‘Like taking too much wine,’ Mary said, smiling.
‘Precisely.’
‘She was determined to remain downstairs for far too long after dinner last night. It was as though she had some sort of point to prove to herself. And now, today, she is paying the price.’ Mary sighed, looking preoccupied but not, Flora suspected, with the painting that she was attempting to perfect. ‘Thank you,’ she said, ‘but there is nothing I need from the village, so I won’t come with you if you don’t mind. I want to finish this painting while the light is right.’
‘All right. I shan’t be gone for long and Sandwell is with the countess.’
It was a crisp, sunny morning, the air fresh and cool, carrying with it a suggestion of autumn. Flora decided to drive herself the short distance into Ashton Keynes in the gig that had been placed permanently at her disposal, rather than putting Luke’s coachman to the inconvenience of taking her there himself. The old cob harnessed to the conveyance was obliging enough, but had one pace only. On such a lovely morning, Flora was perfectly content to allow him to amble along at a lazy trot as she admired the colours of the turning leaves and enjoyed the feel of a breeze biting into her cheeks.
How her life had changed in the last few months, she reflected, since she had found the courage to stand up to her father and break away from the future he had mapped out for her. Given his way, she would now be married to the handsome but frankly tedious Mr Bolton; a clergyman’s wife dedicated to helping the poor and needy with no time for or right to thoughts and opinions of her own.
She wondered if her father had ever really understood her. Most likely not or he would have realised just how preposterous his ambitions for her actually were. He saw women as chattels who knew their place, never questioned it and did whatever their men told them. She grinned. A less likely description of her own disposition she found it hard to imagine.
Such reflections caused her to take fresh pleasure from her strike for independence and the new life that had opened up for her as a consequence, unrecognizable from the joyless drudgery she had been forced to endure up to that point. She felt no guilt at enjoying the opulent lifestyle of an aristocratic family who had generously embraced her, treating her more as an equal than a paid servant within a household that was most definitely no stranger to laughter.
What her beloved grandmother had left to her that her father was so anxious to procure was a puzzle. Flora barely recalled her grandfather—she hadn’t reached her second birthday before he unexpectedly died. Grandmamma, however, had been Flora’s only ally in Cathedral Close, and Flora had adored her. She had been just twelve and was heartbroken when her grandmother died—the only person in the household who truly mourned her passing. Her father, she sensed, had felt nothing other than unmitigated relief to have the only person who dared to openly defy him permanently expunged from his life.
It hadn’t occurred to Flora before now to wonder how her grandparents had lived before her birth. Grandmamma once told her that she found her only son’s stringent religious beliefs difficult to accommodate, and regretted his inability to laugh at life’s absurdities. Flora and her grandmother had found something amusing in everything they saw, much to her father’s irritation.
That laughter had been Flora’s only joy during her austere childhood, and she recalled to this day feeling hollow, bereft and so very alone when Grandmamma’s light had been permanently extinguished. But she had much to thank her beloved grandmother for. Without her example, Flora wondered if her true nature would have remained suppressed and if she would ever have found the courage to defy her father’s plans for her.
‘Thank you, Grandmamma,’ she said aloud, lifting her head to the skies, wondering if her beloved relative could see her now. If so, Flora hoped she would be proud of her strike for independence. Perhaps she continued to look out for her interests and had sent Remus to watch over her. Anything was possible.
Her grandfather had been a merchant, but it had never occurred to the young Flora to ask what it was that he bought and sold. Her father had certainly never referred to his father’s commerce, turning instead to the church and doing everything in his power to quell Grandmamma’s precognisant abilities. Perhaps Grandpapa had amassed a small fortune trading in a commodity that her austere father disapproved of. If so, that disapproval did not prevent him from wanting to get his grasping hands on it, Flora thought, twitching her nose indignantly at his display of double standards.
