Like a Flower in Bloom (13 page)

“Oh, Miss Withersby!” Miss Templeton came close to kiss me the next evening at Lord Harriwick’s ball. “What happened to your hair! I thought we had agreed that you would do it up in side ringlets with the plait at the back.”

“I couldn’t seem to put it up the way your maid did.”

“Then you’ll have to get yourself a new maid.”

“That would be possible if I had an old one, but I don’t.”

“You don’t have a lady’s maid?”

“I don’t know what I’d do with one, and in any case, we can’t afford—”

“Why, I don’t know what I’d do without mine! Oh, look! There’s Mr. Fulwell come for Lord Harriwick’s hunt. He’s not from London, he’s from Worcestershire, and Papa wants me to make a good impression, although you understand, of course, that I can’t make
too
good of an impression. Least not right away. So make sure you stay close to me tonight.”

That suited me just fine. Her attentions wouldn’t be monopolized by any man in particular, and I wouldn’t have to pretend an affection for anyone in particular, and we could both be happy together. Her father made the introduction to Mr. Fulwell, and she and the man spoke at great length about the hunt and London and the holidays and then he bowed and left us.

Miss Templeton seized my hand. “What did you think of him?”

“He seemed rather nice.”

“He is, isn’t he? Quite nice. Although . . .” She brought my hand up to her heart in a gesture of desperation. “I just don’t think I can become besotted with him on account of he has no chin. Oh! That’s terribly unkind of me, isn’t it?”

“I wouldn’t say he has no chin. It’s practicably impossible for a man not to have one. Or a woman either, for that matter.”

“Then where, I ask you, would it be?”

I glanced over, across the room at him. “Well it’s . . . I mean, it must be . . . Well, I suppose it is rather small.”

“Exactly. Which is why I just don’t think he will work.”

“I find that rather unjust.”

“I don’t think I would need it to be pronounced, it just has to declare itself a very tiny bit.”

“We can’t all have pronounced chins.”

“Why?”

“Because that would be an aberration, and aberrations, by definition, are uncommon.”

“Miss Withersby, please don’t think me rude, but I don’t think I can abide a lecture at this particular moment in time. My short period of happiness depends upon my finding a man with a chin. I will not be moved from that expectation.”

Mr. Stansbury came by, and Miss Templeton engaged him in conversation. She was so very good at that. I tried to study her, as I would a specimen, but I soon became caught up in the story she was telling Mr. Stansbury. I wondered if I was gazing at her with the same fascination that he was. He was quite swept up in the tale, his eyes fixed on hers and his lips curved in an admiring sort of smile. It was a shame she wouldn’t be among us much longer, but I could not say that she was mistaken in her beliefs. As any good botanist knows, offspring almost always manifest the characteristics of their parents.

Mr. Stansbury gave off one of his hearty laughs, and I joined him in it, willing to do as Miss Templeton herself had vowed to do: endeavor to enjoy the time she had left.

The next morning, Mr. Trimble made us even later for church than was our habit. First, he tried to bully me into a different dress, and then he objected to my wearing elastic-sided boots. I pointed out that we had a rather long walk ahead of us and suggested that if I wore my thin-soled slippers he would have to carry me.

One might even have accused him of dragging his heels on
the way, and especially down the central aisle during Communion, but he was quick enough in bolting from the pew once the rector finished with the benediction. Once clear of the church, he started out for home at such a fast pace that Father and I struggled to keep up with him.

“Mr. Trimble!” I called out to him, for by that time he was nearly ten paces ahead of us. “If you would be so kind as to slow down?”

He broke his stride and seemed surprised to see us so far behind. “Please, forgive me.” He adjusted his pace to our own.

“I don’t find conversations regarding the state of my health or of the weather particularly illuminating, but you have nothing to fear from the people of Overwich. They’ve been quite kind to us.”

He pulled his hat down over his ears as we stepped off the road to let some of the carriages from London pass. “It’s not the people of Overwich I worry about.”

That begged the question of what exactly did worry him, but he and Father had embarked upon a discussion of printer’s proofs, and I kept my ponderings to myself.

Monday dawned, and I woke with a sort of dread. I was tired of going about in dresses so tight that I could hardly breathe. My feet were aching from the snugness of my slippers, and I’d had entirely enough of spending my time among people I really didn’t know and couldn’t talk to.

After breakfast, I found myself poking about in Mr. Trimble’s desk drawers.

He paused as he entered the parlor. “May I help you find something?”

“I was just . . . just looking.”

“My offer to assist you still stands.”

