Like a Flower in Bloom (28 page)

He sent me a sidelong glance. “I believe you would, Miss Withersby. You would like it very much.”

After breakfast, I was wondering what I ought to do with myself. My quest for my old position had failed and I had no books to write or correspondence to undertake. As I was considering my relative position in the household, my father called Mr. Trimble and me into his study.

“I have to say, Charlotte, that I have heartily missed being able to speak to you of our work. I feel I might be closer to finishing my volumes if I had thought you wanted to speak of classification and orchids.”

“But I did. I would have.”

“Perhaps we can pick up where we left off, then.”

I glanced at Mr. Trimble. If we picked up where we left off, did that mean he was leaving? Apparently I was to be given
what I most wanted. But if that was the case, why didn’t I feel happier? “I would be happy to do so, but . . . in all truth, didn’t Mr. Trimble do a much better job of things than I did?”

“I suppose it depends upon the things to which you refer.”

“If I may?” Apparently Mr. Trimble was not yet done with his explanations.

Father nodded.

“Perhaps I found a way to better organize your father’s papers and manage his correspondence, but I haven’t nearly the grasp of botany that you do. You are much more philosophic than I could ever hope to be.”

Father was nodding. “It’s true. I had high hopes for you, young fellow, but . . .”

“But a few short months of immersion in a topic cannot make up for a lifetime of familiarity.”

I was confused. “So you’re saying . . . ? What
are
you saying, Father?”

Mr. Trimble did not hesitate in answering. “I think he’s saying that we all ought to do what we’re best at. You can’t tell me that management of the butcher’s bills and your father’s correspondence are things you truly missed?”

“No, but—”

“Or that you were wishing you had been the one to release Mrs. Harvey from employment. Or complete the manuscript for that book on wax flowers.”

“No, but—”

“Then why can’t I do those things, which I am in fact quite good at, while you do those things that you do best?”

“But I—”

“My being capable at those things should not give you offense. We can’t all be brilliant botanists, can we?”

“No, we . . . I mean . . .” What did I mean? And what did I want?

He took up several papers from Father’s desk and moved toward the door. I followed him. “Does that mean you’re going to stay?”

“For now.”

It was that
now
that I wasn’t quite clear on. “But what about your family? Don’t you have some sort of obligation to them?”

“To my family? Strictly speaking, no.”

“Then what about your sheep?”

“It’s what I have a farm manager for. I am entirely at your disposal. Now, then. If you will excuse me, I need to see to some bills.” He pulled the door shut behind him.

I turned back toward my father. “Is he really going to stay?”

“I should think so. He said he was going to, didn’t he?”

A decision which would have caused me no little consternation a short month ago was filling my breast with . . . What was it, that welling up of . . . was it . . . It couldn’t be elation, could it? If it was, surely it was because I had been given back my position. And more than that, I had been freed to do it.

I
spent the day with my father, going over his notes. We enjoyed a lively debate over lunch with Mr. Trimble regarding the classification of the bloodwood: to wit, was it or was it not a
Eucalyptus
. Mr. Trimble had the temerity to suggest that it was not.

As we repaired upstairs for the night, we made plans to meet for a ramble in the morning. When we woke, however, a storm was blowing in from the west, and Mr. Trimble convinced us that it was wiser to stay inside. And so I worked on an illustration at the table in the parlor while Mr. Trimble worked at his desk with a microscope, and it was midmorning before I even realized I had let my tea go cold.

Someone pulled the bell around noon, and I heard Miss Hansford’s steps in the hall. Several minutes later she hurried toward me and whispered, “There’s a Countess of Cardington, here to see a Mr. Edward Trimneltonbury. I told her there is no such person here, but she insisted that there was. There isn’t . . . is there?”

“Not that I’ve ever seen. Perhaps she’s confused our Mr.
Trimble with this Bury man. Are you quite sure she’s sound of mind?”

She leaned close. “Not only that, but she’s quite certain about him being here too.”

“Can’t you tell her he’s not here?”

“She says he is.”

Mr. Trimble was examining a slide and did not give any appearance of hearing our discussion. I considered the woman apparently standing at our door, determined to enter. There was nothing so irritating as a person insisting upon the veracity of the completely impossible. “In such cases, Miss Hansford, it is best to be polite but firm.”

