Love Among the Spices Page 7

  “Has anyone spoken to her of this?” Flora asked. “Has anyone asked her of the truth behind these stories?”

  “Of course not,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam answered. “For if it is something serious, she will deny it, I fear. She would not speak of it if she were meeting someone deliberately–and if she was so freely addressing a stranger, it is worse I fear, for it means she might speak so to any stranger.”

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam had more than once complained of Marianne’s freedom of address: particularly on the subject of her niece speaking to tradesmen and beggars, to merchants and maids in the same conversational tones with which she might inquire after Lady Smith’s health or accept an introduction to Lord Eppings. There was no restraining this, as Flora knew from experience; so she attempted to shift the topic elsewhere.

  “I will speak to Marianne about her carelessness,” she said. “And about her appearance in society as well. For I am sure she will behave herself whenever she can.”

  “Which is all the time, my dear,” scolded Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “There is never an exception to a lady’s behavior–surely you agree?”

  Flora bit her lip against this question. “Be assured that I will speak to her, aunt,” she said. “Do not trouble yourself to worry about it any more than necessary.” Pressing her aunt’s hand, she shifted her inquiries to the subject of Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s granddaughters and the possible matches they might make in a London season.

  Alone in her carriage afterwards, she pondered the means of approaching this topic delicately with her sister. Marianne was not an easy audience to persuade and in the depths of her heart, Flora pitied her sister’s position.

  “Heavenly Father,” she whispered, “if you have means of making my sister respectable without society, then I pray it shall be found, for I despair of any other way.” There was a bittersweet smile present on her lips as she closed her eyes, the carriage trotting onwards from her aunt’s home.

  *****

  “You must tell me, Marianne. Are you ever going to be a proper lady to our aunt’s contentment?”

  This playful approach was the final one resolved upon by Flora, as she sat with her sister in the morning room. Her children had busied themselves with a wooden doll left by one of Giles’s children on a previous visit, while Sir Edward was confined to his library on business.

  “There is nothing improper about my behavior,” Marianne answered, indignantly. “If my aunt wishes me to care so deeply about ball gowns and finery, then she must content herself to be disappointed. You know I never cared for such things, Flora–except as silly diversions. The young ladies of our acquaintance were always too interested in their jewels and feathers to be interested in what places they were going or what company they kept.”

  “Providing it was good company, you mean,” Flora corrected. “But dearest, this is a dilemma which shall not go away. You are seventeen–full young to be out, I feel, but it was not my decision. It is done, however, and there is no undoing the fact that you are a young lady in genteel society.”

  “And I am supposed to make a proper match,” Marianne sighed. “But it is not fair, Flora, for I do not care for any of them. I would rather be a–a missionary in foreign places. Or a soldier in some valiant regiment than be stuck in the tedium of card parties with vain and simpering topics of conversation, for surely life upon a horse in battle is a better fate,” she added, the animation in her tone rising with these words. Her sister scrutinized her expression with the care of one who hears something else in those words.

  “You are rather severe on all our friends,” said Flora, after a moment. “Do you count Lady Honoria among the vain in society? Or Lucy Sanford among the simpering conversationalists?”

  “You know that I do not mean all of society,” her sister answered. “But when I am among them, I cannot talk of anything but balls and gowns. Poetry is the only subject of any worth which a lady may discuss, but history and astronomy and geography are not allowed at all.”

  Flora sighed. “It is very hard on you, I know; but it must be done, Marianne. You shall break our father’s heart if you remain a hoyden. A fixed reputation for any young lady is too dreadful for him to bear.”

  “He bore your writing the little book quite well,” Marianne retorted.

  “But he would not feel the same if I had gone on that way–if I had not made a respectable match that prevented me from exposing the act in any way,” said Flora. “I do not pretend that his mind was not relieved by the notion that marrying Roger would prevent me from writing any more volumes.”

