by Jane Ashford
“I don’t think lawn tennis will be required,” said Harriet dryly. “But perhaps you would like to give Lord Robert some reasons to be proud of you. Here, and now. As he did for you?”
He had, Flora admitted silently, and she hadn’t appreciated that sufficiently until the tables were turned. Lord Robert Gresham had made a vast and valiant effort to adapt to her way of living. If she refused to work as hard, if she gave up and went away…what did that say about her? Nothing she cared to hear.
Flora looked up, her jaw firm. For example, she was certain that it was going to be more difficult than Lord Robert thought to divert Lady Victoria Moreton. She’d better help him.
“Good girl,” said Harriet.
Seven
As Flora was removing her hat and pelisse in her bedchamber a little later, a maid knocked with a summons. “I’m to bring you, miss,” she said.
“Where?”
“Lady Victoria’s orders,” was the only reply.
Curious, and a bit wary, Flora followed the girl. They went upstairs rather than down, as she had expected. The maid led her along a Spartan corridor to a half-open door. A babble of female voices could be heard beyond it.
Flora entered to find Lady Victoria and all the young women guests clustered in the center of a large chamber filled with trunks and boxes. “Ah, here is Miss Jennings,” said Lady Victoria. “That is everyone. Now I can reveal my scheme. We are going to enact tableaux this evening to entertain everyone.”
“Tableaux?” Flora inquired, amid a chorus of delighted murmurs. She knew the word, but wasn’t certain how it applied in this case. She was also a bit surprised to be included in Lady Victoria’s plans with her friends.
“You don’t know them?” Lady Victoria asked with condescending pity. The implication was clear: Flora was ignorant and countrified.
“They’re silly,” said Frances Reynolds, springing to Flora’s defense. “People dress up to reproduce scenes from history or old paintings,” the younger girl continued. “Then they just stand there. No one says anything.”
“It’s much more fun than charades,” declared one of the others.
“If you don’t want to use your wits.”
“You certainly needn’t participate if you don’t wish to, Miss Reynolds,” said Lady Victoria, moderately cutting.
“It sounds amusing,” said Flora before Frances could dig herself in any deeper. She felt a strong desire to protect the younger girl from herself.
Lady Victoria went over to open one of the trunks, revealing a swath of lovely sapphire brocade. “We have all sorts of old things to use,” she said. “We shall do two scenes. It’s hard to manage more than that, what with changing clothes and hair.”
Flora noticed that Victoria had a list. Clearly, this was not to be a democratic process.
“And ladies only,” their hostess added.
“The gentlemen can admire us from the audience,” said another girl with a giggle.
That was the idea, Flora realized.
“The first shall be the nine Muses, from ancient Greece.”
Flora blinked. She wouldn’t have expected Lady Victoria to know such a thing.
“Philip has written out a list for me,” Lady Victoria went on, answering that question. “We can represent their…talents in our costumes.” She consulted the page, read slowly and carefully, and pointed to one of her friends with each name. “Calliope represents epic poetry. Clio, history; you must take her, Miss Reynolds. You are so fond of history. Eu-euterpe, flutes and lyric poetry. Olivia, you can use your flute. Thalia, comedy and pastoral poetry. Mel-po-mene, tragedy. Terp-sichore, dance. I shall portray her. I love to dance! Erato, love poetry. Polyhymnia, sacred poetry, and Urania, astronomy. You must each think of ways to represent your subject.”
“I could play a short piece,” said Olivia.
Flora looked at her with some interest. Here was the fabled Olivia, the source of Lady Victoria’s societal pronouncements. Small and slender, she looked more elfin than oracular.
“Tableaux are silent,” Lady Victoria declared. Olivia subsided at once.
Flora waited. They were out of Muses, and she hadn’t been assigned one.
“And you can be the Muses’ mother, Miss Jennings, as you are older than the rest of us and much more experienced.” Lady Victoria smirked at her.
