Chapter Twelve
I pinched off the deadhead of an orchid plant. Angraecum album majus, to be exact, better known as the moon orchid. A silly and auspicious name for the delicate white flower, but I’d helped myself to a cutting nonetheless. Mother had received the original specimen from Southeast Asia.
With a sigh and a regretful shake of my head, I used a sharp pair of shears to head back a withering offshoot. I snipped as close to the stem as possible without damaging the plant. Moisture beaded over the opening in the healthy green stalk, beginning the healing process.
I set down the shears with care and examined the rest of the plant. What a temperamental specimen, orchids. Rather like my friend Rose in that way. For two days, I hadn’t been able to tend to it with my ankle giving me grief, and without the attention it melodramatically decided to wither under the less experienced care of a servant. Not the entire plant, just an offshoot it could live without. Come to think of it, the flower mirrored Rose exactly. She sometimes pretended vapors at the slightest insult.
Erysimum cheiri, now there was a hardy plant. The wallflower could survive any slight, even if it wasn’t nearly so pretty.
The hothouse door opened, letting in a breeze from outside. The gust cooled the sweat on my neck. I shielded the frail orchid and squinted to identify the intruder. Mary shut the door forcibly. The humidity hanging in the air beaded fog on her spectacles. She removed them, stomping toward me with a scowl. She wore a dress today, thank the good Lord.
“Watch your skirts.” I shuffled forward to ensure she hadn’t wounded my cutting of Mother’s latest specimen. The shoot, which I’d tucked under the lip of the workbench as it needed partial shade, remained upright in the pot. I patted the dirt around it for safe measure.
Mary grumbled under her breath. “And people say I’m bizarre.”
I pretended not to have heard.
When I straightened, I found her staring at me with a pugnacious scowl. She crossed her arms over her chest.
“I heard you were caught kissing a man.”
I examined the leafy barrier of plants separating my side of the worktable with my mother’s. The slight rustle of her movements assured me she wasn’t paying the least bit of attention to the conversation, as usual.
“It isn’t true,” I told Mary. A flush crept up my neck at the lie. I prayed it wouldn’t spread to my cheeks.
Surprisingly, my friend took me at my word. Her angry expression dissolved into one of relief. “Good. I was afraid someone might have taken advantage of you. You aren’t the type to go around kissing men.”
Unlike Rose. Her unspoken words sent my thoughts spiraling back to before Rose had married. The dim echoes of ancient arguments threatened to induce a headache.
Changing the subject, I said, “I didn’t see you at the Wentworth’s luncheon yesterday.”
“That’s because I didn’t go. I had more important things to do.”
The tenacious glint in her eye warned me not to ask. If I showed interest, she might drag me along with her next time. I had enough scandal in my life right now as it was.
“Oh! Pauline wanted me to inform that you received some flowers.”
My lips parted in surprise. “What kind?”
A glower stormed over her elfin features. “How am I to know? Ask her.”
The rustling opposite me stopped. Scant seconds later, Mother poked her head around the side of the workbench. Stray strands of hair formed a messy halo around her head. A blunt stick of charcoal protruded from behind her ear. Dirt covered her gloves.
“Flowers, did you say?” She absently wiped a hand over her cheek, leaving a dark smear. “Francine, that’s excellent news. Flowers are used as a means of indicating interest.”
I covered my sigh by blowing at a stray curl drooping in front of my eyes. “I know, Mother.” In fact, I was surprised she knew courtship rituals existed, let alone what they entailed.
Once again, she paid no attention to me. To Mary, she asked, “Who were they from?”
My friend smiled tightly, no doubt choking down a snappy answer. “I don’t know. I’m afraid I didn’t ask.”
“Well.” Mother huffed, glancing around. If she hoped to find a servant, she was out of luck. They tended to run off to cooler areas of the house the second we immersed ourselves in the plants. We often spent hours in the hothouse without noticing the passage of time.
“Oh, bother. Mary, dear, would you mind fetching Pauline for us? We must know who the flowers came from.”
Although she didn’t protest out loud, Mary left with obvious reluctance.
Once the hothouse door closed behind her lithe form, Mother mused, “I do hope the flowers were sent by someone your father deems suitable.”
