by Jane Ashford
“I look more like my father,” said Flora stiffly. She didn’t know how to talk to this woman. It was so hard to believe that she could have forgotten snubbing her mother.
Mrs. Fotheringay nodded. “We met when we were only five years old, you know,” she went on, as if Flora’s father hadn’t been mentioned. “Our families were neighbors.”
Flora did know. How many times had her mother marveled at the wreck of such a long friendship?
“We were sent to school together,” said Lydia Fotheringay. “Agatha was such a scholar. And I was always a perfect dunce.”
Her glancing look and titter invited Flora to laugh with her. Feeling as if she’d wandered into a phantasmagoria, Flora forced herself to smile back, and not to flinch when her companion leaned closer.
“Sometimes, she did my assignments for me,” Mrs. Fotheringay confided. “If I begged her long enough.”
Flora didn’t understand how her mother could have been friends with this woman in the first place.
“The teachers were so cruel. They seemed to think that I failed to understand what they were telling me on purpose.”
Against her will, Flora felt a thread of sympathy. What would it be like to be unable to learn? What if she’d failed to absorb her father’s instruction? Because she simply couldn’t. That would have been dreadful in so many ways. But this woman had treated Mama badly. What had happened? She couldn’t help herself. “The last time you and Mama met, you were not glad to see her,” she said.
Mrs. Fotheringay looked blank. “Impossible.”
“It was at the Lansdownes’ evening party.” Flora had heard the story a hundred times. “Twenty-five years ago. She came over to speak to you, and you turned away from her.”
“Oh, I couldn’t have!”
“You gave her the cut direct.” Flora held her hazel eyes, refusing to back off.
“You must be mistaken.” Lydia Fotheringay squirmed in her seat like a child accused of naughtiness. “That was a lifetime ago.”
Flora nodded. It was… Her lifetime.
Mrs. Fotheringay’s fingers plucked at her skirts. She made a petulant face, then went still. “Twenty-five years?” she said then. “In the spring?”
“It was during the season,” Flora said. Her mother had ventured into her former haunts among the ton despite the storm of disapproval over her “lowly” marriage.
“Ah.” Her companion looked away. “I was rather…distracted that year.”
“But you were at the party,” Flora said.
“Yes. I was just married, and…well, you are not such a very young lady. I can tell you that I had found my husband sadly wanting in…the physical aspects of matrimony.” She made a vague gesture. At the same time, she was gazing out at the chattering crowd, smiling brightly.
Flora gazed at her, unwillingly fascinated.
“I was puzzling what to do.” Mrs. Fotheringay tittered. “I soon found quite a number of gentlemen with ideas about that.”
What had this to do with the matter? Flora wondered.
“So, you see, I think you must be wrong,” the older woman added. “I would have loved to have seen Agatha right then. I was sorely in need of advice.”
Had her mother been so certain she’d be rejected that she mistook her old friend’s distraction for a snub? Flora felt guilty thinking it. Yet she didn’t believe Mrs. Fotheringay was lying.
The other woman sat straighter, as if shaking off an unwanted cloak. “And if I didn’t see her, it can’t matter now, after all this time.”
What would her mother do when she learned that her years of social exile were based on a misapprehension? Should Flora even tell her? Which regret was worse—a lost friendship or years of unnecessary resentment? No, Mama would want to know the truth.
“I found my way,” Mrs. Fotheringay said. Her tone had changed, become sly and caressing. “Other friends. Allow me to present one.” She beckoned, and Mr. Durand came over.
Flora was caught by surprise.
“Miss Jennings, may I make Anthony Durand known to you? Anthony, Miss Flora Jennings.”
He gave her a slight bow, his gaze running over her form before fixing on her face. “Jennings, is it? Jennings. Have we met?”
She wasn’t certain how to refuse an introduction to the man, a sanctioned guest, standing right in front of them. “No,” she said.
“Ah, I thought I had heard the name.”
“It isn’t uncommon.” Pinpoints of candlelight glinted in Durand’s dark eyes; they felt like drills boring into her.
“I mentioned her,” Lydia Fotheringay said. “Miss Jennings is the daughter of an old friend.”
“That must be it,” he agreed.
The older woman tossed her head flirtatiously. “He doesn’t listen to a word I say.”
Flora could believe it. He was ignoring her right now, and he hadn’t been attentive at other times either.
Flora became aware of an approaching figure. Sir Liam Malloy was moving toward them as fast as was decent in a countess’s drawing room. He stopped beside Durand.
“Ah, a knight in shining armor,” murmured the latter, obviously amused.
“What was that?” said Mrs. Fotheringay. “I didn’t hear you.”
Sir Liam greeted them all with a small bow. “Miss Jennings, I wondered if you would care to take a turn about the room?”
“Charging in, lances ready?” Durand’s tone was openly mocking. “Can you do no better than that, Malloy? Where is your address?”
“Pardon a bluff Irishman,” Sir Liam replied. The way he locked eyes with Durand said something quite different.
The man gave him a small ironic wave and turned away.
“You’re not going?” exclaimed Lydia Fotheringay.
