by Laura Briggs
“Put away that little book, Marianne,” Sir Edward commanded. “There will be no reading of any kind at the breakfast table.”
Marianne closed the volume and placed it aside. “Will you write a novel next, Flora? Or what about a travel volume?” A question met with a groan by Sir Edward.
“Spare Papa any further conversation about the book,” Flora advised her. She tapped an egg with her spoon. “It is not a pleasant subject for him.” She gave her father a gentle smile of sympathy.
The housekeeper entered and curtseyed. “Please, sir, Mrs. Fitzwilliam is in the drawing room.”
“Show her in here, Madge,” Sir Edward answered. With anyone else, this might be unseemly; but Mrs. Fitzwilliam was her mother’s aunt, a surrogate mother to those “poor dear girls” known as her great-nieces. She exerted considerable fortune and energy in the matchmaking of her own children; and with that accomplished, now had ample time to chaperone Sir Edward’s daughters in public.
She swept into the room in a state of excitement, her figure the bustling form of a plump, senior matron bent on sharing the latest news.
“Oh, Flora, have you heard? It’s all the rage, so surely you must have,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam drew breath almost instantly. “This little volume is in the possession of practically everyone I know–and such conversation has come about!”
If it was possible for Flora to blush as deeply as her tresses, then such a bloom appeared upon her cheeks. Sir Edward busied himself with his ham, attempting to take no notice of these remarks.
“I brought you a copy of course,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam continued, digging a copy from her bag. “But I see you already have one.” Her eyes fell upon the volume on the table. “Splendid! Then I will send a copy to Myrah, my eldest at Norland Park. Her girls will be of age soon, you know...”
“You are all kindness, Ma’am,” Flora answered. “I had heard something of the book from a friend, so I must admit I was curious.” How curious, Flora was unwilling to admit.
“From more than one friend, I am sure,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said, sitting down at the table. “The Miss Bartons are quite wild about it; and I’ve heard something of it from Mrs. Phillips as well–she has three daughters in need of marrying off, you know.”
“And I suppose she believes this little book will make such events possible?” Sir Edward replied. “Surely she realizes such a belief is nonsense. As if there are truly rules for capturing a man’s heart like trapping a wild hare.”
“There are not rules, Papa,” Flora objected. “Merely little charms which every woman utilizes to attract a suitor. The only question lies in identifying them and knowing how many–or which ones–will do the trick.”
“Well spoken,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam chuckled. “Perhaps you should have written a little something on the subject of feminine arts; after all, you are not without charms yourself, my dear.”
“See, Flora, Aunt Charlotte thinks you ought to be an authoress as well,” said Marianne. “I knew it was so and everyone else always tells me I’m wrong.”
“Never mind about that now,” said Flora, for Sir Edward’s glance in Marianne’s direction boded no good for when Mrs. Fitzwilliam should depart.
“Now, Miss Marianne, who has ever said you were not as clever as your sister? Or for that matter, half the girls in England?” asked Mrs. Fitzwilliam, on the verge of beginning the subject all over again until a look of astonishment crossed her face.
“Good heavens, I almost forgot about the news about the Eastons,” she announced. “All this talk about that silly little book made me forget it altogether.” With a sigh of self-scolding, she adjusted her shawls, leaving her listeners in concerned suspense for a moment.
“Lady Easton? Is all well for her?” Sir Edward’s tone was troubled as he replaced his teacup in its saucer.
“Oh, it's nothing at all the matter with Lady Easton–in fact, it's quite good news. Young Roger Easton is finally coming home from abroad,” she answered. “Now, isn’t that a pleasant surprise?”
“It's capital news,” Sir Edward declared. “I have not seen the lad since the days following his father’s death. Dark days indeed. He was quite changed, so much older than the schoolboy I remembered. But now he shall be amongst us again–and quite a man in his own right, given the terms of the will.”
“I suppose we must call him Lord Easton now,” Flora said. “If he is to be heir to Donnelly Hall and its fortune, then he is no longer ‘young Roger’ of the Glen.”
“You have not seen him at all; since you were thirteen or so and he went away to school,” Sir Edward said. “I think you will be quite shocked by the changes which have taken place. For the boy who once tied your apron strings to the garden gate and hid a toad in your cloak.”
If it were possible for Flora to be discomfited by a remark, she would be rendered so by her father’s words. As it was, she tilted her chin a trifle higher to appear indifferent.
“Who is Roger Easton?” asked Marianne.
“He is Lady Easton’s son and Miss Lucy Easton’s brother,” answered Flora. “He went away a long time ago, when you were not quite two years old.”
“He was quite the playmate of your sister,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam added. “Oh, the stories about these two! Of geese chased through the yard and broken limbs in Farmer Grafton’s apple trees. Even the minister despaired of you both turning out hooligans.”
“I think it would be best not to fill Marianne’s head with these stories,” Flora said, “given that she is quite as despaired of at her age as I was at mine. We shall give her the wrong ideas about young Lord Easton before he is even among our acquaintance again.”
She took a sip of tea and maintained a prim expression, determined to give her aunt no opportunity for comment upon her behavior on the mention of a young man's name.
