard edges that frankly bewildered her, the sense of camaraderie reminded Bonny of Cordelia, of Margot—of all the best friendships she’d ever had.
Loel had arrived ahead of her; she opened the door to find him staring out the window. He turned and smiled at the sight of her, so naturally that Bonny’s heart warmed.
“How was your visit?” he asked.
“Good. They haven’t seen hide nor hair of Cordelia.” She joined him by the window, opening on a street where, every few minutes, more people passed by than lived in the entire town of New Quay. “How are the orchids?”
“Most of them survived the journey.” He wrapped his arm around her waist and pulled her close. “Thanks to the rain, we’re in better shape than we might have been.”
“It’s so strange,” said Bonny, trying to tease a thought that had been floating vaguely at the back of her mind into words. “In some ways my life is better than it’s ever been, in other ways it’s much worse. It’s the middle that’s hollowed out.”
“I know how it’s worse… but how is it better?”
“The people in my life—Olympia, Tess, Cordelia, Mr. Benjamin… you.” She looked up at him. “I know you have regrets, but I don’t. I can’t. I am so happy to be married to you. Everything you say, everything you do increases my admiration. I only hope that one day you might say the same—”
“That day came a while ago.” He silenced her with a finger over her lips, then traced the outline of her lips with his thumb. “I’d stopped expecting good luck, so I didn’t recognize it when it came—Virginia Henley did me the greatest favor of my life. Marrying you is the best thing I’ve ever done.”
“Yes!” Bonny rose up on tiptoes, peppering his cheek and jaw with kisses. “Yes! It is!”
He picked her up by the waist, and whirled her away from the window, feet dangling in the air and skirts fluttering. The impromptu dance ended by the bed.
She cupped her hands around his jaw, blinking as moisture welled in her eyes. She felt alive like she never had before, as though the infinity of time were balanced on a pin that pressed its sharp tip right into the present moment.
His lips touched hers. She shivered, arching instinctively and deepening the kiss. He teased and sucked at her bottom lip, gentle and controlled. Bonny mimicked the gesture, rising up on tiptoes, exploring textures both familiar and strange: the way the velvety softness of his lips gave way to the slippery slickness of his mouth, the scratch of his stubble against her own smooth upper lip and jaw.
He made her feel weightless, cared for, and cherished. Like one of his orchids—fed by the stoves and the sun until heat prickled along her skin and sank to her core and compelled her to reach and twine and bloom.
“I love you,” said Loel, his eyes the deep clear green of a mountain lake.
“You do?” She had to blink to clear her head, as though she were waking up from a particularly deep slumber, and she could see that it was the same for Loel—his expression was open and befuddled, touched with wonder. “Is that what this is?”
“I hope so.”
She looked into his eyes, the deep clear green of a mountain stream. Everything she felt was reflected in their depths. “I love you,” she said, and it felt so good, so right. “I love you, Orson Loel.”
He reached for the buttons of his jacket.
She covered his hand with her own. “Let me.”
He raised his eyebrows in question.
“I remember… I think it was the second time I visited Woodclose. You were chopping wood, and I interrupted you, and you put on your jacket so angrily. As though you couldn’t believe I’d put you to the trouble of dressing.”
“That’s exactly what I was thinking.”
“I’d never seen anything so shocking.” Bonny slipped the buttons loose and swept her hand underneath the heavy cloth, against the damp linen of his shirt. “It was outrageous.”
He drew in a sharp breath.
Bonny leaned in, filling her nose with his scent.
“I would accuse you of planning it, of teasing me on purpose, except that you couldn’t have known I’d turn down the drive. You couldn’t have known that I’d return.”
“No,” he agreed.
“But I couldn’t stay away,” she confessed. “Because I couldn’t stop thinking about this…”
Loel laughed and kissed her neck. She shivered and held him tight; he bore her back onto the bed. By the time they roused and looked at the clock, it was almost time to leave for the auction rooms.
Time to find out, at last, what an Odontoglossum crispum was worth.
Stevens’ Auction Rooms were crowded, the corridors packed and buzzing with people clutching catalogues and murmuring urgently at one another. The auction room itself, a narrow auditorium, was by contrast almost eerily quiet.