Some noticed the dig; others were oblivious. “Did the Muses have a mother?” Flora couldn’t help but ask. “Officially, I mean?”
“Mnemosyne, the goddess of memory,” supplied Frances Reynolds. “I have studied Greek,” she added when the others stared.
“We shall wear classical draperies of course,” Lady Victoria directed. “And wreaths of leaves and flowers in our hair.”
“We can show off our arms,” commented one of her friends.
Much of the group exchanged satisfied, sidelong glances.
“Our second tableau will be the Faerie Queen and her court,” Lady Victoria continued. “I shall be the queen. We have masses of old gowns for that one.” She pulled the brocade from the trunk and shook it out. It proved to be a sumptuous dress with a square-cut bodice and yards of skirt.
“Ooh, can I have wings?” said Olivia.
“If you can manage it in time,” their hostess replied. “You may each decide on the sort of fairy you wish to be.”
A babble of ideas filled the room.
“And Miss Jennings will be the wicked witch,” said Lady Victoria over it.
There was a brief silence. The trend of her role assignments was now obvious to everyone, Flora thought. She felt increasingly amused. “I don’t recall a wicked witch at the Faerie Queen’s court.”
“Oh yes,” her unwanted adversary replied. She gave no explanation. The constraints of logic and the requirement that one must prove assertions clearly had no hold on Victoria. She said it, and so it was truth. “We have the most cunning false nose here somewhere,” she added.
“There was not a witch,” said Frances Reynolds.
Flora heard echoes of the bright, stubborn child she must have been in the words.
“Oh, keep your bookish quibbles for your governess,” Lady Victoria retorted. “It will be very dramatic. I’m sure Miss Jennings welcomes the chance to display her acting ability.”
Miss Reynolds looked ready to storm the barricades in Flora’s defense. Flora couldn’t let the girl expend her social credit in a futile battle. “Certainly,” she declared, rather loudly, and was gratified to see that she’d managed to startle Lady Victoria.
There was a brief, uncertain pause, and then the room descended into happy chaos. Trunks and boxes were flung open and despoiled of their contents. Gowns of all sorts and eras were spread out for examination, a rainbow of color. A cache of elaborate powdered wigs was greeted with delight. The chamber rang with exclamations and laughter.
Flora soon found herself laughing with the others. Their excitement was contagious, and it was more and more amusing to find that she got no choices at all. For the first tableau she was provided with a shapeless tunic and a long, dark veil. The mother of the Muses hid her face, apparently. Perhaps all that memory depressed her spirits. Or bearing nine girls to Zeus, whom Frances Reynolds had identified as their father. Alliances with Zeus were not known for their happiness, Flora recalled. Lady Victoria decreed that Flora would not require a wreath of flowers in the first tableau. She would sit, it seemed, in a corner and contemplate her bevy of daughters.
For the Faerie Queen’s court, Lady Victoria indeed unearthed a false nose for Flora. It was long and pointed, complete with a wart, and fastened about her head with a pair of ribbons. She also found her a stringy, gray wig and a black gown that resembled a bag more than a tailored garment. A bit of soot rubbed on her face would complete the picture perfectly, she assured Flora with false kindness.
It was irritat
ing, and ridiculous, and increasingly funny. As Lady Victoria piled on the detail, Flora mostly thought about how young the girl was. Did she imagine anyone would care if Flora was dressed up as a witch? That it would matter a whit? Was Lady Victoria expecting magic? Did she see everyone—or more properly, Lord Robert—staring and pointing and murmuring, “Ah, Miss Jennings is evil and ugly.”
Flora shrugged and began helping the others think of ways to accessorize their Muse costumes. It was actually rather interesting. Representing the different genres of poetry presented a challenge. How could epic poetry be differentiated from pastoral or sacred poetry? After some back and forth, they hit on the idea of combining a slender book with a boar spear, a sprig of greenery, and an attitude of prayer, respectively.
