by Laura Briggs
"Your new way of wearing your hair is very becoming," said Isabel. "It reminds me greatly of the miniature of Lady Gladys which John has in his study.
"I think of her often," Flora answered. "I suppose that a great many things I do will be inspired by her presence–although not as many as should be, I'm afraid." Recollections of her mother often filled her with sorrow, given the future which lay ahead. Such gloom would test even the strong faith of that gentle lady, whose prayers had asked for guidance and wisdom for her children on their difficult path.
She wondered what Lady Gladys's feelings would be if she knew her daughter were conspiring to tease a young man's interest to prevent him from liking another.
"You need not scold yourself so severely, Flora," her brother laughed. "Our mother believed that you would turn out quite well despite your wild childhood. She saw signs of grace and womanhood in you even before you were eleven; for I recall her saying how you seemed to be growing up more quickly the winter past."
Was that the winter of the Christmas party? She was sure it must be. She felt interest for the first time in quiet things which let her mind roam freely, something other than rolling down the green and chasing Colonel Miles's dog.
"I cannot recall such a change that anyone else would have noticed," she answered.
"I do believe that was the winter," said Giles. "Although I suppose I could be mistaken, for my thoughts at the time were mostly taken with mathematics and history, you know." He rolled a ball across the carpet that had bounced out of bounds during Marianne's play with the baby.
How could such a little kiss alter someone's character in so short a time, she wondered. For the touch of Roger's lips, the look on his face, was quite different from their noisy games in the farmyard. Her tomboy ways had continued a few years longer, yet there was something else present. A sense that the romance she had always observed with such fascination had now given her a little piece of itself.
The little piece had lingered for a long time in her heart, unnoticed and disregarded. But now, she feared it was possible that such a notion might come to life, if she did not take care.
Chapter Fourteen
"I must say, Miss Stuart," began Mr. Herbert, "that we are quite impressed. Really, I would say, extraordinarily impressed with the interest in your little volume." He offered her a benevolent smile below his dreary spectacles.
"You are?" she answered. "I do not know how to reply to such praise." As delicately as possible, she thought to herself. Beside her, Sir Edward's face remained as unmoved as carved stone.
She was seated next to her father in the publishers' rooms, where both gentlemen faced her again like genial inquisitors. In the weeks following the little book's debut, she had entertained the idea that they might not wish to see her again, not for a long time. But that was before the shops grew empty and the second printing became necessary.
Mr. Chaswick intervened. "We are not saying, of course, that your book is something extraordinary in itself; we publish its kind every day. We are saying that what we expected to be an ordinary little volume has become–in short–a modest success."
"Quite modest, by literary standards," said Mr. Harwick. "But nevertheless, it has produced a comfortable profit which leads us to entertain prospects of another volume from you."
"Another book?" she said. Sir Edward released a sound between a gasp and a snort.
"If such a plan finds your favor," said Mr. Harwick. "We would prefer another advice volume of some kind. Perhaps one on correspondence or dress–"
"Or perhaps even a novel or a book of travel, Miss Stuart," ventured Mr. Chaswick. "The subject would be to your discretion, of course, although we would prefer something similar in nature to your first–as the decision to print would be ours."
Flora clasped her hands together in her lap. "I see," she said. They were giving her the opportunity she had needed. The possibility of a steady income from her pen, instead of a single volume, which would no doubt burn out with all the speed of a shooting star.
"As to the novel–" she began, feeling her father's hand tighten on her arm. "I believe it would not be the best choice at this time, since you prefer an advice book?"
"Something similar to your first volume," repeated Mr. Herbert. "It is quite the sensation, Miss Stuart. I must congratulate you upon its reception." His smile, although kindly meant, was rather weak and dry.
At the conclusion of the meeting, the servant called for Sir Edward's carriage. Cold London rain drizzled steadily as Flora boarded it. Must it always rain on days when she has such uncomfortable tasks before her?
She had already known the book was successful, of course, from the praise and criticism which surrounded her on almost a daily basis. It was inevitable, that the subject of her future career would be discussed in detail.
"Another one," said Sir Edward. Across from her, he sat glowering at the view from his window. He turned away from it to face his daughter again.
"I suppose you will be writing it," he said. "There is no way to persuade you otherwise; since you feel you have no choice in the matter." His tone was filled with gloom.
"I do have a choice," she answered. "Either I must live idly but economically on a small allowance or do my best to earn an income." She shook her head. "It is not so terrible, Papa. Even Lord Easton himself said it was not a disgrace for a lady to write–"
"We shall believe young Easton's remarks when his own sister puts pen to paper and produces a novel," Sir Edward snapped. "I'm not angry with you, Flora. You know that I am not. I merely–merely wish that things did not have to be this way."
"I know," she answered. There was little else to say on the subject. They both knew she would write a second book, now that the publishers expressed interest.
He sighed. "I have not the great faith your mother possessed. She would have seen this opportunity for you as a Divine gift to save you from poverty, perhaps. If it were wrong, she would have known what to say to prevent it."
