Like a Flower in Bloom (5 page)

Being closer to the Admiral’s abode than our own, I determined to put the matter directly to him. He lived at Woodside,
a dignified sandstone house with a gabled roof. There was a window on either side of the central door and three on the second story. It was entirely respectable and quite unlike our own timber-framed house, which had three chimneys and hipped roofs that sprouted from all sides of the structure in all directions.

The butler answered the door, after which he showed me into my uncle’s study. Though several books lay open upon his desk and he was in the process of writing, there were none of the stacks of opened books or scattered papers among which I was used to working.

He glanced up and then stood, putting down his pen with a grunt. “My dear girl.”

I greeted him in return.

“I congratulate you upon coming to your senses where the topic of matrimony is concerned. What can I do for you?”

“I’ve come to learn what time I’m to go to that dinner you mentioned in your letter.”

“Why, it starts at eight! I’ll come for you at half past seven. I know you’re used to dining rather earlier than is fashionable, but you’ll soon become used to it.”

By the hour of eight, I was usually climbing the stairs to my bedroom.

His glance took in my shooting jacket and the vasculum slung across my shoulder. He half rose from his chair and looked over his desk toward my feet. “May I make a suggestion, my dear?” He cleared his throat and at my nod continued, “There is no way in which to be delicate about this matter, so I shall simply say it.”

“Please do.”

“Eccentricities aren’t well tolerated in society. Do you have anything more . . . stylish that you can wear this evening?”

“I’ve something I wore to London just last year, when Father went to address the Botanical Association. Remember, you urged me to get something new?”

“Splendid. These things require uniforms of a sort, and I do not wish to see you falter upon your first foray.”

“I do not intend to. As you’ve said, it’s long past time that I should venture out into society.”

I was gratified to see that he almost smiled. “Quite right. I’ve high hopes for this campaign!”

Having concluded my visit to the Admiral, I walked back by way of Cats Clough. For good reason
clough
rhymed with
rough
. The term designated a steep valley that was rugged enough to require some care in traversing, though there was always something there of interest for the finding. I was accompanied on my ramble by the sounds of hunting horns and dogs barking away off in the distance. As long as they did not seem to be approaching, I typically paid them no mind. What the stalkers and hunters did was their own business, though it was a shame they always seemed to leave a trail of destruction in their passing.

I was astonished how very clearly one could see by the day’s full sun. Without putting much thought into it, I soon collected an arm’s worth of corn daisies. Their yellow, white-tipped petals always cheered me, and aside from that, my father had asked for some just several days before.

But oughtn’t Mr. Trimble be the one to provide what was needed? It seemed a waste to simply discard them all, so I settled on the idea that I would place them in a jug on the mantel, and if Mr. Trimble took that to mean he should bring them to my father’s attention, so much the better.

But
that
, I vowed, would be the last bit of aid I would give him!

I climbed up the clough and had just started off on the road
toward home when I saw some cream-colored, trumpet-shaped greater bindweed in bloom. The name made one think there ought to be a lesser bindweed somewhere, but if there was, I had never heard of it. Pausing, I considered whether I ought to pick some when I heard the scuff of a footstep on the road.

Glancing up, I saw a stranger approach. Though he carried a vasculum, I did not recognize him. As he came abreast of me, he took care to pass to the other side of the road, but once there, he did not walk on past. That is, he seemed to want to, but each time he took a step or two in that direction, he ended in coming right back. He opened his mouth twice, as if he meant to say something, but both times, he swallowed his words instead. Just when I thought him determined to continue with his walk, he pivoted to face me. “You must think me terribly rude . . . or dreadfully forward.” His gaze was darting everywhere but toward my face.

“I can’t say what I think of you. I don’t even know you.” Though, from his earnest, even features and open manner, I presumed him to be a decent man.

“I am the new rector, Mr. Hopkins-Whyte, come to you from Northumberland.”

The new rector? Perhaps that accounted for the way his fair hair had been swept straight away from his brow . . . though it had relaxed a bit into a wave as it approached his ears and curled altogether where it touched the collar of his coat.

I nodded. “Miss Charlotte Withersby.”

“Perhaps I ought to have waited to have someone introduce us properly, but then might you not have thought the new rector a bit pretentious if he did not wish to meet one of his parishioners?” He patted the vasculum that hung from his shoulder the wrong way around. “I see that you are a botanist, and I like to think that I am one too. But then I considered that perhaps
you wished to accomplish your ramble in peace, and an intrusion upon your privacy would be quite impolite . . .”