Although the words sounded as though they might be addressed to me, she neither looked in my direction nor projected her voice. I shook my head. “Why do you care, Mother? The flowers aren’t likely to be rare.”
Unless they came from a botanist. I might expire from the sheer joy of having attracted the notice of someone of my ilk, but where would I have attracted such a person? Certainly not at the luncheon yesterday, with rumors of my disgrace sullying the air. Most likely, the flowers were as ordinary as their senders.
As one, Mother and I returned to our plants. I stuck my bare fingers in the moon orchid’s soil to test the moisture. Overwatered, to be sure.
Mary returned, carting Pauline with her. She threw up her hands in exasperation as her spectacles fogged once more. She cleaned them on one sleeve but didn’t replace them on her face. A good choice. They would only fog up again.
“Did you two move while I was gone?”
I exchanged a glance with Mother from my position kneeling beside the pot encasing the azalea clipping I’d taken yesterday.
Mother answered first. “Why? For how long were you gone?”
“At least ten minutes.” Mary sounded exasperated, but she didn’t press the matter further. By now she likely realized ten minutes passed in but a blink of an eye when we engaged ourselves in the hothouse.
Pauline lifted her arms, which held not one but two bouquets of flowers. “These came for you, miss.”
I stood to examine the blooms. “Daisies and lilies. Common specimens.” Not from a botanist, then. I hid my disappointment behind a barren expression.
Pauline sighed. “Miss Francine, will you ever care for the sentiment behind the flowers? These are the tokens of two esteemed gentlemen.”
“I very much doubt their estimation if they send me common posies.”
Irritation flooded Pauline’s face. She shook her head. “And you wonder why you haven’t found a match.”
I chose not to be offended at her comment. She meant well. However, I refused to speculate on the motivations of the gentlemen in question.
Mother rounded the corner of the workbench to stand with us. She made a disapproving noise under her breath. “They are rather unimaginative specimens.”
I shot Pauline a look of triumph. Ha! I wasn’t the only one to think first of the flowers and second of the men who had sent them.
“Who are they from?” Mother asked.
Pauline handed the daisies off to Mother. “These are from a Mr. Johnstone.”
I frowned. Maybe Rose was correct. Did he fancy me? At the very least, the lure of my dowry enticed him.
To me, Mother said, “I’m not familiar with any Mr. Johnstones. Would your father look well on him?”
“Hardly. He’s set to inherit the Hartfell estate.”
Mother brightened. “He sounds like an excellent candidate.”
“No, he doesn’t.” Apparently she recalled no one outside of her particular circle. Elsewise, I wouldn’t have to remind her. “Lord Hartfell married Rose last Season.”
“Oh.” The hopeful light in her eye winked out. She set the daisies carelessly on the workbench behind her. They tipped over and fell to the ground. No one moved to pick them up.
“What of the other bouquet?” she asked, eyeing the lilies. The fiery blooms certainly drew the eye. And, as they would have had to be imported, as this particular species, Lilium bulbiferum, grew at higher altitudes in sunny climes, they were more expensive than the daisies by far. If the expenditure of money meant anything, Rose might have succeeded in finding me a viable candidate for marriage.
I kept that thought to myself, however. Mary wouldn’t approve and I…well, I still held the faint hope of finding my botany-loving equal. Which this suitor certainly was not.
Pauline juggled the bouquet in her arms to read the accompanying note. “This is listed from a Sir Phillip Trentham.”
I groaned in dismay.
Mother’s mouth puckered as she thought. A small groove appeared in between her eyebrows. “Why does that name sound familiar?”
“It’s Cheswick, Mother. The Cheswick nephew.”
“Oh!” She beamed brighter than the sun sifting through the glass panes of the hothouse. “That is tremendous news. Francine, surely you recall I wanted you two to meet?”
“We have met, Mother.” On numerous occasions, much to my detriment. I hated the fellow. “He’s entirely unsuitable. He doesn’t even notice me.” Unless it was to insinuate something lewd. Before yesterday, he’d never done that, either.
“Nonsense! Your father and I have been speaking to Lord and Lady Cheswick quite a bit lately. We think it’s a splendid match.”
My stomach lurched. “Papa hasn’t arranged something, has he?”
“No.” Mother’s face softened as she repeated softly, “No. I know your feelings about an arranged marriage. You might be wrong, you know. Mine worked out to advantage. I think you’ll like Lady Cheswick’s nephew, if you give him a chance.”