Reaching across the carriage, he took Flora's hand. "I have prayed about this subject many times. But all I can be sure of is that your mother's teachings would not fail you. If you feel this is what God would have you do, then there is no wrong in it."
She squeezed his hand. "I will try to always do what is right, Papa," she answered.
But the conviction grew within her that she was doing wrong more often than she admitted. Was she not attempting to control another's actions by subversion? Using her own little book of rules in a campaign to influence their emotions? Her mother might find those actions shameful indeed–given that Flora's pen already launched a storm of controversy with its sensational subject matter.
"Perhaps it will do us all good, this visit to Colonel Miles," Sir Edward remarked. "A change of air may be just what you and your sister need. It has been far too long since you've been in the country. And with such good companions as Miss Harwick and Lord Easton for company as well."
She wished her father had spoken any other names aloud. Perhaps the Miss Bartons or even Mrs. Fitzwilliam, whom she knew would be invited as Colonel Miles's sister-in-law.
With a sigh, she leaned back against the carriage seats. There was no choice in the matter of being a writer, at any rate. For there was no other way to earn an honest living for a lady of limited means.
*****
The countryside romps of her childhood required only a few simple frocks and a bonnet that shielded her face from the sunlight in vain. Grown-up Flora, however, required a great deal more in her wardrobe than changes of stockings and shoes.
She folded her blue gown into the best possible position for its journey to Brawley Court and tucked it into the trunk. Her yellow gown was spread across the nearest chair, in need of repairs to its hem. Even the smallest details must matter, if she was to concentrate her efforts on being a charming young lady equal to Miss Harwick's arts.
The rule book was tucked alongside her gloves and a folded shawl. Her journal, however,
she would keep always on hand, since her first impressions of the place after so many years would be worth preserving.
A tremendous thump from down the hall told her that Marianne was climbing on top of her newly-delivered trunk, no doubt pretending that it was a rock marking the spot for buried treasure. She had also insisted upon packing a large jar and a butterfly net constructed from an old apron's skirt sewn around a wood-and-wire handle made with a broken cricket bat.
Downstairs, her father was attempting to settle instructions with Madge for the time they would be away. Customarily Flora took care of such matters, but they had slipped her mind in the eagerness to pack her things. Matters such as the arranging of day gowns and evening wear took her attentions entirely for once in her life.
Would not a country weekend give her an edge over Miss Harwick? She, who knew all the landscape by heart, who drew strength from its very air–surely it would give her a confidence and satisfaction that would be lacking in a young lady accustomed to a constant life in London or abroad.
Memories would help her keep a clear mind and a disinterested heart in saving the boy who once tore her frock and hid a toad in her cloak.
Chapter Fifteen
I must confess, there are few sites which make me happier than the fine, green fields of the countryside. I have longed with an unbearable longing to be among them again. And AT LAST, I shall be at home once more in my great-uncle's pastoral scenes. What more could anyone want than to live among such beauty forever? There is no fortune to rival this, I am sure!
Flora dotted her journal's remarks with an exclamation point, as her eyes glanced from the page to the passing scenery visible from the open carriage windows. A rolling green landscape passed, dotted by woods here and there and the signs of farmhands laboring in the fields.
"I sometimes think there is no place lovelier than this," Flora murmured dreamily. "How long has it been since I was a little girl here? Too long, I think."
Her other hand rested upon a sleepy Marianne's head. Marianne, who was too young to remember those days, who only knew brief visits to the countryside amidst the bustle of London all year round.
"The country has its charms, but I'll wager no young woman present would trade all the splendor of a season in London for a lifetime of fields," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who stirred restlessly as the elder Miss Barton elbowed her by accident.
The five of them were packed into Mrs. Fitzwilliam's carriage, who had declared that a snug journey of female companions was perfectly agreeable to her. Sir Edward was delayed in his start by business with his solicitor, so he granted permission for his daughters to be escorted by their aunt.
"I think both must be equally nice in their own way," volunteered Miss Catherine, in an attempt to please both parties. She had fallen asleep until a moment ago, her hand cradling the little Advice book in such a way that Flora could not ignore its presence.
"When I am in this place, London has no charms for me," said Flora.
A wooded glen disappeared to reveal the manor house before them. Brawley Court was a stately home of elegant stone crawling with ivy, a splendid lawn stretching towards the avenue of trees bordering the drive. Colonel Miles was more proud of the carriage-house and livestock connected with his land, however, than its pretty appearance.
He was waiting to greet them as the carriage came to a stop.
"Welcome, welcome," he said, his smile beaming forth. "Here is a carriage of ladies come to our party, Mrs. Miles!" His wife was stationed beside him, in a simple country gown that hardly suggested her husband's income.
"And very handsome ladies they are, too," she answered. "I believe that half of the young ones will be engaged a fortnight from now." The youngest Miss Barton blushed with pleasure at this remark.
"Even Miss Marianne!" the Colonel declared, heartily shaking hands with the young girl. "As for her fair sister, it is a welcome sight indeed. The little girl who once chased my poultry, all grown up!"