I picked up my brush, trying to remember where it was that I had stopped.

She sighed and lifted her chin as if in preparation for battle. “I’ll do my best, Miss Withersby.” Squaring her shoulders in a way that would have made the Admiral quite proud, she went out toward the front hall.

Not long after, a great squawking arose.

“What’s this fuss about?” Mr. Trimble asked from his desk. “Has Miss Templeton come by again?”

“For a man who insists upon kindness as the mark of a gentleman, you evidence a remarkable lack of that particular virtue.”

“You confuse kindness with forbearance, Miss Withersby. The former may be exercised upon any occasion, while the latter may, by overuse, eventually find itself exhausted, with no virtue attributed to its former possessor.”

A din of rising voices issued from the hall.

His eyes narrowed. “That’s not Miss Templeton.”

“It’s some woman—the Countess of Cardington
,
Miss Hansford called her—inquiring after a Mr. Somebody-bury and insisting that we are harboring the man. I assured her
we . . . Are you quite well, Mr. Trimble? You’re looking rather peaked.”

“The Countess of Cardington?”

“Do you know her, then? Perhaps you can persuade her to be reasonable about the matter.”

Before he could rise from his chair, a clatter of footsteps approached and a woman wearing a fur-trimmed mantle and muff burst into the room.

“Edward! My dearest!” If Mr. Trimneltonbury could not be found, Mr. Trimble seemed a worthy substitute, for she sailed up to his desk and then turned her cheek to him for a kiss.

What’s more, he did it. He rose and kissed her!

Then he turned to me. “Mother, may I introduce you to Miss Withersby? Miss Withersby, Lady Cardington.”

Mother . . . ?
That woman was his mother? If she were Lady Cardington and a countess, then would that not make him a . . . sir? At the very least? The question wasn’t so much where was Mr. Trimneltonbury, but rather who was Mr. Trimble? “Mr. Trimble, I must confess that I don’t quite—”

A commotion arose again from the hall, punctuated by an exclamation from Miss Hansford. Then a younger woman appeared and joined the countess. She was one of those prim, elegant varieties of the female species whom I had become accustomed to seeing among Lord Harriwick’s hunting parties.

I turned to Mr. Trimble. “This must be . . . Is she a sister?”

“No.” When the younger woman offered up her hand, he took it and kissed it. Then he turned to me, a look of resignation and unhappiness at work upon his face. “This is my fiancée, the Lady Caroline Dunsmere. Lady Caroline, may I introduce to you, Miss Withersby.”

Fiancée?
“But . . .”

There was a great cry and a show of tears from the younger
woman. Mr. Trimble made many convincing sounds and shows of encouragement as he patted her on the arm and concurrently nodded in response to everything his mother said. And then . . . they were gone. All of them. Mr. Trimble, his mother, and his fiancée.

When my father came out of his study a short while later, I was sitting in my chair, clutching my paintbrush, trying to figure out what had just happened.

“I discovered the most delightful article about orchids in southern Africa.” He glanced about. “Where is Mr. Trimble?”

I looked up at him. “He’s gone. And I’m afraid . . . at least, that is . . . I expect that he’s not coming back.”

Miss Templeton showed up later that afternoon, clutching a letter. “I received the most disturbing news about Mr. Trimble, and you didn’t give me the chance to tell you the other day, but here!” She thrust it at me.

I turned and walked toward the fire. It was distressing how drafty the room was this winter. I fastened another button on the Admiral’s shooting jacket. With the new one fitting so tightly, I hadn’t been willing to give the old one up. “I suppose you’re going to tell me that he’s Lord Such-and-So or Sir Somebody?”

Her mouth dropped open. “But I’ve only just heard. How did you know?”

“They came to get him. His family did. And now they’re gone.”

“Gone? Gone where?”

“Home. Back to wherever it was that he came from.”

“Eastleigh.”

“It’s to the east, then, I presume?”

She nodded. “In Essex.” She sat in a chair as she chewed on her lip. “He didn’t tell you anything about his family?”

“Nothing.”

“He didn’t even hint at who they were?”