I wouldn’t. I opened my mouth to tell her, but she grabbed me by the wrist. Her glove was gritty with dirt. I doubted it would ever wash clean.
“Come, we must pen a reply.”
I tugged myself free. “There is no need for one. They’re only flowers.”
“Give the card here,” Mother requested of Pauline. At least her attention had strayed from me, for the moment.
She thrust the entire bouquet into Mother’s arms. Without the large blooms crowding her arms, I noticed a brown parcel tucked beneath her right underarm.
Mary all but flayed Mother. “You’re putting too much in store from a gift of flowers. And the Cheswick nephew? A complete dolt! Surely you don’t expect Francine to entertain such a man.”
With a sniff, Mother raised her chin in as supercilious an expression as I’d ever had the benefit of witnessing. “I expect her to do more than entertain him. I expect her to wed him. Lord Valentia has made it most clear she must marry by the end of the Season or he’ll send her away. Lady Cheswick’s nephew is the only man to have expressed interest that my husband considers suitable. I am not losing my baby.”
My stomach turned somersaults. Was Mama on my side or wasn’t she? Given her propensity for devoting all her attention to her plants, I had to wonder if she would notice if I was gone despite her claim.
Mary’s face darkened. “Then change his mind.”
Apparently my friend didn’t know my father as well as she thought she might. If Mama couldn’t change his mind, no one could. How long had this ultimatum been looming?
“I can’t believe Lord Valentia is still forcing her to marry.” Mary thrust her shoulders back. In a falsely pleasant voice, she said, “If you’ll excuse me, ladies, I find I have some choice phrases to discuss with the baron.”
I cringed as the words left her mouth. Papa hadn’t said a word to me about Mary’s visit. I doubted he would remain mum after this one. I shut my eyes, but that only drew vivid images of the lecture I’d no doubt suffer later today. Papa would say Mary was a bad influence. He might forbid me from seeing her. Though I doubted such a pronouncement would deter her for a second.
The overloud sound of the hothouse door opening and shutting induced a sudden urge to hide under the workbench. Papa would be in a terrible mood after this. I hoped he’d already escaped to White’s and wouldn’t be subject to another of Mary’s rants. She meant well, but the protest would fall on deaf ears.
Pauline cleared her throat, breaking the heavy silence. “Miss Francine? This came for you as well.”
Reluctantly, I opened my eyes. I accepted the plain wrapped parcel.
“Who is it from?” Mother asked.
“It doesn’t say.”
I took a step closer to my workbench and cleared a spot to set down the parcel. I snipped off the twine holding the brown paper closed rather than struggling with the knots. The paper covered an object wrapped in a handkerchief and an accompanying note. I peeled away the handkerchief to reveal a spiny-leafed plant.
I chuckled.
Mother stepped closer. “A stinging nettle?” she said with a frown. “Why would someone send you that?”
My cheeks hurt from the force of containing a smile. “I think it’s a joke.”
“Read the note,” she beckoned.
I’d forgotten all about the slip of paper. Unfolding it, I read aloud, “I saw this on my walk this morning and it reminded me of you.”
Squinting at the note from over my shoulder, Mother muttered under her breath, “A little insulting, I should say. Who is JB?”
“Julian.”
At her blank stare, I added, “Mr. Beckwith. Don’t you recall, Mother? You spoke with him only a few nights ago.”
“Oh, Beckwith. Yes, of course.” The corners of her mouth lowered in an almost imperceptible frown. “I suppose it’s just as well your father won’t consider him. It turns out he’s a rather peculiar fellow.”
Coming from a woman who could name the species and genus of every known plant on Earth, but who often forgot her own cousins’ names, that was rich.
The door to the hothouse opened again, letting in cooler air. I turned with the hope that Mary had given up on her quest and returned. A servant poked her head in.
“Milady, a man has come to call on Miss Francine.”
I froze. I wasn’t used to accepting morning callers. What would I say?
“Who is it?” asked Mother.
“Sir Phillip Trentham, milady.”
I suppressed a groan. Swallowing heavily, I schooled the dismay from my face. Why him? I couldn’t fathom why he’d suddenly decided to court me. Mere days ago, he’d forgotten my existence. Not to mention he sullied my reputation with his vicious rumors.