“Since the young gentlemen and ladies of his former acquaintance are too old to chase geese ‘round the farmyard, they will have to think of other sports now.” Mrs. Fitzwilliam gave Flora a knowing wink as she tapped the little volume with one finger.
“I’m sure Lord Easton has no such thing in mind with regards to the young ladies he meets in London,” Flora replied.
“Every young man thinks of those things, my dear,” laughed Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “Now, I must take my leave of all of you, for I am to call on the Bartons this morning as well.”
There was an exceptionally bright flush in the cheeks of Flora, rivaling her strands of auburn hair. But perhaps it was for the memory of plucked goose feathers and hidden toads.
*****
The name of Stuart was equally as old and respectable as the name of Easton, but the difference in fortune between Lord Henry Easton and Sir Edward Stuart was a chasm of privilege and wealth. Lord Easton’s title was greater, his wealth equal to ten thousand a year. His house in town was fashionable, his country estate of Donnelly Hall a grand family home.
Sir Edward’s fortune was a meager inheritance, all that remained of once-vast family coffers that vanished with previous business tragedies. There was no rural estate for Sir Edward to pass down to his heir–indeed, there had not been one for several generations–only Evering, which boasted once-elegant rooms and a small garden.
Yet these two men had been close friends since their school days at Eton and all the difference in fortune had made no difference in the warmth of their regard for each other. Their children had played together, their families had dined together, their holidays had included goodwill and joy each for the other.
Even in death, the connection was maintained, for Lord Easton’s final wishes had been that his good friend Sir Edward Stuart would oversee the affairs of his family until his son was of age.
The son, young Roger, was but a year older than Flora. The chief tormentor of her childhood days, his family’s rural estate neighbored the grounds of Brawley Court, where Colonel Miles, an uncle of Flora's mother, lived. The colonel invited her family to visit him frequently during the autumn season and holidays, where h
er daughter and son could have open air and mingle with the neighborhood children at their leisure.
Flora made her acquaintance that first autumn with a fair-haired boy whose face was marred by freckles from the sunlight. He established himself swiftly as her enemy upon first sighting her, pelting her with walnuts as she sat high in the branches of the tree.
“Come down now!” he ordered her. “This is my tree and I say get out!”
“Shan’t!” she retorted. “I’ll tell Colonel Miles what you’ve been doing if you don’t go away. This is his walnut tree. I know because I am his guest.” She tossed her hair as she spoke, feet swinging from the branches.
“Then I shall make you get out!” he answered. A well-aimed walnut struck her doll Letty beside her. Letty tumbled to the ground, where the intruder boy promptly snatched her.
“Give her back!” screamed Flora. In one swift motion, she slid from the tree branch to the ground. A flight that ended with her landing soundly on her enemy’s body. He thumped to the ground with a groan.
Unfortunately, there also fell poor Letty, whose head struck a rock and broke into two pieces.
“Now look what you’ve done,” wailed Flora. “I shall never be allowed another again.” A childish sob escaped her, followed by a series of large tears as she gathered up the pieces. The boy, who had crawled a few feet away, sat up and surveyed her with trepidation.
“I did not mean it,” he said. “I am sorry. Please don’t tell Colonel Miles.”
She turned towards him with narrowed eyes. “You are a hateful, spiteful boy,” she answered. “And I will never forgive you, so go away.”
“I will get you a new doll if you will keep this secret.” He moved closer to her, genuine distress in his dark eyes. “Oh, please, miss.” He attempted to wipe away her tears, succeeding in smearing dirt across her face.
“What kind of doll?” she asked, between sobs. He touched the pieces of poor Letty on her apron lap.
“Like this one,” he said. Then, as inspiration struck him, he added, “I shall fix her if you like. If you will only let me have her for a little while.” Flora considered this for a moment, then nodded.
He was true to his word; for when she saw him again, he was seated upon the fence between Colonel Miles’ property and his home, with Letty propped upon his knee. A long scar extended down her neck, sealed carefully with plaster and paste.
She studied the effect carefully as he waited, then nodded her approval.
“I shall not tell,” she promised. Although he insisted they shake hands upon the bargain, too.
Although Roger Easton became her playmate in chasing the farmyard poultry and constructing a treetop fort, he reserved the right to tease her as fully as he pleased. Tying her apron strings to the gate when she was not paying attention, then racing away to leave her crying with frustration when she tried to follow and realized the trick.
The toad, as Flora remembered most keenly later, was hidden in the hood of her cloak, which she discovered when she raised it one morning on her way to Sunday services.
The Stuarts and Eastons were together for six autumns of Flora’s childhood, seeing more of each other there than in the busy London season of balls and parties, where Lady Easton and her husband were present whenever he reluctantly returned to town to pay his respects to society. They celebrated almost as many Christmases together at splendid neighborhood parties, including the one Flora remembered best: the grand party thrown by Lord Easton himself upon the twenty-fourth of December in the great rooms of Donnelly.