“I am clearly de trop, my dear.”
“No, you’re not!” She looked around their group, her large eyes indignant.
“I’m afraid you’re mistaken. As you so often are. But you may come with me, if you like.” He offered an arm.
Mrs. Fotheringay hesitated, frowning. Then she rose and took it. “I don’t see why we should go,” she said as they moved away. “He interrupted. Rather rudely, I thought.”
Sir Liam Malloy sat down beside Flora. “She shouldn’t have introduced you to that fellow,” he said.
“You know him?”
“Not personally. I’d heard of him, I think. Certainly I’ve learned a good deal more here.”
“People talk about him?” Flora was relieved to be out of Durand’s looming presence.
“I should say they do. He won four hundred pounds at cards the other night. From a neighbor who can’t well afford such an amount. Salbridge is furious.”
“That’s a great deal of money.” Even in circles like these, it was a significant sum. Modest households lived a year on less.
“I shouldn’t have mentioned that,” said Sir Liam.
“Are only gentlemen to know about it?”
“Something like that.” He smiled at her.
It was interesting how you could sense a good deal about people without words, Flora thought. Sir Liam “felt” kind and open and…balanced. She smiled back. “Thank you for stepping in.”
He sketched a seated bow. “A privilege to be of service.”
Flora noticed that Lord Robert was frowning at her. She wondered if something had gone wrong with the plan. As he turned back to his brother, she couldn’t help comparing her impressions of him and Sir Liam. One sensed kindness in Lord Robert, yes, and intelligence and the engrained manners of a nobleman, but there was also a…thrill. His presence stirred her. It had since he walked into her home in the spring. She hadn’t recognized the sensation at first. Or she’d refused to. Did anyone welcome a force that turned life upside down?
“Miss Jennings?”
Her companion had said something. She didn’t know what, which was not acceptable. “Tell me more about India,” Flora replied, pulling her attention back to him.
Chafing at the tedious discussion of theatrical details, Robert told himself that all was well. Malloy had gotten rid of Durand. Rather adroitly, as far as he could judge. However, the fellow was leaning close to Flora now, looking for all the world as if he was about to take her hand, blast him.
“Do you think so, Lord Robert?” asked Victoria.
“I believe I am rather more familiar with the process,” Carrick replied.
“I’ve no doubt about that at all,” Robert answered.
An elbow in the ribs was his reward. “You’re not paying the least attention,” said Victoria. “You are ignoring me…us. I thought a pink of the ton was supposed to have exquisite manners.”
His friend Laurence’s little sister appeared to know very little about manners. “I was deferring to Randolph for, er, well-honed aesthetic opinions.”
Randolph fielded this unexpected lob with aplomb. The twinkle in his eyes suggested that he understood a bit more than Robert might have wished, however.
“We can do quite well without help,” Carrick said before Randolph could answer. His expression suggested that he wanted no interference from that quarter.
“Indeed.” Robert offered an encouraging smile. “You and Victoria seem to make a splendid team. I’m sure the two of you will create—”
“The three of us,” said Victoria, taking possession of Robert’s arm. “We shall put on the play together.” She looked complacent, like a cat who has not only found the cream pot but cornered the market on it.
Nine
The following morning, Flora rose early, breakfasted before most of the other guests, and went to the library in search of solitude. She was accustomed to more of this commodity than the other people here. At home, she was often alone for hours, reading or writing. A legacy from her scholarly father, solitude was a habit in her family. And so she craved it, now and then, as a balance to the activities of the house party. But she didn’t wish to simply sit in her bedroom.
The library wasn’t empty, however. Lord Philip hunched over the large worktable, books piled around his elbows, head in his hands. When Flora came in, he stood at once, looking delighted at the interruption. “Grinding along on my Greek,” he said, clearly ready to drop all thought of study and talk to her. “I’m off to Oxford in the new year, you know. Been preparing for ages. For all the good it does me.”
Flora hid her disappointment and walked over to him, waving him back into his chair.
“I don’t want to look like a fool,” he went on. “I’ve had quite enough of that.” Lord Philip waved his hands as if batting away bothersome insects. “Flailing along after Laurence and Victoria. You have no idea what that’s like.”
Flora hadn’t met his elder brother, but she could see that Victoria must be a challenging sister. “You’ll be on your own at Oxford,” she suggested. “No comparisons. You can forge a place for yourself.”
“I usually flub it,” he replied gloomily. “Think of the paille-maille game. What a debacle.”
His expression was so woebegone that Flora felt sorry for him. She didn’t see how she could help, though. She knew no Greek. Then an idea occurred to her. “You should ask Lord Robert for advice.” The more she thought about this, the more sensible it seemed. Robert had been to university. He had three older brothers and must know what it was like to feel overshadowed. Though she couldn’t quite imagine that. “One of his brothers lives in Oxford. I’m sure he’d be glad to introduce you.”
“I don’t know.” Her young companion looked dubious.
“He’s extremely intelligent,” Flora retorted. “A fine scholar, as I can attest.” She hadn’t asked Robert about his university career. No, she’d been too busy thinking about herself.