  “Then we are to assume you have not written anything else?” Marianne answered, archly. “For I believe there is more than one little volume of anonymous name upon the shelves of respectable book shops–no doubt the work of another author.”

  “That is not the point,“ Flora answered defensively, withdrawing her writing hand from sight in the same instant, where telltale traces of inkstains were visible. “We are discussing your future, not mine, for I am beyond the need for chaperones and good connections.”

  She checked the sharpness of her tone before speaking again. “Do not despair that you shall refrain from these subjects forever, Marianne. Perhaps there is a heart intended for you which shall be pleased to find a clever wife who converses upon many topics–and whose flattery cannot be purchased by fine jewels or muslins.”

  "I would not do something wrong, Flora–really wrong. You know I would not. I have enough memory of our mother's kindness and character that I would pray never to dishonor her wishes, even if it meant I should be unhappy."

  Gently, Flora squeezed her sister’s hand in her own as her sister ceased speaking momentarily, her dark eyes taking on an expression which troubled Flora’s heart.

  “I wish young men cared more for a young ladies charms than her interests,” Marianne continued, at length. “The little book of rules was not wrong in that respect, dearest Flora.”

  “I suspect there are many cases of love which oppose the rules,” Flora replied. Leaning forward, she kissed her sister on the forehead, then rose to ring for tea as she had done when mistress of Evering House in olden days.

  The rest of the afternoon was spent drinking tea with the rest of the family and discussing whether Flora’s eldest bore greater resemblance to his father or his mother. The topic of their cousin young Barton Miles, followed, with regards to the handsome new walk he had lately added to the gardens of Brawley Court; by then, Sir Edward was jovial and even the ever-concerned Mrs. Fitzwilliam forgot her concerns in her eagerness to anticipate the invitations to Lord Neverly’s dinner party on the twenty-fifth.

  Before departing, Flora took care to draw aside her aunt and reassure her that she had spoken to Marianne on the subject of deportment, much to the good lady’s relief.

  “I did not speak of the stories, of course,” said Flora, “for I will not repeat idle gossip on any account–for I well know the trouble such carelessness creates. But I think Marianne feels keenly the pain she has caused our father and will consider her actions more carefully in the future.”

  “A relief to us all,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “Now, I shall see about managing the tongue of Mrs. Kent-Wallace on the subject of tete a tetes in the park,” she added, determinedly.

  Flora paused. “In that mention of Marianne and a gentleman in the park,” she said, “was the gentleman by chance an officer of the army?”

  “Why yes,” Mrs. Fitzwilliam answered, surprised. “I believe she did claim the young man wore a uniform. But whatever does that signify?”

  “Nothing,” Flora said. “It was merely a question of curiosity.”

  Chapter Eight

  “It is too unwieldy,” Marianne complained. “How shall I ever move my head without them falling out?”

  “They’re fastened well enough, miss,” answered Letty. “No fear of losing ‘em–and you look right smart.”

  Marianne’s hair was piled in a fashionable updo, decorated with small white flowers and pearl
beads. An elegant hairstyle for any young woman destined to attend Lady Sanford’s ball, but the effect pleased Marianne far less than her shabby everyday bonnet was wont to do.

  “The carriage’ll arrive any moment, miss,” the maid continued, referring to Lord and Lady Easton, with whom the Stuarts would attend the ball. Marianne caught one last glimpse of herself in the mirror before descending. A pale figure, now that her summer tan had faded to the relief of her aunt, attired in an elegant pink gown embroidered with silver threads, a pair of silk slippers more delicate than the heavy boots worn in Evering‘s garden and the park.

  She looked quite like the ladies whom the girl Marianne had once viewed as ornamental creatures, peacocks engaged in strolling about in drawing rooms as their purpose in life. She was half-ashamed of herself for those thoughts, now that she was grown; and half-wishing that she had contracted an illness in the last hour or so which would prevent her going at all.

  Lucy Sanford’s townhouse in Mayfair was aglow with lights, the street before it crowded with carriages and guests crushing themselves onwards through the doorway and upwards to the room open for dancing and refreshments.