“No.”

“And here we were thinking he came from some disreputable sort of people! I always hated him, of course, but after I met him, I was almost inclined to feel sorry for him. I actually thought he was someone honorable, trying his best to live down his family’s name. And then I read this!” She brandished the letter. “He’s probably sitting at the queen’s own table right now, laughing at all of us.”

“Laughing?” Was he really?

“You ought to have been meaner to him, Miss Withersby. We ought to have been crueler. I just knew there was something about him!”

“So did I.”

“You did? I always thought . . .” Her words trailed off as she peered at me. And then she got up and came close to hand me a handkerchief.

I waved it off. Little good it would do me now. I swiped at the tears dripping down my cheeks.

“I really truly did always hate him,” she insisted.

“He was going to stay. He told us that himself, just yesterday. He was going to do all the bills and all the correspondence and help me color my illustrations, and I was going to be able to help father with his research. He was quite wonderful, really, with papers and people—”

“People?”

“—and roofs and—”

“Roofs?”

“—and servants and—”

“What did he do with the servants?”

“He did everything—everything I’d never done. And then he just . . . Now he’s gone.”

She gathered me into her arms and let me weep.

I’d had one perfect day in which I’d believed there might yet be hope. I had been led to dream there might be more for me. But now it was gone. I was relegated to the bills, relegated to correspondence, and to wax flowers. The rector’s words echoed in my thoughts.
“I might have just kept on doing what I
thought I ought to. How liberating it is to realize
that I don’t have to anymore.”

What if I didn’t have to keep on doing those things either? What if I could choose? Why should I have to figure out how to make wax flowers? Or knit them? Or twist blossoms from crepe paper?

Because those kinds of books paid—that’s why. And if we wanted to keep ourselves in food, then we needed the money.

Mr. Trimble was gone, and I had my work back, but now I was ruined for it. I wanted more. Or
less
, to be accurate about it. I wanted less of what wasn’t botany and more that was science. I wanted to be recognized for my work. I wanted to be published.

In short, I’d accomplished what I’d set out to do. My wish had been granted, I’d gotten rid of Mr. Trimble. But I no longer wanted what I’d had. What was wrong with me?

Whatever it was couldn’t be cured by tinctures or tea. Nor could it be cured by study. I found that I fairly despised the very plants that had once given me so much pleasure. I marched past stubbled fields and open meadows without suffering the temptation to pick even one plant.

I took a hard look at the notes and specimens and illustrations
that had once more grown into piles on the desk around me. What good had any of my work done me? What good had it done anyone? Was there nothing of any lasting meaning or value? Had I made the world a better place through my efforts or given anyone a better, truer glimpse of God?

My father walked by the desk one day as I was gazing at a specimen. “There you are. I was wondering, could you help me with something?”

Is that all I was good for? Helping someone
else
do something? “Yes, of course.” Is this all that I could expect from life? Even the two men who had proposed to me had couched that honor in terms of my assisting them. Did no one want me for who I was instead of for what I could do?

And why was it that I was expected to help everyone else and no one was expected to help me? That didn’t seem quite fair. Christian duty, of course, required sacrifice on the part of everyone, but if that was the case, then everyone ought to be sacrificing something and everyone’s needs would in turn be taken care of. But it felt as if I were the only one doing the difficult bits while everyone else reaped the benefits of my labor.

All in all, I had been in much better spirits when I hadn’t been aware just how much I was being taken advantage of! My attempt at pretending an interest in marriage had ruined me for reality.

Father received a letter from Mr. Trimneltonbury a week after his abrupt departure. He handed it to me after he was done with it, but I simply dropped it into the dustbin.

“Rather extraordinary, really. Imagine, we had the son of an earl here under our roof the whole time.”

Yes. Rather extraordinary that he idled away his hours writing letters and firing cooks and fixing roofs. And quite extra
ordinary that I should have believed him to be who he said he was. A sheep farmer. A colonial. An honorable man.

“I must say he was a fine young fellow, though.” He glanced over at me. “He did some good work here.”

I said nothing.

“I rather miss him. Don’t you?”

I closed my book, stood, and shook out my skirts. “I think I’ll go for a ramble.”