Whatever it was, she thought, turning the gig into the mews attached to the White Hart Inn, Mr Farthingale would visit on Monday and her curiosity would be satisfied. She surrendered the conveyance to one of the ostlers who ran up to take the cob’s head, nodding her thanks. Even such a lowly vehicle as her gig was given priority over other waiting customers since everyone knew it belong to the earl.
Flora sauntered towards Mrs Keller’s establishment, wondering what it could be that the countess required her to collect. She had been vague on the point.
‘Ah, Miss Latimer, good morning to you.’ Mrs Keller greeted Flora with deference. ‘You have come to collect your gown, I dare say. The countess did not give us much notice, but was specific about the use of the new bronze-figured silk, and we have your measurements so I hope you will find it satisfactory.’
‘But I did not…’
Flora shook her head, privately acknowledging that she had been neatly outwitted. The countess had deemed that Flora should have a new evening gown to wear at Mary’s party. Flora had been equally adamant that she didn’t need one. The old lady, it seemed, had decided to have the last word. She was incredibly generous, which was all well and good, but how would Flora ever repay Luke? She had a vague notion of saving her income so that when the sad day of the countess’s death arrived and her services were no longer needed at Beranger Court, she could to afford to live frugally alone somewhere in a small cottage, perhaps giving the odd lesson to supplement her income. But at this rate, all her money would be gone on clothing she did not need.
No matter how much she secretly enjoyed wearing it.
When Mrs Keller produced the finished item and invited Flora to try it on, just in case any adjustments were required, she couldn’t find it in herself to regret the old lady’s kindness. The gown was the last word in fashion, baring her shoulders and ending with puffed sleeves, with beads and lace decorating the scandalously low neckline. Thoughts of Luke’s reaction to it flashed through her mind. She was not especially beautiful, but she did have a good figure, and the gown showed it off to its best advantage. Be that as it may, she wanted to look her best for her own sake. Impressing the earl did not form part of her plans.
‘Well, ma’am, I have to say that it’s a sensation.’ Mrs Keller beamed as she stood back and examined Flora’s appearance with a critical eye. ‘It fits perfectly. No adjustments are necessary.’
‘Thanks to your skill, Mrs Keller.’
‘Shall you take it with you, ma’am, or would you prefer for it to be delivered to the Court?’
‘I shall take it now rather than put you to the trouble.’
And have a few words to say to the countess when I get back, she silently added. She took one final look in the long glass, admiring how tiny her waist looked and how scandalised her father would be if he could see her bosom spilling from the bodice, before retiring to the back room so that Mrs Keller’s assistant could help her out of it. Just at that moment she felt the now familiar rush of wind past her ear. Remus! Panic momentarily gripped her, and she turned her head left and right, wondering what dangers could possibly lurk in a rural dressmaker’s establishment. She glanced through the shop window and immediately understood when she saw a figure garbed in dark clerical clothing dart out of sight.
Perdition! Her father, no doubt, here to take her home by force. What should she do? Help me, Remus! But her spirit guide, having warned her of the danger, appeared to think his duty done and there were no responding suggestions. Thank you for nothing!
She went into the backroom and slipped out of the gown. If she was going to stand up to her father, it would be better not to arm him with criticisms about unnecessary expenditure on inappropriate clothing. Even so, a small part of her felt a mischievous desire to confront him wearing a gown that would likely give him apoplexy.
The assistant helped her back into the morning gown she had arrived in and Flora took a seat as she waited for her new dress to be carefully wrapped in linen and parcelled up for her. She used the few minutes to recover her composure and think coherently.
Face up to him.
She nodded in response to Remus’s voice echoing inside her head, thinking if that was all the advice he had to offer, he needn’t have bothered to come back. Now that her initial shock and answering fear had subsided, she was able to think more rationally. The village street was busy, and Papa could hardly force her into a carriage against her will. She was well known and, she liked to think, respected in the village. If she cried out for help, any number of people would run to her aid. Besides, the sooner Papa learned that she was not about to be bullied, the easier her life would become. She wondered why he had bothered to come here, when he must already assume that he had placed Luke in an impossible position. In fact, she was downright curious to know.