“Mother, must I? I’d rather say I’m not at home.”
She frowned at me. “I thought you preferred to be married to living in a convent. If you’d rather be away from London…” Her throat worked as she swallowed. Were those tears shining in her eyes? No, they couldn’t be. It must be a trick of the light.
“I don’t want to go to the convent but—” Not him.
“You ought to change. You have a smutch of dirt on your dress.”
I glanced down. Sure enough, Mother was correct. I hadn’t paid close enough care to what I’d been doing.
Nevertheless, I countered, “And you have one on your face.”
She looked surprised, though I didn’t know why. Then she flashed a smile. “Very well, we both must make ourselves presentable.” To the servant, she added, “I hope you’ve seen him into the parlor?”
“I have, milady.”
“Bring him some tea and biscuits. He mustn’t leave before we come down.”
Perhaps if I dallied long enough, he would leave. What a winsome idea. Pauline raised her eyebrows at me when I met her gaze. Blast. She seemed privy to my every thought.
“Come along, Miss Francine,” she chided. “I’ll make you presentable for your visit.”
I scrunched my nose in distaste but held my tongue until we were once again in the townhouse and out of Mother’s earshot. “Is there any way you can dawdle? Perhaps fashion an intricate hairstyle.”
She covered her mouth with one hand, but I still noticed her smile. “Your unruly hair takes long enough to fashion as it is.” Laughter infused her voice.
The verdict perked me up a bit. I wouldn’t be considered “presentable” without first taming my hair, now would I?
We reached my chambers too soon for my liking, and Pauline found me a pleasant yellow dress to don. I put it on with obvious resignation. With my luck, Mother would actually be engaging for once and Scandent would feel compelled to wait. I had no doubt she’d rushed through her attire and already ventured to the parlor on the first floor to entertain him.
I sighed. Unfortunately, I discovered no way to avoid an awkward visit. I prayed that was all it would be. He’d never paid me any mind at all before he’d witnessed my exchange with Julian. Perhaps he falsely believed me to be exciting. If so, once he learned of my staid existence, he would grow bored and leave me alone again.
Then I would be left with no suitors and Papa… He couldn’t force me to marry, but he could turn me out. He could bar me from the hothouse, and from Mama. Was there a way I could avoid the convent and a distasteful marriage? Could Mary be right, and ruining my reputation was the answer?
Pauline paused as she tightened my laces. I glanced over my shoulder. From the corner of my eye, I noticed her pondering expression before she continued with the task. I faced forward once more. The dressing room wall gaped before me, uninteresting.
“You care for Mr. Beckwith, don’t you?”
I started. Pauline lowered her voice to such a degree her words scarcely carried to my ear. She finished with my laces. I whirled to face her.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
The ghost of a smile crossed her lips. She didn’t believe me. She led the way back into my bedchamber and the vanity there. When she picked up the brush, I sat on the stool. She removed the ribbon tying my hair away from my face and began to brush out the locks. I winced as she found a knot. How it had formed during my stint in the hothouse, I didn’t know. Pauline always tightly braided my hair.
“You spent a good deal more time examining Mr. Beckwith’s gift than you did those of your other suitors.”
I shifted away then winced as the brush pulled at my hair. I scowled. “You waited until now to say that.”
“Of course I did. You can’t run away.” She tapped the brush against her hand in a steady beat of warning. “Do you intend to answer me, or will I have to make this unpleasant?”
The last time I’d tried to keep something from Pauline, she’d managed to find more knots than surely existed in this world, and she’d been none too gentle about untangling them.
“He’s a childhood friend. Nothing more.”
“So you say.” She resumed her gentle administrations, but the threat lingered.
The silence weighed on me, stifling and unbearable. I broke it first. “Even if I fancied him, Papa would never approve.”
“So you admit to fancying him.”
“I do not!” I winced as my sudden movement snagged a particularly persistent knot.
Pauline tsked. “Keep still, Miss Francine. This will hurt less.”
I couldn’t let her continue to think I might fancy Julian. The notion was preposterous, despite the way memories of his kisses plagued me. “We’d drive each other mad before a year passed.”
“I thought you said he was a childhood friend.”
