by Laura Briggs
Roger opened his mouth to reply, but Sir Edward joined them, seating himself in the chair nearest his guest.
"We were talking of music, sir," said Roger. "And all its charms to the artist." This, with a look directed at Flora.
“You were a fine musician in your youth, as I recall,” Sir Edward replied to the young man. “An excellent voice as a child, although I fear it was mostly used for comic songs. No doubt it’s improved since then.”
“It has improved in taste,” Roger admitted, “although I’m afraid my baritone has often proved unsuitable for duets.”
“I am sure that you have no doubt practiced to remedy it,” suggested Flora. There was a hint of mischief in her tone as she spoke. Easton caught her eye and for a moment, colored in realization of her meaning.
“The comic song was very much a part of the school atmosphere, as you no doubt know,” he answered, his face grown sheepish in an instant.
“Will you sing one now?” Marianne, made presentable by a clean dress, appeared suddenly in the doorway. “I so love comic songs, although Papa is always telling me they are not meant for young girls.”
Flora turned towards her with a warning look. Must her sister always enter the room so dramatically? Marianne's hands were clasped eagerly as she surveyed Roger with a friendly grin.
A smile spread across Roger’s face in response. “This must be Miss Marianne, of whom my mother has told no end of stories,” he declared.
“It is, sir,” Flora answered. The lack of Marianne’s propriety seemed lost on young Lord Easton, who shook hands with her as frankly as he would an old companion.
“Tell me about the goose whose feathers you plucked for your sister’s bonnet,” she requested, skirts flouncing as she seated herself next to Flora on the sofa. Who glanced aside quickly as her sister made her eager request.
“I see someone has been telling the transgressions of our youth,” he answered. “I can only hope that you have been merciful in your description of me.”
“It was not I,” Flora protested, “but another who revisited our past. The goose would hardly bear mentioning at this point for myself. Not as an example for a younger sister, by any means.”
She wished heartily that Marianne had chosen another subject. She did not wish the awkward exchange between herself and now-Lord Easton to be compounded by memories of their mishaps.
Sir Edward cleared his throat. “I will remind my youngest daughter that children are meant to be silent,” he said.
Marianne grew quiet, dropping her gaze meekly to the floor. Sympathy crossed Roger’s face, hidden beneath a gentle smile that also met Flora’s gaze. It was a touch of comradeship between them that resembled old times, making her feel more herself momentarily.
“Shall you be among us for long, Easton?” her father asked.
Roger released a long sigh. “I would heartily wish so; but I’m afraid much depends upon my father’s affairs overseas. His property interests from my late uncle in France have kept me occupied for some months since university. I confess I have scarcely time for pleasures of any kind.”
“But you have returned to England for good, yes?” asked Flora. “You have settled your father’s affairs in Europe?” Her voice betrayed an eagerness for response that she was sure her heart did not feel. In her embarrassment, she sought refuge in studying the carpet, any object but the young man seated across from her.
“Some of them,” he answered. “I only hope that his connections will not call me away again to any part of the world except home.” There was a thread of melancholy woven in his tone.
“But let us not think of foreign interests but of our current good fortune in being together,” said Sir Edward. “We look forward to a pleasant evening in the company of you and your mother, sir.”
“As do I,” said Roger. He rose, along with his hosts. “A servant will call with a formal invitation for you shortly.” With a polite bow, he excused himself from their company.
“What a pleasant young man,” her father said. “A credit to his father in every respect. What good fortune for Lady Easton and her daughter, that he should be their guide and protector from now on.”
“Indeed,” answered Flora. Her gaze was drawn to the parted shades of the drawing room, where Lord Easton was visible strolling away.
*****
“I liked him immensely,” Marianne announced. “I think he’s far less silly than the young men who go to shoot with Colonel Miles on his estate.” She squatted in the broken garden ground, breaking apart clods of soil with her fingers.