“I am used to finding our correspondence here.” I put a hand to the table where I had always placed my C pile of letters and missives, with the oldest at the bottom.

“Ah. Yes. I found it rather difficult to tell what had, in fact, been replied to and what was still waiting for a response, so I placed those to which some reply had been made on that shelf just there.” He nodded toward the cupboard. “And those which needed some response—that is, the most recent missives—I placed over there.” He nodded toward a wire basket on the table.

“I see.” I drifted toward the basket and tried, in a subtle way, to sift through the pile.

“Is there any piece in particular for which you are looking?”

“No. I’m just . . . just looking.”

“I can assure you that, if anything had come for you, I would have brought it to your attention.”

Right after he’d read it, most probably. “I suppose you’re rather behind in keeping up with my father’s notes.”

“Not especially.”

“No?”

“No. We’ve found it to be most efficient if he reads his notes to me at the end of the day. That way, he can keep his copy and I can place a perfectly readable copy into his file.”

“He has a file?”

“You mean other than the W pile?”

I gave him a sour look.

“I’ve extracted all of his papers and placed them into a cabinet.”

“Does he know you’re doing that? I can’t imagine that he would have let you touch his notes, let alone move them.” And if he’d seen them, he knew my father could not have written him all those letters!

“We agreed that since I am the keeper of his papers, he must allow me the privilege of keeping them. But perhaps . . . if it wouldn’t be too great an inconvenience, you wouldn’t mind offering me your assistance, Miss Withersby.”

“What is it that you need?”

“If you could just . . .” He pulled a paper from the shelf labeled
Correspondence Already Replied To
and spread it out on the table before me. “What I really need is some sort of aid in the transcription of this paper.”

“Transcription? Of what?”

“Of your father’s handwriting.”

The bottom fell from my stomach as I realized he had indeed divined my secret.

“Is there some sort of code he uses when he makes these notations? I didn’t have this sort of trouble when we corresponded.”

“Notations?” I bent over the paper and felt my spirits lift as I read through my father’s observations on the research he was undertaking. “I suppose you might say this is written in a sort of Withersby family shorthand.”

“Then I wasn’t mistaken in thinking it perfectly incomprehensible.”

I pushed it back toward him. “Not at all.”

“Would you mind, terribly, providing an interpretation?”

“This is not a sort of word-for-word code. It’s not even a shortened form of anything really. These markings represent theories and thoughts fully formed that have taken the Family Withersby over four generations to perfect.”

“I see.”

“I don’t know that you do, Mr. Trimble. I really don’t see how you can do much good here.”

“I believe I did, in fact, understand your meaning. But until your father tells me otherwise, I will continue to assist him.”
He stalked over to the desk and made a great show of putting pen to paper.

Which gave me an idea. I made my way over to the wire basket containing the most recent missives and flipped through the correspondence. Among them were a letter from the University of Edinburgh, a letter from a missionary correspondent in Ceylon, and a plea from the butcher for payment of last month’s bill. After checking to make sure Mr. Trimble wasn’t looking, I concealed them all in a plant press. When he went into the study to confer with father, I traded them out for the correspondence already replied to. That should put a snarl in his system!

L
ate that morning, some of my new dresses were finally delivered. I chose what Miss Templeton had called my promenade gown for the call we would make on the rector later in the day. It had a great many rows of what I now knew were called flounces. They filled out both the skirt and the sleeves.

When the Admiral and I arrived to collect Miss Templeton, she came out to us along with a maid carrying three hampers filled with food. After exclaiming quite vigorously over my new gown, she said, “It’s such fine weather, I thought we could all go on a picnic for our tea.”

The Admiral agreed most heartily. “Perhaps we could find a place on the river.”

She smiled at him. “Yes. That was my thought exactly!”

There were many carts and wagons and carriages on the road, so we were slow in reaching the rectory. When we arrived, the children seemed to be everywhere at once. When Miss Templeton declared we were to have a picnic, they cheered as a whole and raced off down the lane toward the river and then dug into the hampers at once when we sat down to eat.

As we ate, I spied some flowering stems of autumn lady’s tresses, and when we finished I convinced them to go off and pick me some.

It kept them occupied, though not for long. They soon returned, running their hands up and down the soft, hairy stems. One of the younger boys, however, was wrenching off the small white flowers that grew around the stem in a spiral.

I took the specimen from him. “See here! Those flowers are like babies. How would you like it if someone came along and snapped off your little brother’s head?”

The children’s eyes widened as they turned to the mite, who was sucking at his thumb as he lay in Miss Templeton’s lap. She put a protective hand to his head. “I’m sure Miss Withersby was only teasing.”