A velvet curtain parted to reveal a stage, shallow, with only two props—a podium of dark wood and a low table. A slim man with close-cropped hair and spectacles carried a large, leather-bound book to the podium, a gavel tucked against his palm.
He laid down the book with enough care to qualify as ceremony and opened it, turning leisurely to the desired page. The silence took on a deeper quality, expectant, that held until the man tapped his gavel against the podium.
“Welcome to our September auction of orchids, exotic, attractive, never-seen-before orchids hailing from all corners of the globe. Over two hundred lots each guaranteed to tempt and delight, beginning with number one, ladies and gentlemen feast your eyes on…”
His voice wasn’t loud, and yet it carried to every corner of the room, even the very back, as though it had been projected by magic. He spoke quickly, his enunciation so crisp that Bonny caught every word.
As each lot was introduced, a pair of assistants would carry out the orchids on offer, contained in their Wardian cases, and rest them on the low table beside the podium.
Buyers had had the opportunity to examine the flowers in advance. The sight of them now, in the auditorium, was meant to entice. To stir covetousness and jealousy. The auctioneer first read the description and then opened bidding—for these first flowers, introduced at the beginning to warm the crowd up, it was often a very modest sum.
“Ten shillings for a Phalaenopsis amabilis. Who would be the proud owner of a healthy pink Phalaenopsis amabilis, guaranteed to bloom for years to come? Ten shillings, do I have fifteen?”
The air fairly crackled with anticipation, and yet every individual seated inside the room schooled their features to bland indifference. They bid with minute gestures; a raised finger or a lifted chin seemed to be enough. Bonny found their restraint convincing; the auctioneer did not. He sniffed out their desires, playing the crowd and driving prices ever higher.
The resulting cadence had a power of its own. The auctioneer named a price, it climbed until the lot sold, to be replaced by the next lot, its starting bid slightly higher than the previous. By this m
eans the bidders were gently, inexorably accustomed to prices that would have seemed outrageous if they’d been named from the outset.
The experience reminded Bonny of nothing so much as the old adage about a frog settled into a pot of cold water. Place the pot over a stove, and raise the temperature so gradually that the frog died before it realized it was in danger and hopped out.
And so many of the flowers were unfamiliar! Bonny had imagined—foolishly, as it turned out—that her time in Loel’s greenhouse had given her a certain expertise on the subject of orchids. But the auctioneer smoothly reeled off the names of genera Bonny had never heard of; the assistants ushered flowers onto the stage in shapes and sizes so unfamiliar that they still had the power to stun her. Speckled spider orchids, orchids that looked like clouds of buzzing bumblebees, potted white Cymbidiums blushing pink on the lip and right at the tips of their delicate petals.
Loel’s orchids amounted to twenty lots, a respectable percentage of the total. Bonny knew them all; they’d survived Loel’s bout with malaria, and he’d babied them ever since, coaxing every last bit of growth he could from them.
“Hailing from Madagascar, this Angraecum sesquipedale is guaranteed to bloom through Christmas. Herald the holiday with an orchid recalling the whitest northern star, starting at twelve guineas…”
The tension flowing through Loel jumped to her; she grew short of breath, damp under her armpits. The Angraecum sesquipedale sold for twenty guineas. A good amount—more than some people earned through a year of labor—but Loel displayed neither pleasure nor frustration when the gavel closed the bidding.
Bonny didn’t approve of gambling, but she thought, a bit hysterically—the tension in the room had her in a noose—that it was a shame Loel hadn’t taken up cards instead of gardening.
The dancing ladies came next; she’d miss them in the orchid house. Loel had cultivated seedlings, but they wouldn’t bloom for another year or so. They sold well, at ten guineas each.
By the time the auctioneer reached Loel’s last lot—the Odontoglossum crispum, of course—the sales of previous lots had accumulated to at least six hundred guineas. That was a substantial sum, more than enough for a family to live on for a year, if they avoided the city whirl and accepted a few economies. If Loel attended several of these auctions every year—and considering that his sales for this quarter had been diminished by his illness—their circumstances were far more hopeful than she’d realized.