I made a face. “He is, but of the sort who put frogs down my dress and pushed me into lakes. I was much closer to his sister.” Even if her letters had soon dwindled, whereas his never had. Until a few months ago, at least. But that was in the past.
Pauline chuckled. “Sounds to me like he fancied you back then, too.”
“We were eight!” I cleared my throat. If I continued to sound so vehement, she would never let the subject lie. “Papa removed me from the country before I reached the age of twelve.”
“He didn’t approve of the Beckwiths?” A note of sympathy crept into her voice.
I sighed. “He didn’t approve of my penchant for botany.”
Pauline laughed. I joined her because, really, what a fine job he’d done of keeping me away from the pastime while in London. My maid mentioned as much as she set down the brush.
At least she no longer spoke of Julian. She swiftly fashioned my hair into two braids and coiled them behind my head. I sighed as she lifted the weight of them from my neck. The day had dawned beastly hot and my hair only made matters worse.
“There you are, miss. Time to face the dragon.”
I stifled a groan. With any luck, I’d dallied long enough above to chase Sir Scandent away. Just in case, I took my time descending the stairs and seeking out the parlor.
It didn’t help. I found him and Mother ensconced in a thriving discussion. They both glanced up as I arrived. Scandent stood from the winged-back chair he’d chosen. He practiced good manners while in Mother’s company, at least. I took a seat beside Mother on the settee.
“Would you like some tea?” she asked.
It was probably cold by now. “No, thank you.”
Mother patted my knee. At least she no longer sported dirt-covered gloves. In fact, her maid had tidied her up nicely. Her dress wasn’t even out of date. I hadn’t known she owned a walking dress in the current high-waisted fashion.
“Sir Phillip and I were just discussing your passion for science.”
Dear Lord, no. My cheeks heated in mortification at the thought of what she might have said. I resisted the urge to press my hands to them. Mother wasn’t precisely tactful.
“Indeed,” Scandent drawled. That one word dripped off his tongue with contention. “I believe every man should encourage such passion in women. No man wants a passionless wife.”
My mouth dropped open in affront. Although he kept his voice level and gentlemanly, I discerned the slur. He lewdly referred to my heated discussion with Julian, not to the merits of my quick mind. I glanced to Mother in alarm, but she beamed at me. No doubt she thought she’d found me a man willing to foster my talent with plants. I couldn’t correct her in present company.
I gazed longingly at the door. Where was Mary when I needed her?
Mother nudged me with her knee. “Francine, why don’t you tell Sir Phillip about the orchid you’ve been tending recently?”
Scandent leaned forward in his seat, closing the distance between us. Why had I chosen to sit beside Mother instead of in the other chair? I sat far too close to him for comfort. Not that he crossed the bounds of propriety with my mother present.
“Yes, Miss Annesley. Why don’t you tell me about the orchid you’ve been tending with those talented hands of yours?”
He managed to make my botany skills sound lewd. I tucked my talented hands out of sight beneath my skirts.
I launched into a loud, humdrum dissertation about the history of the moon orchid and the challenges of cultivating one so far from its natural habitat. I hoped to deter Scandent from making any more such requests with the monotony. Partway through, his mouth grew tight around the edges, as though he suppressed irritation, anger, or a yawn. I smiled inwardly but maintained my outer mask of cool disinterest.
A figure darkened the door.
“Mr. Johnstone has arrived,” our butler announced. He stepped aside to reveal the gentleman in question. I never thought I’d be so relieved to behold him. For all his lack of conversation and stiff demeanor, he was a good deal less harmful than Sir Scandent.
“Mr. Johnstone,” I greeted with a smile. I stood, if only to force Scandent to also stand. “Please, come sit. We’re having a lively discussion about plants.”
Scandent started to look a little green around the gills. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Annesley, Lady Valentia, I do believe it’s time for me to depart.”
Mother made a big show of remorse, but I simply bid him good day. In a flurry, he disappeared. Mr. Dendroid claimed his seat.
“I’ll ring for a fresh pot of tea,” I said cordially. With Scandent’s departure, my mood brightened considerably.
Mother stood with me. “Don’t worry yourself. I’ll attend to it. I must speak with your father, anyway. I’ll be back shortly.”
After hailing Pauline to enter the room and act my chaperone, Mother disappeared through the open door into the hall, much to my consternation. Now I had to entertain Mr. Dendroid on my own. At least she hadn’t done so with Scandent. Dendroid posed far less of a threat. He practiced perfect manners.
