Love Among the Spices Read online

  On the subject of my constancy, I pray, do not pay me such compliments, nor credit me with such success as your own. You have resolved to be constant to your passions and have succeeded; whereas, I must confess myself to have wavered. It is I who must apologize to you, Mr. Nimbley; for I entertained thoughts of yielding my resolve, and it was only the thought of your strength of purpose which saved me from a most regretful choice.

  I wish the best for you in your work and hope that the professors of Oxford and Glasgow are made to see its importance. It is a splendid life you shall lead, Mr. Nimbley, and I'm sure a great many others will envy you in your adventures and your discoveries.

  I remain,

  Your Friend

  Marianne Stuart

  P.S. I do hope that you will continue to write. I look forward to your letters–and although I not did remember to express my thanks for the lovely shawl and the sketches, I assure you that I liked them very much.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Months passed between the time the little letter was handed over into Walter Nimbley's care and the fall afternoon upon which Marianne was pouring tea in the drawing room of Evering House.

  A grey rain pattered the window glass, there but little color remained visible upon the trees in its garden and the leaves of the shrubs were mostly swept away in a carpet of yellow along the paths.

  There was no activity in London, now that the Little Season was past; no return of Mrs. Sotherby to plague the Stuart household; nor was there much glimpse of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who had been carried away by the celebration (and subsequent adjustments in Julia's status thereafter) following her granddaughter Charlotte's nuptials.

  There were also no more letters from Mr. Nimbley. A disappointment which had settled as a dull ache in Marianne's heart for the second time this year.

  Perhaps he had been disappointed by her revelation, she surmised. Perhaps he read something of the eagerness in her reply and interpreted it as an unfavorable desire to renew his courtship–which Marianne did not trust herself to think of, as she poured a cup of tea for Miss Eliza Barton.

  "We were so pleased your sister remained in town a fortnight longer than planned," said Miss Eliza. "She would have been sorely missed indeed at our party."

  "A delay of two weeks–and all for our little engagement, it seems!" said Miss Catherine. "Indeed, it was such kindness on her part."

  "She would have been disappointed to be absent," Marianne answered, politely. She poured a second cup for Miss Catherine before setting the teapot upon the tray again.

  "I was sorry to hear that Colonel Hendricks and his wife decline to return for the Little Season," said Miss Catherine. "It was such a pleasure, entertaining his family and the charming officers of his regiment. I had never a pleasanter evening in my life than our little card party for their entertainment–do you not think it is a perfect diversion, Miss Marianne, an evening at cards?"

  "I have never cared for card parties," Marianne confessed. "For I–I should rather be doing something else than pretending to play at my hand, I suppose." She blushed with the recollection of this truth, the evening spent in conversation with Captain Lindley which proved so many card tables were merely a clever strategy for couples.

  She was in the act of pouring a cup of tea for herself, in order to disguise the faint emotion in her voice with this remark. There were a great many such episodes which had quieted Marianne's character in recent weeks, so that it would almost meet the satisfaction of her good aunt.

  "Perhaps you shall come to the country with us again, Miss Marianne," suggested Miss Catherine. "We should be ever so glad of your company. Mrs. Greerson has set one of her geese for us and we shall have a fine flock of our own to tend–and her eldest son is to bring us several bottles of her good gooseberry wine fit for a country table."

  "Lord Cumley is at his estate again and will have the young men down to shoot ere long," said Miss Eliza. "Perhaps the one you were acquainted with will be among them–you know, the gentleman whom you met upon your stroll?" She was greatly absorbed with pulling a stitch in her handiwork, a Grecian urn design of some difficulty upon a square of satin.

  Marianne hesitated with surprise as she lifted her teacup, then regained her presence of mind. "I do not think he will be among them," she answered. "I believe the young gentleman you speak of is much occupied with other matters at present in London."

  "What a pity," said Miss Catherine. "And we so hoped there should be some proper young company for you. For Mrs. Greerson's daughter is away at a Ladies' Academy to be finished, you know."

  "I did not–" Marianne began. The sound of the bell echoed from the front hall; she heard Madge answer the summons, where a conversation took place in rather disconcerted tones. A moment later, the housekeeper herself appeared with a look of dismay.

  "Miss Marianne," she said. "There are three men at the door with a box for you–I cannot make them go to the servant's entrance at all and this dreadful thing is–" She got no further in her statement, for Marianne rose and moved past her in the direction of the commotion.

  Three workmen in ragged garb which might belong to laborers, sailors, or wharf idlers were carrying a large crate into the main hall, its surface marked with several holes and a stout series of ropes tied around it as if to secure it from a sudden and impossible loss of nails. One of the men grinned as they set the object on the floor, exhibiting a gold tooth on prominent display.

  "Gift from the cargo of Captain Vickers, Ma'am," he said. "Comes with a message, it does; we was charged to bring it up with Mr. Nimbley's lot and leave it what at the residence of one Sir Edward Stuart especially–for the lady o' the house." As he spoke, he produced a little square note from within the bosom of his fraying shirt, its contents sealed closed with a decorative circle of wax.