“Oh, you do?” Flora said. Her spade deftly parted the soil, making room for newly-rooted herb cuttings. “That is high praise indeed, given the things you said about young Lord Nighton.”
“He would go about mincing up his face and simpering so,” said Marianne.
Flora pressed the soil around the rosemary cutting to secure its new roots in the ground. Try as she might to control them, her thoughts wandered towards the memories of her boisterous youth. The swing which dangled from the pear tree in Colonel Miles’s old orchard, where Roger would push her towards the clouds. The meadow of flowers where they raced towards the stony stream.
“Is the story of the goose feathers true?” Marianne asked.
Flora sat up, wiping her hands on her gardening apron. “It is. But it’s not a story I should tell you, since our father would only fear you would try something similar with poor Colonel Miles’s innocent geese, should we have the pleasure of a visit there soon.” She placed the trowel in her garden basket and rose, carefully stepping around the newly-planted cuttings.
“I shouldn’t do something like that,” her sister argued. “And I shouldn’t have cared if someone told the story later on, either. Why does becoming a young lady mean you can never again have any fun?”
“For the same reason that it isn’t proper for me to put my name on the little book. Because we are a gentleman’s daughters.” Flora said.
“Then I have no interest in ever marrying a gentleman. It must mean an awfully stuffy life,” Marianne declared, tumbling backwards onto the grass.
Forgetting propriety, Flora flopped down beside her with a sigh. “You shall change your mind someday, dearest. You will see,” she answered. “You will not wish to spend your life dependent upon the kindness of others. Or putting pen to paper to earn an income by chance.”
“Oh, but I would,” Marianne said. “I think the little book is splendid. If it’s true what Aunt Charlotte says–”
“Never mind Aunt Charlotte,” Flora said. She sat up, her finger twining a loose lock of hair into a curl. “She says a great deal which we must take with a grain of salt.” She looked at Marianne with a quick glance. “Although you must not tell her so.”
“But what does she mean when she says that young ladies and gentleman play at another sport when they’re grown up?” asked Marianne. “She was looking at your book when she said it.”
Her sister groaned. “No more questions, Marianne,” she pleaded. Rolling over, she stretched out across the small patch of lawn. The ornamental hedges were gone from Evering’s garden, as was the genteel gravel walkway. Flora’s love of earth, as well as the practical side of economy, had transformed it into a modest setting for simple plants, requiring only her hand to maintain it.
The Eastons, she knew, employed one of the city’s finest gardeners to maintain their town house garden. An elegant, green space where she sometimes sat with Miss Lucy Easton, who was often anxious to confide in the “wiser” and older Miss Stuart.
“I suppose what Aunt Charlotte meant was young ladies and gentleman are too much preoccupied with the dance of courtship to care about games,” she said. For she knew Marianne was still thinking about it in the silence between them.
“Courtship isn’t a game, though,” Marianne answered. “It’s quite serious, isn’t it?”
In spite of herself, Flora laughed. “It is supposed to be, but some would say the two are very simi
lar. There are all sorts of things which one must or musn’t do to attract the attention of a suitor. And then there are those who view hearts and fortunes as playthings. They toy with them for a little while, then toss them aside in search of something better. A better countenance, a bigger fortune, a grander title.”
She did not mean for her answer to sound so serious, but it came out so. A fleeting recollection of a young lady of her acquaintance touched her words and left a trace of itself behind. Shivering, she sat upright.
“But now everybody knows what things to do and not do, don’t they?” said Marianne, as Flora climbed to her feet and took her sister’s hand to pull her up.
“I wish it were so,” she answered. Her fingers brushed the blades of grass from Marianne’s dark curls as she spoke. She touched the small face beneath them lightly, catching a glimpse of their mother’s beauty despite the tomboyish appearance.
“It will all be all right,” she said. “You and I shall have no need of false charms or fortune-hunting, I promise you. Whatever happens, I will find an honest means for both of us. We will trust to our Heavenly Father and let our faith guide us, whatever His will shall be.” She wrapped her arm comfortingly around her sister as they guided each other towards the house.