Never allow your fears to hold you back. That had been Grandmamma’s advice. Always confront them, she had told Flora, assuring her that reality would seldom be as bad as the situations conjured up by her lively imagination. Flora was about to find out if her grandmother had exaggerated.
She thanked Mrs Keller when she presented her with her parcel, assured her that she was perfectly capable of carrying it back to her gig without help, and left the establishment with Mrs Keller’s thanks for her custom ringing in her ears. She looked to left and right, but saw no sign of her father. If it hadn’t been for Remus’s warning, she could have imagined seeing him in the first place. With a small shrug she turned in the direction of the White Hart, only to be confronted by Mr Bolton, who stepped out in front of her from the side of the building where he must have concealed himself.
‘What on earth are you doing here?’ she asked ungraciously.
‘Good morning, Miss Latimer.’ He raised his hat in a polite gesture, seemingly unmoved by her rudeness. ‘I have been in the district on church business these past few days and loitered in the village this morning, I’ll admit, in the hope of encountering you. May I carry that for you?’
‘No thank you.’ Flora clutched her parcel, unsure if she felt more relieved or angry to have met Bolton rather than her father. One was much the same as the other, she supposed, since they were both cut from the same dark ecclesiastical cloth and both wanted similar things.
‘Shall we walk together?’
‘If we must. Make no mistake, Mr Bolton, I have not changed my mind about you, or about returning to Salisbury, in case my father sent you to try and persuade me. I am afraid you’ve had a wasted morning.’
‘It cannot be wasted if I have had the pleasure of seeing you again.’
‘Even when I can claim no returning pleasure?’ She quirked a brow. ‘I’m sorry if I seem rude, but I believe in plain speaking. There is less possibility of misunderstandings that way.’
He smiled, and the gesture emphasised his handsome features. Handsome but cold, she decided, as though he thought himself above most other men simply because of his calling. He and her father were much alike in that respect, and in so many others, too.
‘You looked delightful in that gown,’ he surprised her by saying.
‘I was not aware that you numbered voyeurism amongst your talents. If it can be described as a talent.’
‘You displayed yourself in the shop, which has large windows. I couldn’t help but see you. Don’t imagine that I share your father’s view and disapprove of fine attire. Quite the reverse.’ He lowered his voice. ‘You were born to wear such garments, and if only you will reconsider my offer you can be sure that I will never object to your garbing yourself in them.’
‘A generous concession, but one that I find easy to resist since I can wear them in my new position without anyone’s permission. Besides, a clergyman’s wife would never have occasion to wear them.’
‘You are in danger, foolish child, and I am trying to protect you!’
Flora stopped walking and stared at him, truly intrigued. He believed what he said, she sensed, especially since Remus was conspicuous by his absence. Flora would dearly love to know why Mr Bolton had chosen to warn her, and what he could be warning her of. ‘Danger? What danger?’
He looked away from her. ‘I cannot say precisely, but I need you to trust me.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bolton, but that will not serve. I am perfectly safe in Lord Swindon’s employ, and the dangers you refer to are a fiction of my father’s making because he is anxious to have me back where he can control my every thought and waking moment. Go back to him, tell him you tried and failed.’
‘I am not like your father.’
‘Excuse me, but from my observations, you mimic his behaviour in every way. Perhaps that is because you have the ambition to progress your career and need to impress him.’ She waved the hand not holding her parcel. ‘I really could not say. But I do know that such a life would stifle me. That is why I escaped from it.’
‘I no longer report directly to your father.’
‘What!’ Flora stopped walking and gaped at him. It was the first thing he had said that truly astonished her. ‘I thought you were his protégé.’
‘I was, and I’ll admit that when I first came to Salisbury, I admired him.’ Flora swallowed, thinking but somehow not saying that she was glad someone had found something to admire in him. ‘He realised that I was drawn to you. It was he who suggested that we should marry. He said he would arrange it and there would be no difficulties.’