  "Thank you," Marianne answered, almost breathless with this reply. She fumbled with her reticule, producing several coins which she pressed into the man's callused palm.

  "For your troubles," she said. One of the workers doffed his cap and the men departed to a heavy wagon waiting outside, loaded down no doubt with crates of tea or coffee or bright spices dried from an island's plantations.

  "Have they no manners?" declared Madge. "Bold as brass, coming to the front door of a London town house as if they owned the place! In all my days, I've never seen the likes of it, even in such a place as this!" For the first time, the forthright housekeeper of Evering had found one of the "goings-on" of the household too trying for her patience.

  "Oh, but they would not trust it any other way," said Marianne "Oh, please–have Letty bring something to pry it open–it is not heavy, but I know not what it could be." She sank on her knees beside the crate, fumbling to break the wax seal upon the note. Unfolding it, she stared at the lines written thereupon.

  Dear Miss Stuart,

  I received your letter. There is almost nothing else that I can say, except when I received the note from the hand of the ship's captain, I had my answer before I opened its seal.

  You speak of your inconstancy; that is something I cannot believe. But when you reproached yourself for the same weakness I suffered, I believed it a sign that our minds and our characters have grown more alike.

  I have quitted the pretense of station in terms of pleasing society and my father's hopes for a sensible career– fail or succeed, this shall be my life from now on. Because I know your character is fixed and the power of your resolve, I would honor that constancy by asking you to quit the sphere of society which has long held you to London and join me in this life as my wife.

  It is a risk that I take, repeating this proposal so few months after your words. But if it is possible that your constancy is truly fixed–that you will only marry one who will disregard fortune and station in his quest for happiness–then perhaps you shall look upon my offer with favor. If so, write and tell me, that I may return to London with the promise that my future travels will not be carried out alone.

  Enclosed is
my former promise; for I have saved the best for you, Miss Marianne.

  With Deepest Regards,

  Adam

  The note fell upon her lap as the maid Letty removed the rope around the box, Madge prying it open with a poker from the fireplace. The wood splintered away with a squeal of protest, Marianne disregarding all risk of nails or wood slivers as she lifted it aside.

  Nestled in a bed of straw within was a large glass container, one end covered in a layer of netting bound tightly with a cord. The holes in the box, the need for the fabric's transparency was made evident by the jar's contents, three large and beautiful butterflies, vivid in color. Patterns unknown to the observers of English nature, as if they had crawled forth from the pages of a book of foreign travel.

  She lifted the jar carefully from within, the butterflies fluttering against the glass and crawling about on a tree branch inserted within. Wilted leaves and blossoms provided their diet, several damp wads of sponge now all but dry remained for their moisture. The remains of several cocoons lay upon the glass floor, evidence that these delicate creatures had only been at large for part of their journey.

  "What is it, Miss Marianne?" The sound of Miss Catherine's voice broke Marianne from her reverie. The kind woman's tone was one of bewilderment as she lingered timidly in the doorway, directly behind the equally surprised Miss Eliza.

  She turned towards them, just as Sir Edward's voice spoke. "Yes, indeed," he echoed, although his tone was on the verge of anger, "Pray tell, what is this, Miss Marianne?"

  Despite the threat of objection in his voice, she faced him with a glowing countenance. "It is a present, Papa," she answered. "From Mr. Adam Nimbley. Who wishes me to marry him."

  Sir Edward was completely silent; in the drawing room doorway, one of the Miss Bartons released a little gasp.

  She expected him to be shocked, to express disbelief–for was that not the name of the gentleman whom she had already rejected? No doubt his mind was filled with the recollection of her unhappiness after the proposal, the misery of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's speculations on such an alliance.

  "Marry you?" he repeated. Marianne rose, the jar held tightly against her body.

  "Yes, Papa," she repeated, although her firm tone held a slight tremor beneath its surface. Sir Edward gazed at the butterflies moving within, the flash of color against the surface of the glass as one landed on the branch within.

  At length, he spoke again. "I suppose," he said, "that is the only possible way a gentleman might get your attention." He motioned towards the jar in Marianne's grasp.

  The front bell rang, sending Madge bustling forward as her rigid shock melted into action again. The sound of a man's voice in the hallway, followed by a flurry of motion. But it was not Madge who appeared again, but the visitor who had rung.

  "I thought it would arrive before me." Adam Nimbley stood in the main hall, the sound of his voice drawing Marianne's interest from the gift in her hands.

  His skin tan, his hair cut close beneath a faded hat, his grey-green eyes warm behind the lens of his spectacles. His clothes showed signs of wear from travel despite the cut and fabric of a gentleman's wardrobe–a rather outlandish bag was slung across one shoulder, as if his explorer's luggage was with him still.

  All eyes were upon him, including Marianne's as she stood frozen in place.

  He cleared his throat. "Miss Marianne," he said.

  She stared at him. "Yes," she answered. Her voice was low, its tone charged with a passion beneath its surface like a note of music vibrating with portent.

  His smile flickered, as if a candle within dimmed, then strengthened as the realization of her words dawned upon him. "Yes," he echoed, softly. "Then you will–will marry me?"