  “Welcome,” Lucy greeted them, taking her sister-in-law’s hand in her own. “I am pleased to see you both–oh, Roger, it has been such an age since we have been together!”

  “Since September last, you mean,” her brother answered with a laugh. “When you came to us at Donnelly Hall at your husband’s indulgence–”

  “Flora knows what I mean,” Lucy answered, helplessly. “It is but that it seems so long...”

  “Indeed it does,” Flora answered, although a smile of amusement appeared on her own lips. Similar greetings awaited Mrs. Fitzwilliam and Sir Edward, but Lucy’s eyes were alight with a different expression upon the sight of Marianne in her finery.

  “What a lovely gown, Miss Stuart,” she said. “Indeed, it is becoming upon you–how splendidly it suits your complexion.”

  “You are all kindness, Lucy,” Marianne answered, feeling this praise uncomfortably. “It was my aunt’s choosing–for I believe she has better taste in fabrics than I.” Marianne’s honesty earned several good-natured laughs from the rest of the family party, which resulted in the spirited blush rising in her cheeks, making her more restless than she already felt.

  Balls were tiresome affairs in Marianne’s estimation. She watched the graceful couples in motion to the music, the glint of fine fabric and gemstones beneath the lamps.

  Marianne had not yet accepted any partner, nor did she intend to as she stood beside her aunt, who was fanning herself furiously against the heat of the rooms.

  “Mrs. Simpkin’s drawing room was drafty and cold during Thursday’s card party,” she complained, “yet I think it twice as tolerable as an overheated chamber. Whatever can Lady Sanford be about, having such a blaze in this roomful of people?”

  “I do not know, aunt,” was all Marianne replied. Her own fan lay idle in her fingers, not engaged in the coquetry of the young ladies’ ornaments, which were already drawing notice from the gentlemen present.

  “Look sharp now, for I believe young Lord Hepperly might ask you to dance,” whispered Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “It would be quite an honor, for he has five thousand a year and the promise of a very pretty property in Shropshire, I am told.”

  It was not the dashing Lord Hepperly who approached, however, but a young man in regimental dress whose face was not readily familiar to Marianne until he moved closer. She recognized Captain Lindley’s youthful countenance, the same mirthful dark eyes which had looked into hers upon breaking her fall in the park.

  He bowed. “I believe I shall claim your gratitude now," he said, "in the form of a waltz."

  Marianne’s surprise was evident, along with the faint blush creeping into her cheeks. The young man had extended his hand, as if in anticipation of her acceptance despite this momentary silence.

  There was a snapping sound beside her as Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s fan closed. “Might I inquire your name, sir?” she demanded, coldly. “As well as the reason why you address my niece with such boldness?”

  “Because I have met your niece before, Ma’am,” he answered, “under circumstances where no proper introduction was available.” The good humor remained in his voice, although his expression was a trifle more serious.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam drew breath sharply. “Come, Marianne,” she said, taking her niece’s arm and steering her through the crowd of onlookers surrounding the dancers.

  “But, aunt,” Marianne interjected, “I think it was unfair of you not to listen–”

  “Do you mean to tell me you know this gentleman?” Mrs. Fitzwilliam froze, gazing upon her niece in astonishment.

  “Indeed I do,” Marianne answered. “He assisted me in the park but a few weeks ago–I had caught my dress on–on a branch and he helped me to free myself from my predicament.” The exact details of the rescue were best left to the imagination, she knew, given the indignation in her aunt’s manner.

  “No proper introduction indeed! And he so bold as to speak to you in public–” She got no further as the young man in question reappeared, this time in the company of an officer familiar to the Stuart’s dining and drawing rooms on more than one formal occasion.

  “Mrs. Fitzwilliam, Miss Stuart,” said General Phelps. “Allow me to introduce Captain William Lindley of Colonel Hendricks’s Regiment. His father lately purchased his commission with high hopes for his career and has given me charge of his future,” he added, with a laugh.