“But if you were a fortune hunter–” Marianne began.
“Never,” Flora answered, not without a bitter tone. “That is one thing I will certainly never be.”
Chapter Four
“Oh, Miss Stuart, I thought I should die before I could ask you if you read it.” Miss Catherine Barton whispered loudly, despite the presence of the rest of the company: notably, her own sister mere inches away. Despite this fact, Flora smiled, pretending to be a knowing conspirator in Miss Catherine's excitement.
“Indeed I have,” she answered. “It appears I could scarce avoid doing so.” Her own copy of the book was placed out of sight, but Miss Catherine Barton held one which bore evidence of more than one reading.
“I confess we’re quite taken with the text,” explained the elder Miss Barton, Eliza. Somewhat nearsighted, her eyes were occupied with a pair of plain spectacles, giving her face a forlorn appearance. “It’s such a novel idea, a little rulebook of courtship for ladies. Quite proper I suppose, yet it feels–”
“I couldn’t agree more,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who until this moment had been preoccupied tucking an embroidered handkerchief away. “Although I daresay it set some minds to a serious pursuit of matrimony who have otherwise been unoccupied.” This, with a pointed look at Mrs. Phillips, absent her three unmarried daughters, seated nearby.
“Do you suppose that the book is correct in its assumptions?” asked Miss Barton. “To suggest that the details of a woman’s dress are of equal important to her fabric and fashion–is that not an error in judgment? For I believe that it is the fashion which dictates our appearance more than the ensemble.”
“I believe what the author is suggesting is that a gentleman’s eye may be drawn to certain notable articles,” answered Flora. “Perhaps a necklace or headdress, something simple but striking enough to distance itself from the other ornaments present.” Taking care to word her reply as a suggestion as she clasped her hands in ladylike fashion.
“There is even a rule about laughing,” Miss Catherine said. “To be a ‘pleasing sound’ and avoid hearty or vulgar indulgences in such. Did you ever hear of the like?”
“I think much of the advice is rather vulgar,” announced Mrs. Phillips. “Especially with regards to a glance or a touch with which to govern a gentleman’s thoughts. Most inappropriate for the delicate sensibilities of its readers.”
“And is it not true?” asked Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “I believe we should all confess that we know the power of a glance over the human heart from experience, no?”
Mrs. Phillips pursed her lips. “I still say the little book is somewhat improper,” she replied. “I did attempt to procure a copy for my niece by marriage. She has yet to procure a proposal and almost twenty-three! But there was none left at the shop this morning,” she concluded.
Excitement fluttered in Flora’s breast at these words. Sold out in the shop? Surely not, given the relative newness of the little book.
“They have been sold out since yesterday,” said Miss Catherine. “I inquired for a copy to send my cousin yesterday. For you know they have no good bookshops in Brighton and she must wait so long for anything of interest to come.”
“Miss Stuart, do you believe it is the rule, that young girls should not engage in close conversations together at balls and dances?” inquired Miss Catherine. “For I have always taken comfort in a few whispers with friends on such occasions and now Eliza says I must give them up altogether or risk offending the gentlemen present.” A shallow pool of tears gathered in her pale blue eyes as they gazed at Flora.
“I–I do not know,” Flora replied. For all the confidence she felt in writing the little book, she felt its advice was being taken as absolute wisdom. “I must admit, I have always engaged in such tete-a-tetes at balls myself. But then, I suppose none of us can live by such rules at every moment, can we?”
Miss Catherine seemed relieved by this. “I feel much better knowing that you have made the same error, Miss Stuart. For someone as clever as you would not make a grievous error, could you?”
“I’m hardly deserving of such praise,” Flora answered, with a blush. For even as children, Catherine and Eliza Barton had deferred to her as the elder in their circle of acquaintances, eager to partake in the games and pantomimes which Flora thought up for them all.