  Without hesitation, she wrapped her arm around his neck in a tight embrace, flinging herself into his arms with an energy that surprised him. One hand holding tightly to the jar, the other reaching up to touch his face. Fingers dislodging his spectacles as she pressed her lips against his.

  There was a cry of surprise from one–or both–of the Miss Bartons, but Marianne did not hear it; nor did she see the look of shock upon her father's face. Adam's arms were around her now, holding her tightly as he returned her kiss.

  When she drew back, his hand moved to touch her cheek, the stray dark curls escaping her elegant style. "Then my proposal suits your constancy?" he whispered.

  "Oh, very much so," she answered. It could be confessed that there was a hint of tears in Marianne's eyes, glittering below those dark orbs. "Since you have asked me to share more than merely your heart and fortune."

  "The gift is also satisfactory?" he asked, with a gentle laugh.

  "It is," she said, with a trembling laugh burdened by happiness more than anything else.

  Sir Edward cleared his throat, interrupting. "Before he has my permission," he continued, "I must meet him in a more substantial form than this jar of specimens and thank him for his pains in taking possession of a most worrisome daughter." He laid his hand on her arm as his tone grew warmer with these final words. From Adam Nimbley, he received a smile half-fearful, half-eager in response to this declaration.

  "Thank you," said Marianne, softly. From behind her came a cry of pleasure uttered in the drawing room doorway –most likely the culprit was Miss Catherine.

  "Miss Marianne–to be married!" Her hand flew to her mouth, along with a lace handkerchief. "Oh, this is news indeed! What a fortunate young man is the gentleman–whoever he may be–" She got no further as both she and Miss Eliza had hurried forth with warm congratulations for Marianne and Adam. Their hands remained together, her free arm cradling the jar of beating wings with the tenderness of one who would not trade it for all the rare gems in the world.

  *****

  Some months before this moment, a young man strolled along a dirt path towards a busy foreign port, carrying nothing in his possession except a walking stick and two letters in hand. His boots showed evident signs of wear from long journeys upon foot, his clothes stained the dirt of a hot, native soil stirred by the wind. Beneath the hat, however, was a face once familiar to many of the shabby gentility of London. Even Marianne, who had known it in the form of a pale young gentleman pouring over a tea shop's atlas would not fail to recognize Adam in such an altered state.

  The sun was drawing close to setting when he reached the docks, peering for a familiar ship among the many resting in the harbor's waters. His uncle's ship was not among them–but there was a captain whose cargo often included crates of his uncle's wares. The ship was destined to sail home with its cargo in two day's time–but he was come soon enough for his letter, the captain informed him.

  "Letter?" he repeated. In his hand were two packets, one a note to his father, another his submissions to Earl Smith-Stanley of the Linnaen Society, who had requested the notes and sketches of the magnificent beetle especially before his next meeting with England's greatest scientific minds.

  "A letter given to me by your uncle," said the captain. "With the charge that I should see it safely to you and tell you express that the young lady said it t'was from a friend on a subject of importance."

  Adam's heart beat more quickly as he accepted it. "Thank you," he said, pushing his glasses further up the bridge of his nose and smudging them further with dirt in the process. "Might I give you something for your trouble," he began.

  "Nay, not for the nephew of Walter Nimbley," answered the captain. "I'll give 'em your regards when next I'm in port o' London." With that, he shifted a packet of more obvious value beneath his arm alongside Adam's two correspondences, then moved along towards the mainland.

  He could not wait to return to his hut; halfway to his camp, he sat down upon a log and opened the seal, disregarding even the magnificent long-legged fly which buzzed past his ear and offered itself as a specimen worthy of study. Lips moving as he formed her words as his own, his eyes grew wider behind the wire-rimmed spectacles with each line he read.

  When he lowered it, his count
enance had changed from weariness to the look of one suddenly energized by a resolve which possesses neither action nor immediate purpose. The shy, boyish smile reappeared on a face made lean and tan by a life of intense study and self-denial; the arms turning to muscle beneath the stained shirtsleeves seemed alive with motion in the restless folding and refolding of the letter in his pocket as he walked on.

  If Marianne believed that her constancy was saved by his own, then he would show her something bolder. His mind was racing with this notion, the speed of thoughts seeking an answer which would satisfy his heart's deepest interests.

  She would have proof that the Adam Nimbley who disembarked from his uncle's ship was now closer to her mind's character than the young man who offered her a lost dream in a cardboard box as proof of his devotion. And that his heart, however far away it might be in its physical sense, had remained behind in England, as equally in her possession as the blue butterfly of his childhood.

  Epilogue

  "Well, at least he is the younger son of a baronet. That is of some comfort, I suppose," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "But they must have something to live upon and I am disappointed to know that there is neither fortune nor property to be his upon Sir George's death, with all to the elder son!"

  "I believe Marianne has no intention of remaining in London, aunt," Flora answered, her arm intertwined with the good woman's as they walked. "She will accompany Mr. Nimbley when he goes to China next month on an expedition for the Royal Society."