Lord Philip looked startled at her tone. “Oh, I’m sure. It’s just…he mightn’t want to bother with me.”
“Why not? He’s a friend of your family.”
“Of Laurence, mostly. And Lord Robert is… He just never puts a foot wrong, does he? He’s rather intimidating.”
“Do you find him so?” Flora gazed at this young son of an earl, gauging the respect in his brown eyes.
“Well, yes.” Lord Philip shrugged. “He’s all one wishes to be.”
It was like turning around on a forest path and discovering that the way looked entirely different from the opposite perspective, Flora thought. The Robert she thought she’d gotten to know was only one facet of a remarkable individual.
When she thought of him now, it was Robert, not Lord Robert, she realized. Which was odd, here among the nobility. Shouldn’t it have been the other way around?
Her young companion was frowning at her. She’d speak to Robert about helping him before she made any promises, Flora decided. Then, feeling she’d done enough, she left the lad to his books, despite an expression designed to melt a heart of stone. She was not abandoning him to a dreadful fate, she told herself. He needed to study.
Fetching her bonnet and pelisse, Flora set off for a walk. The Salbridge grounds offered plenty of scope for solitude. She’d heard her hosts describing a “wilderness” they’d had especially planted. It sounded like just the place to find…nobody.
The October day was gray and chilly, with scudding clouds above but not much wind at ground level. The last leaves were dropping from the trees. Glad of her gloves, Flora walked quickly across the perfect lawn, through a border of trees, over another less-manicured stretch of grass, and onto a path that twisted into tall bushes. Their branches were so thick and intertwined that the absence of foliage made no difference; they screened the outer world completely. From that point, the landscape on either side grew wilder with each step.
As she walked, the history of her association with Robert Gresham passed through her mind. But this time the scenes looked different. Robert had skipped various fashionable events of the season to spend hours at her side, poring over dusty clay tablets. He’d read an entire book on Akkadian religious epithets. Why had she been so blind? And so stubborn?
With a rustle of fallen leaves, a small dark creature shot from the bushes on her left. Flora jumped back, heart pounding, and nearly tripped. It took her a moment to realize that Plato stood on the path before her. She looked around for Robert but saw no sign of him. “Hello?” she called.
There was no reply.
The little dog stared solemnly up at her. “What are you doing out on your own?” she asked.
Flora had heard some of the young gentlemen visitors talking of a badger sett in the park. Badgers sometimes hunted, and caught, rabbits. Plato was not a great deal larger than a rabbit. “You should go back to the house.”
As if he understood, the dog walked a little way back along the path. Then he stopped and looked over his shoulder as if waiting for her to join him.
“Go on,” said Flora. She made a shooing motion.
Plato sat and stared at her.
It was so easy to imagine intelligence in his expression. “I want a walk,” she said. “Will you force me to carry you back to the house instead?”
Plato harrumphed.
“You are the oddest dog,” Flora commented. She stepped forward, reaching for him. He moved just enough to evade her grasp. Flora went quickly after him; he veered away. She lunged. He hopped over one of her hands and trotted a little way down the path, then waited for her again. “Plato! Come.”
The little dog tossed his head, as if signaling, “We are going this way.”
“Well, I am not,” declared Flora, a bit irritated by his antics. “And it seems to me you are clever enough to escape any badger ever born.” She turned her back on him and strode away.
Spotting a narrower walk, she plunged into it. There were no signs of cultivation
here. Shrubs and saplings crowded forward as if eager to overrun the path. She might have been miles from civilization.
Something caught at her skirts. Turning to look, Flora found that Robert’s eccentric dog had followed her and was tugging at her pelisse with his teeth. “Plato! No.” She pulled at the cloth with one hand and reached for the scruff of his neck with the other. Plato let go and danced back along the path. “You are the most vexing creature. Return to the house at once!”
Not bothering to see if he obeyed—because she was certain he wouldn’t—Flora strode on. One side of the path was now a wall of brambles, rising well above her head. A few dried-out berries clung to the inner reaches, behind a barricade of thorns.
A protruding bit of bramble caught the side of Flora’s pelisse. She twisted to reach for it, and a whole raft of briars shifted with her, entangling the other side of her skirts, her right arm, and the brim of her bonnet. If she pulled away, it would rip the cloth. She struggled a little; more thorns dug in. “Blast it, I suppose you were right, you wretched dog,” she exclaimed, and discovered that Plato was gone.
Flora lifted a hand to free her hat. The movement tipped another part of the bush, which swayed and seemed to grab at her. A second branch lodged in her bonnet. She felt several claw at her back. A stem lashed across her neck. That one drew blood. She tried to step back, and was pricked by more thorns, through her clothes, from all directions.
Flora went very still. She saw that the path petered out just ahead. Or perhaps this hadn’t been a path at all, but merely a deceptive opening in the vegetation. She hadn’t been paying attention. She tried again to move. She was trapped in a sea of briars. The thorns were long and wickedly barbed. They pricked the skin of her neck, her arm, her back, her side.