CHAPTER TEN
And Two Makes Six
Thanks to George Brearly’s entertaining stories of his time at the University of Melbourne, the rest of lunch went by smoothly. Frances, in fact, was so engrossed by his colourful and often gruesome tales, that by the time she left the table, she had quite forgotten about the earlier altercation with her aunt. Not only were her spirits improved, but without realising it at the time, she was completely smitten with the charismatic George Brearly.
In such a state of light-heartedness, Frances followed the party out the front entrance of Rosewood House to a large expanse of gravel drive, where Louisa’s carriage stood waiting to return the two women home to Wintersleigh. In spite of her memorable adventure at Rosewood House, Frances’s energy was waning, and she was looking forward to catching up on her sleep. While she waited for Louisa and Michael to end their quietly animated conversation, Frances glanced curiously about her. Having stumbled upon Rosewood House in the middle of the night, she hadn’t had the opportunity to view any part of the estate. As she now surveyed the building and gardens before her, she realised how beautiful they both were.
Rosewood House, or ‘Rosewood,’ as Michael preferred to call it, wasn’t as large or imposing as her aunt’s house, nor were its grounds as vast, but it was still an impressive looking Georgian building. It was constructed from sandstone and was festooned with a combination of ivy and rambling rose that crept languidly around the north-facing windows. The flowers were now in blossom, and it seemed to Frances that the facade of the house was bathed in a profusion of pink blooms. Frances breathed in the sweet perfume of rose that lingered in the air, before taking in every detail of the rest of the idyllic garden. English lavender, she noticed, was a prominent feature in the garden, and not only did it border the gravel drive, but it adorned the area near the path and front door. It too was in flower, and as Frances bent over one of the bushes to sniff the redolent, purple flowers, the sound of crunching gravel diverted her attention. She hastily straightened up and squinted through the glare of summer sunlight, just in time to see George Brearly approaching her. Her heart skipped a beat under the gentle scrutiny of his gaze.
‘I see you’re admiring the ol’ paddock,’ George said, bending down and sniffing some lavender. He wrinkled his nose up in disapproval.
‘It’s hard not to, Mr Brearly,’ Frances said, looking up once more at the luxurious carpet of roses. ‘It’s one of most beautiful gardens I’ve ever seen.’
‘Do you think so? Humph. I’m not one for gardens myself. Too much work involved. I’m more of a gravel man. Put it everywhere, I say. It doesn’t need watering or pruning. Listen,’ he added, looking about him furtively, ‘if you want some of those purple things, I can get you some.’
‘The lavender, you mean? Oh, would you? I’d like that.’
‘Consider it done,’ George declared gallantly.
Frances smiled as her new acquaintance tried pulling off pieces with his bare hands. He soon discovered though that lavender stems were not so easy to snap, and in his growing frustration, he practically began wrestling with the disobliging bush. He was so engrossed with his efforts that he didn’t hear Michael approach him from behind.
‘George,’ Michael said, hands on hips, ‘what in heaven’s name are you doing?’
George was unperturbed by his brother’s demanding voice and menacing stance, and as a result, the battle between man and plant carried on regardless. ‘I’m getting Miss Norwood here some lavender,’ he said in muffled tones. ‘What does it look like I’m doing?’
‘Destroying my garden. Now if you’re that keen to get Miss Norwood some flowers, by all means go inside and get some scissors.’
To Frances’s astonishment, a compliant George gave Michael a playful salute, before darting inside. His departure left Frances and the doctor alone in awkward silence.
‘It seems as though you have found yourself an admirer,’ Michael said at length.
Frances anxiously looked about her. ‘Where’s my aunt? I could have sworn I saw her a minute ago.’
‘She’s taking some cuttings. She pretty nearly does it every time she comes here. I daresay I won’t have anything left by the time she’s finished.’
He attempted a smile, but Frances did not return it. It was hard to explain, but at that moment she resented Michael, mainly because he had not informed her about his impending marriage to her cousin. She looked behind her, secretly hoping for George’s return, but he was nowhere to be seen.