His pause seemed to offer a sort of apology, although I could not quite decipher what he meant to apologize for. “I can see now that I ought to have passed on by as I meant to do at first. Only . . . I was hoping to add some specimens to my collections, and I wonder if that is not hawkweed you have there in your arms?”

“Hawkweed?”

“They have yellow, tightly-packed flower heads.” He was staring pointedly at my daisies.

“Yes . . . but these”—I lifted my blossoms toward him—“are corn daisies.”

He fumbled with the opening of his vasculum. From it he pulled a well-worn copy of Hooker’s
British Flora
. “I can’t quite seem to work out how to use these tables. . . .”

“Perhaps an illustrated guide would be more useful.” If he had one, he could never have mistaken a corn daisy for hawkweed.

“Perhaps. But I’m a rector. I ought to be an expert in botany by now. Least that’s what everyone thinks. People seem to assume that being a clergyman necessitates an interest in God’s creation. Not that I have no interest. I do. I can assure you that I do. But I can’t tell you the trouble I had back in my old parish for not being keener on this sort of thing.”

“In spite of what everyone seems to think, this sort of thing takes some time to master.”

He sighed. “So I’ve gathered.” A ghost of a smile seemed to curl his lips. “Gathered. Look there: I’ve gone and made a joke.”

A full-fledged smile swept his face, and I could not help but return it. “How long have you been on your ramble?”

“An hour.”

An hour with nothing to show for it. His vasculum was empty.
“Why don’t you take some of these, then?” I separated out several of the better corn daisy specimens and placed them into his vasculum.

“That’s quite generous of you. What did you say they were again?”

I told him once more.

“I ought to have known, I suppose. I assure you I’m much better at sermons than I am at botany.”

I hoped so.

“Maybe I should try to find some actual hawkweed since that’s what started me off on this ramble.”

“If there are any yet still in bloom, you might find some over near Salterswall.”

His face brightened. “Perhaps I’ll be better at this than I had feared! Would you . . . I hesitate to ask this since I’ve only just met you, but you seem to know quite a bit about the area’s flora . . . Would you ever consider coming to the rectory to view my collection?”

“I would.” I had not seen many specimens from Northumberland.

“You would? You would! Well, that’s . . . that’s very kind. Thank you. I suppose . . .” He glanced down the road. “I suppose I should try to find that hawkweed of which you spoke. Good day. I hope to see you Sunday.”

I
t was only after I had returned home and put my flowers into a jug that I turned my thoughts to the evening ahead. I decided I might as well change into my London attire and so be ready for my uncle when he came. I had not worn it since the previous year and was dismayed by how much dust had accumulated on it in the interim. I took my hairbrush to it and soon found that, through a combination of beating and brushing, most of it came off.

I’d forgotten how very little I had liked wearing it, the collar being too stiff and the arms being too tight, but I had told my uncle I would, so I vowed to withstand the suffering. My room, with its northern exposure, was becoming quite gloomy, so I went downstairs to wait, a treatise on British brambles in hand.

While I wished to avoid Father and Mr. Trimble, the sitting room had been entirely taken over by quires of drying-paper and plant presses. In order to sit anywhere I would have had to have found alternate locations for it all. I went into the parlor instead.

Father was nowhere to be seen, but Mr. Trimble was bent over a specimen, knife in hand. He stood as I entered. “Your father is taking a bit of a lie down at my suggestion, but he offers his best wishes for tonight. On my own behalf, I had hoped that I would see you before you left.”

“I am afraid I cannot return the sentiment.”

He stared at me for a moment as if rendered speechless, and then he laughed. “At least you’re honest. A man would always know where he stood with you.” He resumed his seat. “Your father told me I should speak with you, first, about a discourse on the classification of bog orchids and, second, on where to find a bill from . . .” He consulted a sheet of paper on his desk. “A bill from a Mr. Denton.”

The butcher. “Father has been quite clear about his wishes. Both those items have now fallen under your purview.”

“If you could just tell me where I might find the bill and the discourse, I would be happy to search them out.”

I surveyed the various piles that covered all the flat surfaces in the room. “I should think it would become quite clear if you simply looked for them.”

“I
have
looked for them. What I’ve found are—” he looked about and then grabbed at a pile that had been accumulating atop an overstuffed footstool—“piles of papers just like this one. They’re everywhere!”

I gestured for the papers he held, and he placed them into my hand. I took a glance at them. “These are the Fs.”

“The . . . ?”

“The Fs. Those things like extra foolscap and bulletins from the National Fern Society and letters from Mr. Fuller, one of my father’s correspondents.”

“But the one is for writing, the other is a society, and the third is a person.”