The Muse of love poetry declared she would simply fix the audience with a loving gaze. Exchanged glances suggested that she had a particular target in mind. The putative Melpomene stated that she would have no trouble at all looking tragic because Grecian draperies did not become her type of figure at all. She said it with good humor, however, and the others reassured her.
A small telescope was found. Frances Reynolds said she would use a scroll to stand for history. With rising enthusiasm, she decided to make it herself, in the style of an illuminated manuscript. Promised the use of ink and paints, she hurried off while others were still debating their choices.
Flora’s aid was appreciated, and she enjoyed the intellectual exercise. Indeed, it was a relief to have a task, vastly preferable to aimless chatting. She also noticed, gradually, that these girls were not as vapid and shallow as her prejudices had led her to expect. Several were quite clever; most knew more than they perhaps even realized, absorbed from their better-educated male relatives, she supposed. They simply hadn’t been given much opportunity, or reason, to learn.
On the contrary, they’d been discouraged from undertaking serious studies or projects—any endeavor that Flora’s father would have defined as useful. Which was…a pity. At least, she saw it that way. She also saw that she had a tendency to judge fashionable people based on criteria that she’d accepted without personal observation. That was an eye-opening moment. In the end, Flora couldn’t call the time wasted when it had been so educational and…rather fun.
Still, she was happy to slip away to the library when the group broke up. As soon as she walked through the tall double doors, a familiar peace descended. Warmed by a fire in the great stone hearth, the chamber enveloped her. It was empty—except for the sight, the promise, the scent of yards of books. Flora found the one she’d been reading right where she’d left it and curled up in an armchair to lose herself.
She felt a surge of disappointment when the door opened half an hour later. But it was Lord Robert, leading another gentleman.
“Oh my, what a perfectly splendid room,” said the latter.
Flora stood. This must be Randolph, she thought, examining him. The resemblance was unmistakable. And he was better looking than his brother. Put Lord Randolph in a portrait frame, and you could present him as the epitome of the Duke of Langford’s sons. He was a supremely harmonious combination of two handsome parents—the auburn hair, the piercing blue eyes, the classical features, the rangy, muscular frame. His clothes were much simpler than Lord Robert’s. He wore no clerical collar; perhaps he just used it in his parish.
As Robert introduced them, he hoped that Randolph had listened to his explanations. He’d balanced the idea that Miss Jennings was a good friend—a cousin, surely he remembered—with mockery of the family rumors of unrequited love. Things were developing nicely with Flora. Brotherly commentary was not required, much less interference.
Randolph tore his gaze away from the shelves long enough to offer a bow. “Miss Jennings. So pleased to see you again after all these years.”
So he had heard the part about her childhood visits to Langford, Robert thought. Good.
She acknowledged him with a smile. “Lord Randolph.”
“And of course we find you in the library.”
“Of course?” she replied with raised brows.
“Your father would sit nowhere else when your family visited us.” Randolph’s eyes strayed back to the books. “He had a favorite spot in the Langford library, a nook with an armchair hidden behind the antiquities section. Where no one ever went.”
“He did?” Flora looked bemused.
Randolph nodded. “He dragged a little table in there, quite blocked it off. Just as I’d done with the west corner. If we happened to come in at the same time, we pretended not to notice each other, so we could go directly to our studies, without talking.”
“That sounds like Papa.” She sounded both fond and elegiac.
Randolph nodded. “I remember one day, the dinner gong rang, and we both came out. Nearly gave my father’s secretary an apoplexy. He’d been working at the writing desk for an hour without realizing there was anyone else in the room.”
Flora laughed. Robert met her dancing eyes. She looked lovely when she laughed. Of course, she always looked lovely.
Randolph wandered over to the shelves. “I wonder if they have any volumes on Sanskrit.”
“There’s a section on languages over by the window,” Flora replied, pointing.
Randolph turned, clearly delighted. “You know Sanskrit?”
“Well I know what it is,” she said. “No more than that. Are you interested in ancient Indian tongues?”