“Is this a good flower?” The oldest of the girls had come back cupping what looked to be some sort of bog orchid in her hand.

“It might be, but I can’t really see it very well. Why don’t you lay it down and we’ll have a look at it.”

She dropped it onto my lap.

I knelt and placed it on the ground before me, straightening out the stems and separating the leaves. “It does have some promise, but to be very certain, I would need to see its roots as well.”

“I can go get them.” She was nearly a dozen paces gone before I called her back.

“There’s no use digging them out now. The thing about specimens is that they need to be as close to perfect as possible. Do you see this?” I pointed out a place where the tiny stem had been bruised and bent. “There might have been something important here, but it would be hard to tell in this state, wouldn’t it?”

Several of the other children had gathered round as I was speaking.

“A botanist is always very careful to take up a plant, roots and all, without harming any of it.”

The girl’s chin was trembling.

“Do you think you can find another of these? Because I would be very interested in having one.” Or I would have been, had I still been illustrating my father’s volumes.

She nodded. “There were ever so many by the pond over there.” She pointed off behind her.

“A pond?” The rector’s brow rose. “Do be careful. Those can be very deep. Perhaps I should go with—”

But she was off before he could say anything else.

He looked at me with a worried frown. “Do you think it’s safe? Encouraging them to go digging near the water?”

“Around the meres? Just think of them as lakes in miniature. It’s really quite fascinating to see what’s grown up around them. The children will get used to them. You can’t ramble anywhere around Cheshire without almost falling into one.” My words didn’t seem to reassure him. “I was looking for specimens much rarer than those at their ages. If you teach them what to look for, you’d have a wonderfully complete collection in no time.”

“With more time to write my sermons, I daresay.” He smiled. “They’ve been at loose ends since Lavinia died.”

“I was too when my own mother died. My interest in botany is what got me through. And the fact that I needed to finish up her contracts.”

“Her
contracts
? How old were you?”

“Fourteen.”

“That’s quite a burden.”

“We needed the income. To dedicate one’s life to science isn’t the most profitable of undertakings.”

“Much like the ministry, I suppose.”

I supposed it was. “My mother wrote children’s books to contribute to the family coffers. I write my own now, though they’re meant for an older reader.”

“You do very well with the children. Few people could handle so many at one time.”

“They’re a bit like plants in a glasshouse.”

His brow rose.

“The very number of them seems overwhelming until you put each in its place and determine to give it the things that it needs to thrive. After that, they practically care for themselves.”

“Erm . . . I suppose it is . . . rather . . . perhaps . . .”

The children returned to us in a group, trailing plants and carrying rocks and all manner of other things, which they proceeded to drop into my lap.

“Well . . . this is . . . What is this?” I pulled a brown, shriveled stem from the pile and held it up for inspection. It looked as if it might be a
Pseudorchis albida
. I hadn’t known there were any in the area. “Who found this one?”

“Me.”

“Which
me
is that?”

“
Me
, me.” One of the boys pushed his way forward to stand in front of the others.

“Where did you find this?”

“In a pasture over there.”

He had pointed out beyond us, and I turned to follow his gesture. “Do you think you could show me the location?”

One of the girls grabbed up my hand. “And then can I show you where I found mine?”

Another of the girls grabbed my other hand. “And I’ll show you where I found mine!”

“But what about me?” One of the smallest of them was stamping her foot right atop the pile of specimens.

The rector took her up in his arms, set her on his shoulder, and we started off for the pasture.

We had quite a good ramble while the Admiral drifted about in a boat and Miss Templeton played pat-a-cake with the younger children. At length, the rector declared the hour late and herded the children back down the lane in the direction of the rectory. The Admiral and I deposited Miss Templeton and her hampers at Dodsley Manor and turned toward home.

When we arrived, my uncle persuaded my father from his work and sat him in a chair in front of the fire. Father stretched his stockinged feet out toward the fireplace.

“Young man?” The Admiral was looking in Mr. Trimble’s direction.

“Sir?”

“You may join this war council as well.”

War council?

Mr. Trimble wasted no time in pulling up a chair.

I drew up a chair too, wondering if I might safely pester Mrs. Harvey for a biscuit. The scent wafting from the kitchen was unusually tantalizing, and despite the picnic, the outing had left me ravenous.

“Now then.” The Admiral was pacing in front of the hearth. “We must first address tactics.”

“Tactics?” Mr. Trimble exchanged a glance with my father.

“The way the battle is shaping up, it’s going to be between the rector and that industrialist, what’s-his-name.”