“Exactly.”

“So . . . should I happen upon a treatment of foxgloves, you would have placed it here as well?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. They’d be under D.”

“For?”

“Their proper name, Mr. Trimble.
Digitalis
.” I peered more closely at him. “Did you not sleep well? You look rather pale.”

“Tell me, Miss Withersby, should I expect to find twenty-six of these sorts of piles? One for each letter of the alphabet?”

“It’s entirely possible.”

“And where would you suggest that I look for that bill?”

“In the B pile.”

“B for . . .”

“Or perhaps might it be under D for
Denton
?” I could not resist needling him. Maybe because my collar was so tight.

“I think it would help me a great deal if you would sketch me a map of your filing scheme.”

“I could, but that would be assisting you, wouldn’t it? And that’s something I’ve been told I’m not to do. So I hope you’ll understand when I say that I won’t.” I made a point of flipping through the pages of my treatise.

He took my measure through those blue eyes of his. “Have I done something to offend you?”

“You? Not at all, Mr. Trimble.”

“I’m so glad because it seemed as if—”

“It’s just that I find it extraordinary and quite patronizing to be told to give over to you—a man with whom we have just become acquainted—my life’s work and that of my father and then be expected to
help
you in the doing of it. As if all that I’ve done, all the letters I’ve written, all the pennies I’ve pinched, all the . . . all the . . . all the
pails
I’ve placed beneath all the leaks in the roof didn’t matter at all.”

“I can assure you—”

“And not only that, but I’ve been writing nearly all of his—” I stopped myself.

“His?”

“I’ve been writing . . . writing . . .
books
and such to pay our bills. He’s working on an illustrated series, for which I’ve been doing the illustrations as well, but it’s a large undertaking and is being financed by subscription, and though it’s quite comprehensive, I don’t expect that it will provide any more money than his previous works have. And I don’t suppose that you are proficient in the drawing of orchids?”

“I can’t say that I’ve ever—”

“So I’m to leave my illustrations half-finished and my work half-done in order to find someone to marry?”

“I never said—”

“And leave all of my father’s work in the hands of someone who doesn’t even know the proper name for a foxglove?”

“It was just a joke, I assure you.”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s exactly how I feel. As if all that I’ve done and all that I’ve accomplished are to be set aside for some more suitable assistant simply because I’ve got
pistils
!”

“Pistils . . . ?”

“As if they’re somehow considered less worthy than
stamens
!”

“Stamens . . . ?”

“Can you see how this is quite enraging?”

“I can see that you’re highly incensed.”

“Extremely.”

He stood once more and then bowed. “Extremely incensed. I think it more accurate, perhaps, to say that it is you whom I am ultimately assisting.”

If he hadn’t usurped my position then I might have appreciated the sentiment. “Thank you, Mr. Trimble.” At long last, I
had seen a glimpse of the man I had come to know through our correspondence.

“So . . . would you do it, then? Make a map of your piles?”

I felt my face flush. “Have you not understood a word I’ve said? My answer is no!”

For once, someone pulled at the bell at a most opportune time.

Mr. Trimble nodded toward the front hall. “Shall I . . . ?”

“Please.” I picked up the treatise once more, with the intention of actually reading it this time, but the Admiral strode into the room. He came to a dead stop as he took my measure from head to toe. “I had hoped you would be ready by now, my dear.”

I stood. “I am.”

“I rather thought . . . That is, I had hoped . . . Didn’t we speak of the subject of uniforms just this afternoon?”

“This is what I wore to London last year.”

“Yes . . . but haven’t you something that you wore while you were
in
London? Something that . . . glitters or shines?”

Glitters or shines? Were the two rows of brass buttons on my bodice not shiny enough? “I’ve just this. But it’s only a year old and very sturdy.”

Mr. Trimble broke into our conversation. And rather rudely, in my opinion. “What your uncle means to say is that you’re wearing a traveling dress, Miss Withersby, when what is expected at this time of the day is an evening gown.”

“Quite right, young man. Thank you.”

“I don’t see why this can’t serve that purpose. If I wear it in the evening, then it must, by definition, be an evening gown, mustn’t it?”

Mr. Trimble was shaking his head. “I think you’ll find your definition is rather more literal than what is generally accepted.”

“It serves its purpose, does it not?”

My uncle was scowling now. “The proper uniform for the proper job, dear Charlotte. You can’t steer the ship if you’re dressed as a midshipman.”

“Proper or not, this is the most recent addition to my wardrobe.”

Mr. Trimble inserted himself again. “And . . . what about . . . What would you wear to church for instance?”