Robert wondered if his brother would tell her about the vision, and the lute. He couldn’t. It had been a confidence.
“I met a Hindu gentleman at our brother Sebastian’s wedding,” Randolph said. “We had a number of fascinating talks.”
An adroit answer that was not an answer, Robert thought.
“You could try here.” Flora led him to a bank of shelves.
They became engrossed in book titles, throwing suggestions back and forth. “What an extraordinary girl you are,” Randolph exclaimed at one point.
A bit later, he made Flora laugh again. Fleetingly, Robert wondered if he’d made a mistake, inviting Randolph. He was not, of course, jealous. But he and Flora had first come together in study. He thought of it, of the library, as theirs.
“I shall never leave this room,” Randolph declared dramatically.
“You’ll have to venture out to meet the other young ladies,” Robert pointed out.
“Yes, of course.” Randolph came away from the shelves, looking every bit as eager as he had in pursuit of Sanskrit.
“There’s a fine pianoforte in the drawing room,” Robert added. Randolph was justly proud of his musical talent and enjoyed showing it off. “Randolph has a splendid singing voice,” he told Flora.
“You should arrange a duet with Lady Victoria, our hosts’ daughter,” she said. “She’s quite good.”
Randolph rubbed his hands together. “A fine idea.”
Robert met Flora’s eyes, alight with humor and mischief. So much information could be exchanged without words, he thought. He’d seen his parents do it for years. The comparison startled him. And then it transfixed him. And then it gratified him deeply.
“We’ve bored Robert,” Randolph said. “He cares nothing for scholarship.”
“That isn’t true,” replied Flora at once. “He has a very acute intellect.”
All would be well, Robert thought, savoring his brother’s surprised expression.
* * *
This weather won’t last, Robert thought, as he took Plato for his second constitutional late in the day. Golden light slanted across the path, gilding the trees and garden plantings. The breeze was refreshing, practically astringent, bringing intermittent flurries of colorful leaves. Undoubtedly it would be less pleasant to walk with the dog in an autumn rain or a cold snap. For now, though, he was filled with a great sense of well-being as they strolled, Plato trotting along beside him
on his far-shorter legs.
Passing a pretty little gazebo, Robert thought of showing it to Flora. The same idea surfaced when they came upon a waterfall fringed with fern. She’d begun to figure in every train of thought he had. “I must settle things between us,” he said aloud.
Plato stopped, sat down on the path, and looked up at him, for all the world as if he understood.
“Yes, there are a few trifling obstacles,” Robert said. He made a dismissive gesture.
The little dog cocked his head. One ear flopped over.
“I shall take that as an offer of assistance,” Robert said with a smile.
As if he’d made his point, the dog rose and moved on. At a junction in the path ahead, Plato went left.
“Not that way.” Robert reached the crossing and indicated the right-hand turn. “Come along.” He took a few demonstrative steps.
Ignoring him, the dog continued in the opposite direction. He walked like an animal who had a definite goal in mind.
“Plato! We’re going down here. It’s time to head back.”
His supposed pet disappeared around a curve.
“Plato, come,” Robert called.
There was no response. Plato did not reappear.
Robert strode after him. “There seems to be a misunderstanding,” he said when he caught up. “You are a dog, and I am your master.”
Plato glanced back over his shoulder.
It was not a sneer, Robert thought. His canine…liege was simply going where he wished to go. Others’ desires were not a consideration. “Or he’s a dashed dog,” Robert said aloud. “Without a thought in his furry head. And now I’m talking to myself as well as to an animal. It’s all downhill from here, my lad. Soon you’ll be addressing trees and rocks, and people will begin edging away from you with nervous sidelong looks. Plato! Come here!”
The dog trotted around a bend and out of sight.
Robert nearly left him to his own devices. Plato would come crawling back when he was hungry. But the park at Salbridge Great Hall, and the lands around, were home to foxes and badgers and, who knew, great hawks and owls that could carry off a small dog in their talons. Robert went after him. He’d carry him back to the house.