‘Yes.’ Flora ground her jaw. ‘That I can well imagine. I was an embarrassment to him with my outspoken ways and my closeness to my late grandmother, whom I preferred over him. He was desperate for me to become someone else’s responsibility.’
‘The courage it must have taken you to leave your family behind and make your own way opened my eyes to a lot of things.’
‘It did?’ Flora blinked at him, sensing that he spoke from the heart. ‘You are full of surprises today, Mr Bolton.’
‘I looked at your father’s rigid behaviour in a fresh light. He hopes to be appointed as the cathedral’s dean when that position becomes vacant.’
‘Oh, I am well aware of that, which is why he finds my behaviour so inconvenient. But still, I shall be of age in a few weeks, no longer his responsibility, and since I do not now live in Salisbury and will do nothing to deliberately embarrass him, I fail to see why he still wants me back. Surely, he is better off without me?’
‘Your father has an opponent for the position of dean. A younger, very ambitious cleric who is not high church and is ready to accept that religion must learn to adapt to the times or risk the populace losing its faith.’
‘Good grief! How very refreshing. Papa has always been of the opinion that he must be right and that his word is law. Not just with his family, but with his congregation, too. He completely lacks empathy.’
‘Yes,’ Mr Bolton said softly. ‘He does. Which is why I have transferred my allegiance to his rival. The bishop knows it and has appointed me as a sort of ecclesiastical policeman, if you like. I really have been on church business, you know. There is a vicar on the opposite side of Swindon who is undergoing a crisis of faith. I have been talking things over with him.’ A smile touched his lips. ‘I will confess that diverting through Ashton Keynes to and from the poor man’s parish took me out of my way, but well…I wanted to see you. Ridiculous, I know, but when I saw you go into that shop this morning, I knew I had done the right thing.’
‘Mr Bolton, I appreciate your candour more than you could possibly know.’
‘But you still will not consider my proposal.’ H
e gave a sad little nod, and she felt extremely sorry for him. She sensed that he was telling the truth, baring his soul. He cared deeply for her, but she could not return his affections.
‘I am not even sure if I believe in God anymore.’ She did believe, albeit not in the blinkered, unquestioning fashion of her father. ‘What sort of cleric’s wife would that make me?’
‘One who is not afraid to speak her mind. One who did and could again enjoy the confidence of the sick and needy. You always did know exactly how to approach them—which if you will excuse me is more than can be said for your mother, who seems to think that lecturing them and blaming them for their own misfortunes is the way to treat them.’
‘Why are you so determined to have me?’
‘I have never met anyone quite like you,’ he said softly.
Flora laughed aloud. ‘Don’t be ridiculous. I am not even especially pretty. You are a handsome man and could have just about anyone you want, but because I have refused you, you seem determined to have me.’ She shook her head. ‘It makes no sense.’
‘I can’t get images of you out of my mind.’ He looked as astonished by the admission as she felt at his making it. ‘Believe me, I have tried, and prayed for guidance.’
‘You will find someone who can be all the things you need her to be. Pamela, for instance…’
‘Your sister does not possess your charm, or your enquiring mind.’
‘She’s biddable, unlike me, I’ll grant you. I should have thought that would be an ideal quality in a cleric’s wife.’
‘Not this cleric.’
Their conversation had taken place outside the hardware store, where they had stood for some minutes, drawing curious glances from passers-by. Flora commenced walking again and Mr Bolton fell into step beside her.
‘I thought my father wanted me back so that I would have to marry you,’ she said reflectively. ‘It would have been a way of securing your loyalty, I suppose, if he sensed he was losing your support. But now that he can no longer count on you, he still wants me back and is going to extraordinary lengths to force my hand. I might almost go so far as to say that he is blackmailing my employer in order to coerce me. Do you have any idea why?’
A Sense of Misgiving (Perceptions Book 3) Page 9