"It is too good to be here again," Flora answered. "I have missed you all and missed this place more than words can express." She clutched both of Mrs. Miles hands in hers, feeling her own eyes grow misty as she gazed about at the old-fashioned house and the quaint livestock yards beyond.
"Not since your dear mother's health declined," said Colonel Miles. "But now, it will be Miss Marianne who plucks the feathers from my geese, I'll wager," he said, ruffling Marianne's curls, "for I have no doubt her fair sister requires better pursuits."
Flora laughed. "I shall not be pursuing anything other than good company here, Uncle," she answered.
"Oh, but young gentleman are among the best company, are they not, sister?" he inquired of Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "For I am quite sure I'm not mistaken."
"I believe you have teased these young girls too dreadfully and they have only just arrived," Mrs. Fitzwilliam replied. "Take care that all this noise does not startle their quarry from the brush too soon."
"But we are not here to matchmake," protested Miss Eliza Barton, whose words inspired a great deal of laughter from the rest of the company.
Mrs. Miles offered an arm to each Miss Barton and escorted them towards the house; while Marianne hurried after the servants unloading the trunks, in order to open hers as soon as it was available.
Flora, who was in no hurry for her own luggage, strolled across the lawn towards the east side of the house. It was a favorite walk of her great-aunt's, she assumed, since a small stone path led the way to a scenic view.
The sight of fields and farmhands made a quaint rural picture, but Flora's eye was drawn to the shape of a house some distance across from them. Donnelly Hall, the ancestral home of the Eastons. Her heart trembled as she gazed at it, remembering its halls and rooms in every detail.
"So here you are," Mrs. Fitzwilliam appeared to claim her arm. "I have been in search of you, for you must air out your dress before dinner–dreadful smells in those travel trunks."
"I wished a walk before I went inside," she said. "Are the other guests arrived?" Her eyes moved towards the house on the horizon again.
"The Harwicks have come and so have the Phillipses, although I must say that the middle Miss Phillips's new dress will not wear well at all." She scrutinized her niece's face. "Why, Miss Flora, whatever is the attraction in your view?"
"I am intent upon nothing," Flora said, attempting to hide from her aunt's gaze. "I merely enjoy this view in order to avoid the afternoon sun in the west."
"That is Donnelly Hall over there, isn't it?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam said. "How long has the place been shut up? The Eastons have lived in town exclusively for almost six years, haven't they?"
"I suppose so," Flora answered. "They did not wish to be away from their father so long when his business kept him there. And they did not have the heart to return once Lord Easton was no longer with them."
"I suppose that is all changed, now that his son is of age," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, steering her niece towards the house. "What an advantageous marriage Miss Harwick should make–if indeed, that is what the Harwicks intend with all their airs and pandering."
"Shh! Aunt Charlotte, perhaps they will hear you if you are not careful," Flora whispered. "Besides, if we believe gossip based unfairly upon carriage rides and invitations to dine, soon we shall all be engaged to the most improbable of names."
"Surely you think it's possible that such thoughts have occurred to Miss Harwick?" her aunt replied. "Just because you would not think of pursuing such a plan as marrying for money."
Flora took great interest in gazing upon Brawley Court instead of her aunt's sharp eyes as she answered. "I have considered the possibility that Miss Harwick is thinking of such a match. But I think she greatly overestimates her powers with regards to young Lord Easton. That is all."
As they approached the front lawn, she glimpsed the elaborate black-feathered bonnet and fashionable gown of Miss Harwick.
*****
The subject of being poor versus being in property was the most-di
scussed topic of all females of matrimonial age. This Flora was certain of, even before she made her way downstairs to the parlor, where some of the female guests were gathered.
Through the half-open door, she could hear the sound of Mrs. Phillips and her own aunt engaged in lively debate regarding the proper warehouse for selecting marriage garments; for Miss Phillips's eldest niece was betrothed and planned to marry by Christmas.
A very bored Miss Harwick was doing her best not to converse with the Miss Bartons. Who appeared to be in awe of the fashionable and haughty young lady.
"Of course, it is better to have a little silk than none at all," Mrs. Fitzwilliam was saying. "I knew of a young girl once–it was when muslin and lawn were still popular–who insisted upon nothing silk, for she feared the expense!"
Flora's entrance was greeted with welcoming smiles by her fellow guests. She took her seat next to Miss Catherine Barton, who, for once, was not holding Flora's little black book in pursuit of its secrets.
"I suppose," ventured Miss Catherine, "even though the expense must be considered, having only a little silk is unfashionable?"
"Fashion depends upon the circle in which one moves," answered Mrs. Phillips. She was examining an elaborate stitchwork pattern of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's.
"If one moves in a sphere of society where silk is not worn, then one needn't worry about being fashionable," Flora said. "As for you, Miss Catherine, I am afraid you must have at least one if not two items in order to be respectable." She wore a playful smile as she spoke.
"A wealthy enough husband will make the subject of dress expenses far less palatable to a lady of meager fortune," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Take care that you are married well, and the question of wardrobe is dictated only by the latest fashions in London's warehouses."