I supplied it. “Mr. Stansbury.” Now we appeared to be getting somewhere! And at just a little over a week since I had joined society. It had taken, perhaps, a bit longer than I had expected, but victory was now at hand.

Father raised a brow. “The rector?” He said it with a dubious sort of lift to his voice.

Now my father would call a halt to this nonsense, send Mr. Trimble off, and let me resume my work. All that was needed was an underscoring of the current situation. “The rector has grown quite fond of me, I believe.”

Father chewed on his mustache for a moment as the Admiral turned on his heel and started back by the hearth in the opposite direction. “I don’t think—I don’t believe I’ve ever met the industrialist fellow.”

Which ought to make his trepidation all the greater. “It’s said he’s the wealthiest man in the county. And if I marry him, I shouldn’t have to work another day in my life.
Ever
.” That should put the fear of God into him. “Miss Templeton seems to think both of them are quite taken with me.” Which is not to say that I agreed with her, but she had said so, and it would cause no little anxiety if they thought it was true.

“Which one do you favor?” my father asked the Admiral.

“I am always on the side of the Almighty. However, I must point out that He is not the most generous of paymasters. With the rector, however, she would have the added benefit of children.”

Or the added nuisance. “None of them even knows how to select a proper specimen!”

The Admiral sent me a keen-eyed look. “They’ve been left without a mother, adrift on the sea of life. You could teach them. And besides, I’ve heard he has a very interesting collection.”

“Of which he comprehends very little.”

He gave me a perplexed sort of glance that reminded me I was to pretend as if I was actually trying to find a husband. “But I suppose that too could be righted.”

My father was frowning. “Well . . . what of Mr. What Did You Call Him?”

“Stansbury.” Mr. Trimble and I both answered at the same moment.

The Admiral turned on his heel again and started back in the other direction. “He seems devoted to the study of botany.” He threw a glance at my father. “He has quite a fine glasshouse filled with orchids and palms and ferns.”

“But he’s quite mad for something he insists upon calling a stumpery.” I couldn’t keep myself from saying it. I really couldn’t.

“A stumpery?” My father’s brow rose. “I’ve never heard of such a thing.”

“It’s like a fernery, only it’s filled with stumps.”

“Stumps?”

“With the trunks buried so the roots twist about in the air. Or so he says.”

Father’s eyes widened. “It sounds . . . indecent. Surely his interests could be turned to something more traditional.”

I could not agree. “Not at present. On that point, he is quite firm.”

The Admiral started back again. “But there cannot be any fault found with his glasshouse collections. They’re the finest in the county. Some say the best in the realm.”

There, too, I had to object. “But it’s filled with specimens that appear to be quite badly mislabeled and poorly cited.”

Father turned in his chair to look at me. “Well, then he needs someone like you, Charlotte, to guide him.”

Mr. Trimble regarded me through those piercing blue eyes of his. “Who do you favor, Miss Withersby?”

“I . . . can’t really say.”

Father rose and came over to pat my hand. “You need more time.” He turned to address the Admiral. “She needs more time.”

The Admiral pshawed. “My vote goes for Stansbury, even if he is prone to fanciful ideas.”

Father frowned. “I’d rather decided I preferred the clergyman. He seems to be a decent sort.” My father stared at the toe of his stocking for a long moment and then looked up to Mr. Trimble. “What about you, young man? You’re closer to a marrying age than either of us. Who do you favor?”

“My vote is with Miss Withersby.”

With me?

“With Charlotte?”

Was that . . . was that a choice?

“She’ll be the one to live with the decision. As long as you don’t disapprove of either, I say leave her to make the choice. I don’t think there’s much to gain by making decisions on another’s behalf.”

I would have thanked him if I had any intention of marrying.

The Admiral grunted. “In my day, children were told what to do; they weren’t asked for their opinion.”

I’d had quite enough of the discussion. “I’m sure I’ll come to a decision very soon. In either case, once I marry, I plan to be very busy attending to the needs of my new household. I’ll probably never see any of you except on Sundays at church.”

The Admiral came over and leaned down to kiss me on the cheek. “Won’t be the same without you, but it’s all for the best.”

Best for whom? I walked toward the front hall. “I believe I will retire now.”

My father put out a hand as I passed. “Won’t you stay and have supper with us, Charlotte? Mr. Trimble’s gone and got us a new—”

I had tired of hearing of Mr. Trimble and his irritating habit of changing everything. “I don’t think so, no.”

I went upstairs quite perplexed. It seemed as if talk of an impending marriage hadn’t bothered anyone, except me, very much at all. Nothing was working as I had planned.