Like a Flower in Bloom (29 page)

A letter arrived for me the following day. I was occupied by finishing Mr. Trimble’s drawing of that spider orchid. I couldn’t seem to get it quite right. Miss Hansford had given the mail to my father, and he passed a letter to me. “From Edward. I rather miss him.”

“What . . . what did you say?”

“Edward. It’s from Edward, and I said I missed him.”

It was the first time my father had bothered to remember one of his fine young fellows’ names. A tremor shook my hand, and my paintbrush spread a swath of red across the paper before I could stop it. I would have to start all over. Unfastening the paper from the easel, I tore it in two and then crumpled the halves and threw them into the fire.

“Aren’t you going to read it?”

If I had been alone, I’m not certain what I would have done with it, but for my father’s sake I slit the seal and began to read.

Dear Miss Withersby,

I hardly know what to say or where to begin. I realize I have behaved terribly, and yet, in my defense, I presented myself as I truly am: a sheep farmer from New Zealand with a passion for botany.

Everything I told you about myself was true. My family is profligate. Our fortunes have diminished to a regrettable level. My brother’s gambling led to the unfortunate circumstance of his proposing a duel to protect his honor. To my family’s eternal shame, I tried to stop him—for which efforts I was exiled to a family holding in New Zealand. It was in boarding the ship for the colony that I met your father.

I did try to tell him I was a Trimneltonbury, but even during that brief, first meeting he was already calling me Trimble. I don’t care to be known as my father’s son, and so Trimble seemed as good a name as any other.

You know everything about my time in New Zealand. You know I discovered a penchant for sheep and how I further developed my interest in botany. Though you may try to convince yourself otherwise, please know that I also developed a penchant for you.

While I told you no lies, I did not tell you all my truths, and I must own my faults. My duty and affections are engaged to Lady Caroline and were before I left. I would ask you to forgive me, but I have not acted honorably and do not expect that you would grant such a favor. To do so would be a forbearance so great that I would have no other option but to call it a kindness. And that I do not deserve. My only regret from my time in Overwich is the way in which it ended.

Please do not forever hold my sins against me, and I shall strive to make myself worthy of your kind regards.

I remain ever, as always, sincerely yours,

Edward Trimneltonbury

“What does he say?”

“Nothing.” I bent toward the fire and fed it to the flames, as I should have done from the first.

I was rummaging through my dresser later that day when I put a hand to that sketch he had once done of me as a bluebell. I traced his bold, graceful strokes with a finger and then pressed the paper to my bosom as tears leaked from my eyes.

A bluebell.

I considered the drawing for a moment and then propped it up against the wall. Such talent shouldn’t be put to waste.

O
n New Year’s Day, I roused myself from bed to accompany Father on the first ramble of the new year. It had been my mother’s favorite day. Though there was hardly anything to be seen and nothing worth collecting, she had always spoken with delight about what was to come. Of the flowers that would bloom in the spring. Of species just waiting to be discovered.

She had energized our family with her enthusiasms and her vigor. But as if she were a specimen poorly pressed, I was at pains to come up with any adequate description of her essence. She had lived among us, she had enlivened us once. Now she was gone. It was difficult to find much to anticipate in the year that lay ahead; it seemed to promise nothing more than the years that lay behind us.

It was one of those days that dawns heavy, morning mists rising from the fields as clouds descended at the same time. Caught up in trying to find a Lenten rose, I came to gradually realize I had left my father behind.

I hurried back to him and held some tree branches out of the way. “I’m sorry. I wasn’t thinking. Forgive me.”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

We did, eventually, find a field of Lenten roses. I bent to take up some samples while my father rested as he leaned against a fence.

“I think, my dear Charlotte, that perhaps I was wrong in pressing you to marry. That said, I am quite capable of managing my work. I wasn’t at first . . . after your mother died. If it had not been for you, I don’t know what might have happened to us . . . what would have happened to me. But you’ve been carrying the burden of our work—” he paused to clear his throat—“the burden of
my
work, for far too long. Though I can’t deny that I enjoy your company and appreciate your contributions, when it comes to it, I’m a man grown, who ought to be able to look after himself.”