  The general was long acquainted with Sir Edward, so Mrs. Fitzwilliam received the introduction cordially, despite the lingering crimson of her temper which Marianne’s eye so readily detected. With some coldness, she returned the young man’s bow. His gaze moved to the young lady also greeting him with a look that made her conscious of a blush on her own cheeks.

  “Now, Miss Stuart,” began Lindley, “Might I request the pleasure of your hand for this next dance?”

  Had it been a waltz, she knew her aunt would have her refuse as a debutante –but as it was nothing more than an ordinary figure, there would be no helping it without seeming rude. With a glance at Mrs. Fitzwilliam, she nodded her assent.

  “I would be honored,” she answered.

  “The honor would be mine, Miss Stuart,” he answered. He held out his hand again and she accepted it, letting him escort her to the floor.

  As the musicians struck up their tune, she followed him obediently through the steps. Conversation seemed impossible to her mind, even if she had not concentrated so intently upon the dance. What was Mrs. Ashford’s command regarding the second turn?

  “Have you enjoyed your prize, Miss Stuart?” he inquired.

  “Prize?” she echoed.

  “The bird nest you retrieved in the park on the day we met,” he said. “I must confess to have given your predicament much thought since the afternoon of our acquaintance.”

  “You have?” she replied. “It surprises me greatly, since so much time has passed. I had not thought of that afternoon above once or twice.” A turn at this moment allowed her to hide her expression as she spoke.

  “Are you an admirer of nature by rule, Miss Stuart?” he asked. “Retriever of bird’s nests and preserver of shells. I suspect you to be capable of any such endeavors.” The good humor had returned to his voice, his eyes alight with the same humor as in the Park.

  “I am,” she answered. “Although I am not supposed to say so. After all, it is not a young lady’s place to take an interest in things which crawl or fly.”

  “Why not?” he asked. His hand parted from hers as they moved through the line of the dance.

  “Because it is not proper,” she answered, simply. “It needs no other explanation in society except the existence of the fact.”

  He lowered his voice as they stood face to face. “I have always thought those rules were rather silly,” he said. A look of surprise crossed Marianne’s face in response.

  “Imagi
ne if society prevented a gentleman from discussing his livelihood,” he suggested. “I should never be able to tell stories of maneuvers for the crown. Of my horse’s brave gallop across the field when tried sorely for the cantor of battle.”

  “Is it exciting to be a horseman?” she asked. “To ride across the plains so freely? I should think it would be thrilling, even with the danger of battle.”

  Her eagerness brought a smile to his lips. “Then you prefer stories about adventures?” he asked. “You were perhaps born in the wrong age, Miss Stuart; for I believe you would have made a promising Cleopatra presiding over her troops.”

  Their eyes met with this statement, Marianne without words in what was indeed a rare moment in her life. As the music died away, she returned his bow with a curtsey and allowed him to lead her to her aunt again.

  “My gratitude, Ma’am,” he said to Mrs. Fitzwilliam, “for allowing my introduction to your niece. She is a charming dancer; and an exceptionally charming conversationalist.” This, with a subtle wink to Marianne.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s countenance softened. “I thank you for your compliments, sir,” she answered. “It was the mark of a gentleman to correct the mistake of introduction between yourself and Miss Stuart from before.”

  He bowed. “Then I shall hope to address you again before long, Miss Stuart,” he said. The admiral touched Lindley’s arm, drawing him aside again for another introduction.

  “I declare, Marianne, I am at a loss to decide what to say next,” the good lady began, in a hushed voice. “I did not believe the story of Mrs. Kent-Wallace’s maid, but after this–to have the young man appear, bold as life...”

  Her words were partly drowned out by the noise of a newly-arrived party of guests, the crush of the crowd around them growing greater. A young man was shoved by this movement into Marianne’s path, colliding with her in such a manner that apology was necessary.