“If I may ask, what about plants were you discussing?”
I narrowed my eyes at Dendroid, trying to discern whether his interest was genuine or feigned. With his stiff manner of bearing, I couldn’t tell one way or another. He always seemed ill at ease.
After much deliberation, I settled on a weak summary of the conversation I’d had with Scandent. No need to bore Mr. Dendroid without cause. “I have an uncommon specimen of orchid in my hothouse that proves quite stimulating.”
Stimulating. A word I would have undoubtedly avoided while in Scandent’s company so as not to provoke him, but it seemed safe enough to use with Dendroid.
He nodded gravely. “I hear you have a wide knowledge of plants.”
If he’d heard no more on the matter, Rose had put it nicely.
At that moment, Mary entered the room. She paused just inside the doorway, surveying my guest and me. She pursed her lips. “I see you have a visitor. The polite thing for me to do would be to leave.”
With that pronouncement, Mary took a seat beside me. A maid arrived with the tea on her heels, and Mary helped herself to some. I poured a cup for Mr. Dendroid, which he took without sugar. No wonder he always looked so bitter.
“Uncommonly pleasant weather we’re having,” said Dendroid.
“If you enjoy cloying heat and drought.” I bit my tongue to keep another rude statement from leaving my mouth. We sorely needed a splash of rain.
Mary covered my lapse. She settled her teacup on its saucer and said, “I trust Rose and Lord Hartfell are well?”
“Deliriously happy due to her condition, I assure you.”
A frown puckered at Mary’s mouth. “To what condition are you referring?”
“That she is increasing, of course.”
Mary’s gaze snapped to me. It glittered with affront. “Why didn’t she tell me?” She assumed, correctly, that Rose had confided in me.
I shook my head, pinching the bridge of my nose. “How can I know, Mary? Maybe she fears the baby will be a boy.”
The observation left my lips without my consent. I regretted it the moment Mary’s face saturated with hurt. She tried admirably to conceal it, but I noticed the injury in the glimmer of her eyes and the set of her mouth.
“I will love any baby Rose has,” she said in an uncharacteristic small voice. “We’ll teach him to respect women, and he’ll pass along the knowledge to his classmates. It will make for a better generation.”
If only Mary’s war against misogyny could be solved so easily. I patted her hand in comfort. After shooting me a small smile, she glanced away and readjusted her spectacles.
Dendroid said, “Surely you can’t believe every man is a boor.”
I covered my surprise by taking a sip from my teacup. Clearly, he didn’t know Mary very well.
Her usual zest imbued her stance upon hearing his words. “I can and I do.”
“Even Hartfell, who married your dear friend?”
Why, oh why was he prodding? I shifted in my spot, intensely uncomfortable. This conversation could not end well.
Mary jabbed a finger in Mr. Dendroid’s direction. Luckily, I resided between them. She couldn’t make good on her unspoken threat of violence.
“I heartily advised her not to marry that womanizer.”
I winced. Since when? Rose had confessed to me that Mary had given her blessing on the matter.
Dendroid raised his eyebrows. It was the first time his stony mask had cracked since he’d sat down. “I believe Hartfell confines such activities to his wife now.”
Mary crossed her arms. “I should hope so. Otherwise, he’d hear from me.”
Dendroid stood abruptly. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Annesley, I believe my breed has been insulted quite enough for one day.”
Leaving was the wisest choice of action when it came to Mary’s offensive rants. For all that she was often outspoken and easily riled, she was loyal to the bone and always willing to help in a pinch.
Whether or not a person asked for that help. Once again, I fervently prayed she hadn’t been able to find my father.
“I hope you’ll save me a dance at the Chatfield ball tonight.”
Oh dear, he was talking to me. I forced myself to smile. “Of course.” I made a mental note to have Mother add him to my dance card, which she’d commandeered.
He turned to Mary. “Miss Babington-Smith—”
“I won’t dance with you.”
Anger flashed over his face before he concealed it. “How fortunate I didn’t intend to ask you. Good day, Miss Babington-Smith. Miss Annesley.”
I stood and curtsied as he left. Mary remained seated. Clearly, she had come to my house with some other design in mind than scaring away would-be suitors.