‘I can only imagine what you must be thinking about me,’ Michael began abruptly, ‘but please don’t think I did it on purpose. I should have told you about the wedding, but I didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.’
‘Please, Doctor Brearly,’ Frances assured him, ‘you don’t owe me any sort of explanation. Your engagement to my cousin has absolutely nothing to do with me.’
‘Allow me to disagree with that, Miss Norwood,’ Michael broke in. ‘I should have informed you.’ He gave Frances a half-smile. ‘Although you and I have only been acquainted for a short period of time, I feel…’ He paused to remove his hands from his pockets. ‘Forgive the presumption, but I feel as though we have become friends.’ Frances smiled, and taking this as a sign of agreement, he tried to finish his explanation. ‘This being the case, I should have been more open with you, and told you about Agnes. I tried to tell you on several occasions, but for some reason…’
His sentence was interrupted by the sound of a carriage rumbling its way along the gravel drive towards the house. Both Frances and Michael looked in the direction of the approaching conveyance, and saw it materialise from beneath a billowing cloud of dust.
‘That’s odd,’ Michael said, knitting his eyebrows together in consternation. ‘I’m not expecting any visitors or patients this afternoon, especially in that carriage. I wonder who it is.’
Frances was equally curious to know who the visitor was, but unlike Michael, who was setting off towards the now stationary vehicle, Frances hovered near Rosewood’s front entrance. The door of the carriage suddenly burst open, and while the occupants alighted from the vehicle, a stunned Frances caught her breath. By this stage George Brearly had emerged from the house brandishing a pair of scissors. He was just about to savage the lavender bush again, when the sight of the two female visitors stopped him in his tracks.
‘By Jove!’ he declared, dropping the scissors to the ground. ‘Damn and botheration.’
Frances turned towards George and noticed with bemusement that his mouth was wide open and that his face was mottled with emotion. As she studied the look of shock on his handsome face, she realised that she had never seen him looking so serious before.
‘When the blazes did she get here?’ he asked in a barely audible voice.
‘About a minute ago.’
‘Did you know she was coming?’ George continued in the same faint voice.
‘No I didn’t,’ Frances replied. ‘If I’d been forewarned, I wouldn’t still be standing here. I would have escaped out the back door.’
‘Sounds awfully good to me. What do you say? Shall we make a dash for it now?’ He turned to her with entreating eyes. ‘Or better still, we could peddle away on your bicycle. If we go now, no-one will ever know we were here.’ He offered her his arm.
‘It’s a tempting offer, Mr Brearly, but I think it’s too late for that.’ She had just made eye contact with one of the visitors. ‘What’s more,’ she added in a confiding tone, ‘my bicycle is lying beside the roadside somewhere on the main road. I won’t bore you with the details of how that happened. As for our guests, I imagine that fleeing from them wouldn’t be considered socially acceptable.’
‘No, I suppose not,’ George admitted. ‘As for the bicycle, fear not for its welfare. We’ll get it.’
Louisa, meanwhile, had heard the sound of the approaching carriage, and beset with her own curiosity, had emerged from around the corner of the house to see who had just arrived. Having caught sight of
the two black-haired women, one of whom was now being enveloped in Michael’s arms, Louisa darted forward with uncharacteristic alacrity, dropping her fuchsia cutting and nearly trampling a shrub in the process. Once she had reached the place where the women were gathered, she clumsily grabbed the young woman who was standing aloof from the hugging couple, and almost knocked her over.
‘Well come on, Frances!’ Louisa cried out over her shoulder, ‘your cousins have just returned from England. Aren’t you going to say something?’
Frances exchanged a meaningful glance with George. ‘I know what I’d like to say,’ she muttered under her breath.
‘Yes, Miss Norwood,’ George affirmed with a grin, ‘but I imagine that wouldn’t be very socially acceptable either.’
Frances returned George’s encouraging smile, and she grudgingly set off to where her cousins Agnes and Charlotte were now standing.
Breakfast at Midnight Page 10