“I didn’t mind doing it.”

“I know you didn’t.”

“I wanted to do it.”

“I know you did. Your mother would have been so very proud of you. But the point is, you should not have had to do it all. Not by yourself. For that I am very sorry.”

Slipping my arm through his, we proceeded on together.

The Admiral paid us his weekly visit that Friday.

He greeted my father with a glance, but it was me upon whom his gaze settled. “I’ve come to offer my congratulations.”

Congratulations?
“To me?” Had I accepted
another
proposal?

“To you.” He was very nearly smiling as he placed a copy of the
Proceedings of the Botanical Society of London
before me and opened it to the Letters to the Editor section.

“What is it?” My father came over to join us.

“It’s a letter to the editor by Charlotte. The first of the bunch!”

By me? “I never . . . I never submitted one.” But in spite of all knowledge to the contrary, there it was. The letter I had thought Mr. Trimble was writing on behalf of himself had my name beneath it, not his. Miss Charlotte Withersby. “I’ve been published?”

The Admiral clapped me on the back. “You’ve been published.”

Father took the journal from him and read it, nodding all the way. Several
Yes, yes, I see
s marking his progress. “Very fine work! If I weren’t so involved with my volumes, you might have convinced me to join you in the investigation of distribution.” He took the proceedings with him over to the sofa and began to page through it.

I’d been published. My own words, in my own name. True, Mr. Trimble had cut their number by half, but the result was more than I might have hoped for. I wished he were here to thank.

“In any case, it seems I’ve been prevailed upon to hold a dinner party.”

He had? “By whom?”

“Your Miss Templeton. She said it would be just the thing to help you get over Mr. Trimble’s departure.”

“I don’t need to be helped to get over anything, as I haven’t gotten under anything to begin with.”

He raised a brow, as if he could not agree with me.

“It is, however, quite kind of her to think of me.”

He rocked back on his heels as he gazed about the room. “And what are you working on now?”

“Something I had noticed this summer past. But with all of the parties and balls I’ve been attending . . . and Mr. Trimble’s presence . . . I hadn’t had the chance to write it up for Father.”

“Why don’t you write it up for yourself?”

“I should think the idea is more important than the person
who writes it. With Father’s name on it, the society ought to publish it immediately.”

“Contrary to family opinion, I never despised botany, my dear. It’s simply that I liked sailing better. I’m a fellow of the Royal Society, and—”

“You are?”

“I am. Don’t be so astonished. I always welcomed botanists to my staff when I served in Her Majesty’s Navy. And I’ve continued to follow the development of our science.”

“You did? You have?”

He continued to speak. “In my opinion, there is nothing so vexing as an important opinion muddled by an obscure presentation. Perhaps
I
could help your father with his writing. If I can help lend a certain—frankly, needed—clarity to his words, then I would consider that I have done my duty by science.”

“His works lack in clarity?”

“There appears to be an unconscious kind of obfuscation at work when a writer sits too close to his subject.”

“But . . . the author of most of those articles was me.”

There was no little kindness in his gaze as he looked upon me. “Yes. I know.”

“Are you saying I’m not a good writer? That I’ve been doing my father a disservice?” There was a quaver to my voice that I couldn’t control.

“No, dear child. I’m saying that sometimes the danger is to gaze unseeing at the solution that’s right in front of you.” He coughed.

“I was only trying to help you, in bringing you out into society, but I can see I have done you wrong. In spite of society’s dictates, in spite of convention, this is your calling, just as the sea was mine. And it has done neither of us any good to pretend otherwise, has it. That doesn’t mean I can’t take
pleasure in a bit of botany now and then or that you might not be able to find some happiness in the companionship of a good man—just so long as I can keep my sloop and just so long as you can keep on with your work. On our own terms. Not on anyone else’s.”

I rose on my toes and kissed him on the cheek. “You are a good man.”

He harrumphed, though the tops of his cheeks had gone pink and he fumbled about his pockets for his pipe. “Good man in need of a good smoke, I should say, so I’ll take myself away.”