“Now as to the rule on inquiring discreetly into his beliefs and habits, Miss Stuart and I part ways,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. “You were of the opinion that such a plan is necessary; but I hold that if his family is already known and his faith confirmed, then any bad habits can be altered following matrimony.”
“I believe such inquiry can only be beneficial,” Mrs. Phillips replied. “And as to the rule on young ladies avoiding such emotional correspondences–”
“Oh, but who can resist pouring out their thoughts in a confidential note?” begged Miss Barton. “Surely I cannot, even though I try to write only sensible things lest I lose a letter someplace.”
“I certainly share your opinion on young ladies’ habits,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam chuckled, "which assures me that this rule will be broken often, I trust."
Flora wished the subject would change, lest her opinion be asked again and she betray some foreknowledge of the book’s existence. Miss Catherine’s copy remained on public display, however, clasped in her hand like an important communication delivered by post.
A timely interruption was provided when Madge entered the room and curtsied. “If you please, Ma’am. Mrs. Charles Harwick and Miss Harwick.”
Flora could not have arranged a better excuse herself for dropping the subject. But there was no name her housekeeper could have announced who would have struck more distaste in her thoughts than her newest visitors.
The family of Harwick had been abroad for several months–that is, the mother and younger daughter of the family. Whose presence, apparently, were requested at various balls and parties given by Mrs. Harwick's now-married daughter, who lived abroad.
As for Mr. Harwick, business was too pressing for him to escape also. But he made frequent mention of his family's fashionable reputation abroad whenever pressed for news by their acquaintances.
Mrs. Charles Harwick entered and offered the present company a brief curtsey. Her dress was far more expensive than any woman present wore, with the possible exception of Mrs. Fitzwilliam; her bonnet was styled in the fashion of Paris, giving it outlandish airs in an English drawing room.
Behind her was her daughter, Hetta, dressed in equal worth. Fair skin and small gold ringlets pulled into a becoming style to frame her heart-shaped face. A small, secretive smile playing about her lips as she surveyed the company.
Mrs. Harwick’s features remained frozen in a cold smile as the nece
ssary greetings were made to her hostess and fellow guests, then a seat was chosen. Her daughter was posed upon the adjacent sofa, besides Mrs. Phillips.
“I hope that Mr. Harwick is well, Ma’am?” inquired Flora, offering her a smile.
“Quite well, Miss Stuart,” she replied. “He is much engaged in business, however; and since we are only returned from the continent ourselves, we have yet to persuade him into society once more.”
“Of course,” Flora answered. Although her smile and words were meant for Mrs. Harwick, her glance wandered towards the daughter. Whose fingers played idly with a strand of gold hair as if seeking amusement from boredom.
“I trust yours was a pleasant tour?” inquired Mrs. Fitzwilliam.
“Indeed,” answered Mrs. Harwick, attempting a pleasant smile but failing. “My elder daughter is married to a diplomat as you know; we spent the past season in society in France. They have a villa near Paris.”
“France is very charming. Not at all vulgar, the way everyone believes.” These words were uttered by Hetta, who raised her lashes and met Flora’s gaze for a brief moment.
There was a loud sniff from Mrs. Phillips. “I fear I must take my leave now, Miss Stuart,” she announced. She rose and offered the present company a brief curtsey, directing a rather lofty look in the direction of the Harwicks before departing.
Mrs. Harwick‘s response was to take no notice of it at all.
Like the Stuarts, the Phillipses possessed a respectable name and a modest fortune. While the Harwicks failed to possess any of these, they endeavored to appear as if they did. The supposedly sizable speculations and inheritance Charles Harwick possessed were, in reality, quite small; such rumors, however, did not prevent him and his family from enjoying all the finer things their credit could procure, from fashionable dresses to a carriage and pair.
A brief silence fell, which Mrs. Fitzwilliam was the first to dispel. “We have been talking of the anonymous Advice for Young Ladies on the Subject of Proposals, which has quite taken our little circle.”