“Just a . . . just a dress.”

“Perhaps your ‘just a dress’ would be a better choice.”

“If you say so.”

“I do.”

I directed my gaze toward my uncle. “Then you’ll have to allow me a few more minutes.”

Really, I couldn’t see what all the fuss was about. The Admiral had asked for something stylish, and the London outfit was the most recent purchase I had made. Not that I had wanted it, but it had been he himself who had insisted upon a new dress when he’d found out we were going. What’s more, he’d taken it upon himself to have it made. But I took it off with a sigh and debated my remaining choices.

The first, a green striped gown, was embroidered with primroses and trimmed with ribbon. The second, in light blue, looked as if it had a jacket though it had been sewn to the bodice and wouldn’t even open. It was really quite infuriating.

Being that it was rather chill, I settled on the one with the useless jacket, though it took some time to fasten, seeing as how I had to turn my back to the mirror and do up the hooks with my hook holder in one hand and the hook fastener in the other. It had taken me quite some time to devise the method, but I’d been left without recourse after Mother had died. The hooks done up, I took out my bonnet, which looked very much like an open-ended vasculum, and tied the ribbons at my chin.

If I had expected smiles or congratulations upon my return to the parlor, I would have been sorely disappointed.

The Admiral frowned. “You’ve got nothing then with . . . more . . . material? Or spangles?”

“Spangles? I should think not.”

“Perhaps . . . perhaps we should stay in tonight, my dear. I could have a note sent and—”

“That will never do.” Mr. Trimble had been staring at me, and now he stepped forward as he nodded toward my skirt. “That’s a day dress, not an evening dress. You need something with more . . . Are you wearing
any
petticoats beneath that?”

I didn’t see why he should be lecturing me on fashion, considering he, himself, was a sheep farmer. With his height and those broad shoulders of his, one might have accused him of looming over me. It made me feel distinctly . . . odd. “Petticoats? Why?”

“Because that’s what’s done. Least it was when I left for New Zealand, and I haven’t noticed that fashion is much changed.”

I wasn’t wearing any petticoats. I detested them. They always got caught up round my ankles, unless, of course, I wore those I’d used when I was much younger, but they were too tight about the waist. “How am I to do anything if I wear all those skirts?”

“The point is not to do something, the point is to—”

“I’m to do
nothing
? Then why am I even going?”

“That’s beside the . . .” He was peering with great interest at a place just below my bosom. “Is that a . . . What
is
that exactly? That splotch on your bodice?”

I peered down to try to see it, but my sight was blocked by my bosom. “I couldn’t say for certain.”

I took up the pocket glass Mr. Trimble had left on the desk and held up a black book behind it. Aiming it at my bosom, I recognized the stain immediately in the reflection. “It’s a bit
of India ink. As a rule, I wear a smock when I work on my illustrations, but there was that day last month—”

“India ink?” Mr. Trimble’s words were indignant. “The gown is ruined.”

I scoffed. “It’s not so bad as that. I only got it several years ago. It’s still quite serviceable.”

“If the spot can’t be got out, then it’s ruined.”

“Well, it won’t be got out tonight, and it’s just a small spot.” I looked into the pocket glass again. “It’s hardly longer than my thumb. Just a smear, really, and I don’t see why—”

“Then at least do us all the favor of wearing some sort of mantle. You do have one of those, don’t you?”

“I do. Of course I do.”

The Admiral cleared his throat. His face had gone flush. “If we do not hurry we will be late, and punctuality is the duty of subjects.”

I ran up the stairs and grabbed my mantle from its hook. And I put on a petticoat as well.

In the front hall, Mr. Trimble stopped me with a hand to my arm. Untying the ribbons that bound my hat to my head, he took it off. “This is a carriage bonnet.”

“It can’t be. Why, I ask you, would I have purchased a carriage bonnet when we have no carriage? The very idea is ridiculous.”

“It’s just that it’s meant for a daylight excursion instead of . . . Never mind. Better to go without one. Perhaps . . .” He drew me into the parlor and dashed toward the Wardian case in which I was growing moth orchids. Lifting the lid, he broke one off its stem.

“But that’s . . . that’s my orchid! I’ll thank you not to concern yourself with things that aren’t any of your . . . your . . .
concern
!” I’d worked for months to grow it so that I’d have a living specimen from which to draw. But I suppose it didn’t matter anymore if I wasn’t to be allowed to draw anything ever again.

He pushed it into my hair just above my ear. “As we decided earlier in the evening, Miss Withersby, it is you whom I am ultimately assisting.”