“Not too far, please.”

Miss Templeton came the next day, a Saturday, to plan the Admiral’s dinner party. She tried to cheer me with her commentary on the town’s doings, and I tried to cheer her with evidence of my command of etiquette.

We stood together at the back of the Admiral’s parlor a week later, during the evening of his party. “You would have made quite a fine Mrs. Stansbury or Mrs. Rector, Miss Withersby. I have to say that you are much improved from the first night we met.”

I linked my arm through hers. “And I must say that I wish you didn’t have to be a Mrs. Anybody.”

She sighed as she laid her head on my shoulder. “I know. I share your sentiment, but one must do what one must do.”

“Have you decided, then, on a husband?”

“I am left with the son of Father’s friend, so I shall have to make him fall in love with me.”

“That should not be difficult.”

She patted my arm. “You are too kind, Miss Withersby. I’ve always said so.” A certain vigor and enthusiasm seemed absent
from her words, and her gaze was fixed on the far corner, where her father was speaking to Mr. Stansbury.

After all of the dinners and concerts and other events that I had attended, the image that remained pressed into my memory was that of Miss Templeton and Mr. Stansbury together. His head bent toward her. She with her chin tipped toward him, laughing. And that gave me an idea. She had tried, in every way possible, to help me with my plan. Why, then, should I not do the same for her?

I asked the Admiral to take me to Overwich Hall on Monday. As he excused himself to walk down by the river, I asked for Mr. Stansbury and was escorted out to the glasshouse. When my presence was announced, Mr. Stansbury looked up from a notebook in which he was writing. A smile lit his eyes.

“I hope I’m not intruding.”

“Not at all. What might I do for you?”

Though I had rehearsed what I wanted to say, I found I could not quite remember how I ought to start. So I dithered. “The orchids are doing well?”

He turned from me to look out at them. “They are. You were right. Given the proper setting, they’ve begun to thrive. I have much to thank you for.”

I did not feel the need to hear of his gratitude, and remembering the topic of our last conversation, I did not wish to linger on those things he owed me, so I resorted to the Admiral’s favorite trick. “There is no way in which to be delicate about this matter, so I shall simply say it.”

“By all means. I would hope that after all of this time we are friends enough for that.”

“I was so hoping you would say that. Or something similar.”

One of his brows peaked.

“You had once mentioned to me your . . . unfortunate . . . your . . .” How did one speak of such things?

Comprehension bloomed on his face. “Ah. You speak of my condition.”

“Yes. Your condition. What I’ve come to find out is how certain you are of that diagnosis. What I need to know is . . . well . . . sometimes, you see, you can think a plant quite sterile, and all of a sudden, one spring, for reasons unknown, the snow disappears to reveal acres of them. Do you see what I mean?”

“Yes. But no. Such is not the case with me. I will never be able to reproduce.”

“But how do you know it?”

“I have several doctors’ opinions on the matter, and they were all quite certain.”

“My father is a scientist, Mr. Stansbury, and I hope you won’t think me impertinent, but on occasion, even he has been mistaken about matters in which he has no little expertise.”

“I appreciate your concern. Beyond the doctors’ diagnoses, you might say I put their theory to the test.”

“So . . . you mean to say you’ve proved it?”

“In a manner of speaking.” He paused as he cleared his throat. “You are a most uncommon woman, Miss Withersby. You do understand that this doesn’t fall within the definition of polite conversation.”

“I do know that, Mr. Stansbury. And I do apologize, and I hope you won’t feel the need to protect my finer sensibilities, for I’ve discovered these past months that I truly don’t have any.”

He laughed. “How I would have enjoyed being married to you. We might have caused quite a scandal saying all the things we’re not meant to say.”

“It
is
rather a shame. I always found you quite congenial.”

“Thank you. That’s one of the kindest things anyone has ever said about me. Please believe that if I was not certain of my condition, then I would not have felt compelled to tell you.”

“I am so very glad. I cannot tell you how relieved I am.”

“Relieved that I can never—?”