She did not often think of that party anymore; nor of other landmark moments, such as the final autumn she spent as a young girl on Colonel Miles’ estate. It would also be the last year the Eastons were present at Donnelly, due to pressing business for Lord Easton. Young Roger was sent away to school eventually; his mother and sister grew accustomed to the convenience of town over the country.
That final autumn in the country left its mark upon Flora’s life. She took her first step towards growing up; an event hastened by the decline of her mother’s health.
And she understood something else, as her life gradually formed itself around society and the humdrum existence of London’s streets. That the equal rank between the Stuarts and Eastons in terms of society was divided by the difference in fortune. Making the grown-up Flora an unlikely companion for the likes of the young boy lately become Lord Easton.
Chapter Three
Lord Roger Easton was not long in paying his respects to his father’s oldest friend. During the afternoon hours of the following Tuesday, Madge the housekeeper presented Sir Edward with a card bearing the Easton name and a request to see Sir Edward and to call upon the lady of the house as well.
“Show him in,” said Sir Edward. He rose from his papers to greet the young man who entered at the request of the housekeeper.
“Well, sir, home at last I see,” Sir Edward declared, clasping the hand of young Lord Easton in his own. “What good news this is for us all. Especially for your mother and sister, I trust.”
“None could know better than yourself,” replied Easton. “It is to you that I am indebted for their care these past few years and no amount of gratitude could express my thanks for your kindness.”
Lord Easton and his host were visible from the landing at the top of the stairs, where Marianne was crouched behind the banisters in order to study him. Beside her knelt Flora, whose curiosity was no less than her sister’s.
“He’s quite handsome,” whispered Marianne, jostling her sister’s arm.
“I should not have known him had we passed each other on the street,” Flora murmured. She leaned forward in an attempt to see better without being seen.
The flaxen-haired boy had grown tall, with close-cropped blond hair that bore the appearance of playful tousling by his sister’s hand. His dark coat outlined a lean and muscular frame that indicated the athleticism of youth.
“He looks too grown-up,” Marianne observed. “Are you sure he was the boy who used to chase geese? He doesn’t look like he would have at all.”
“Well, he is,” Flora hissed. “Now go and change your apron; yours is covered with grass stains on the front.” With that, she rose and straightened her dress before proceeding to the stairs.
“I am sure you remember my eldest daughter, Miss Stuart?” said Sir Edward, once she appeared in his sight. Easton turned to survey her as she smiled and gave a stiff bow in reply to his own.
“Of course I do,” he replied. “It has been a great many years, Miss Stuart. I hope that you are well?”
His voice was warm, the gaze from his dark eyes friendly. A blush spread across her cheeks in spite of her best efforts to control it. For while he reminded her of the boy from long ago, this was an entirely different person before her.
“I am well, sir,” she answered. “Are your mother and sister in good health?” Her hands were clasped before her like a schoolgirl reciting a lesson.
“In good health and good spirits, now that I am home,” he answered. “I bring you their compliments and the entreaty that you will join our party and dine with us next Wednesday.”
“You are very kind, sir,” Flora answered. “I am sure that my father has no other engagement which would interfere.” She glanced at Sir Edward, who nodded.
“Will you sit down?” Sir Edward asked. “Unless we would deprive another of your company by the invitation.”
Roger shook his head. “None whose companionship I value more than you, sir,” he answered.
Sir Edward did not proceed to the drawing room immediately with his guest, since a half-finished letter commanded his attention for a moment's time. So Flora found herself alone with him in the room, feeling much the same as if she were alone with a stranger.
She sank upon the sofa and folded her hands demurely. He strolled about the room with a casual tread, his eyes carefully avoiding hers. The silence between them seemed painful; to Flora's ears it seemed contrived, as a way to a
void conversation with a young lady who had not been in his acquaintance in so many years.
"Will you sit down, sir?" she said. Her glance fell upon a chair near the fireplace, its cushions worked with a faded needlepoint. During the lifetime of Flora’s mother, when expense was yet necessary to spare, the family’s drawing room had been arranged with simple furnishings and decorations contrived by the hand of Lady Gladys and her daughter. Even now it was unchanged, a thought which pained Flora. Would he notice how shabby his surroundings were, compared to his own luxury?
“This room is truly charming,” he remarked as he took a seat upon the nearest chair. “I remember very little of Evering from my childhood, but I recall sitting here once or twice.” His gaze roamed the surroundings with a careful glance that took in the bright atmosphere and sparse ornaments.
“It is but small and plain compared to your own, I fear,” Flora answered.
He cleared his throat. "I do not suppose it is always the furnishings that make a room comfortable; but the taste and care with which they are chosen and arranged." He hesitated, before adding, "I believe your mother possessed an extraordinary talent for such matters."
"Thank you," she replied. Her manner was stiff. Why was she so uncomfortable at this moment?
His eye had fallen upon the harp standing in the corner. “Still neglecting your music as much as ever, Miss Stuart?” he inquired. “I remember when we were children you were always escaping your lessons and hiding somewhere in the orchard.”
Flora bristled. In spite of his good-natured tone, this was an affront to her personality which she could not bear.
“I have much improved in my talents since we last met, sir,” she answered. “There are no more attractions in the outdoors for me, as you can plainly see.”