Perceptions
A Sense of Purpose
Wendy Soliman
Perceptions
A Sense of Purpose
Copyright © Wendy Soliman 2018
Edited by Perry Iles
Cover Design by Jane Dixon-Smith
This e-Book is a work of fiction. While references may be made to actual places or events, the names, characters, incidents, and locations contained are from the author’s imagination and are not a resemblance of actual living or dead persons, business, or events. Any similarities are coincidental.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any method, electronic, mechanical, recording or otherwise without the prior written permission of
The Author – Wendy Soliman
Chapter One
Swindon, Wiltshire: Late Spring, 1880
‘You have to do something, Flora! You absolutely must. You are the only person who dares to tell Grandmamma when she is in the wrong.’
Flora Latimer, companion to the eccentric Dowager Countess of Swindon, had left her charge in her maid’s care and chosen a bench in her favourite corner on the earl’s rose garden in which to while away her free time. The earl’s sisters had interrupted her as she indulged in the luxury of reading for pleasure rather than the improvement of her spiritual well-being. Thomas Hardy’s The Trumpet-Major had received wide acclaim, but would have been deemed forbidden reading in Flora’s parental home, making it all the more compelling as a consequence.
‘What has her ladyship done this time to get you both in such a taking?’ Flora asked, marking her page and closing her book. She smiled at Ladies Emma and Mary, ready to act as a go-between, as she seemed required to do almost on a daily basis. The countess did so enjoy making mischief.
‘We apologise for inconveniencing you when it is clear that you are enjoying a respite in this lovely part of the gardens.’ Emma turned her face up to the sun, her features taut with worry. ‘However, Grandmamma is being quite impossible again and none of us know how to decline her suggestions without giving offence.’
‘I left her in Sandwell’s care less than an hour ago,’ Flora said, raising a brow as she breathed in the heady perfume of a dozen different varieties of roses in early bloom. ‘I assumed she would be resting, even though she insists that she never rests during the day.’
‘We all know that is not true,’ Mary said, smiling. ‘I often walk past her room in the afternoons and her snores rattle the walls.’
‘The fact of the matter is that she sent for me,’ Emma said. ‘I think she waited until you were not there because you are the only one who manages to talk her out of her more bizarre suggestions.’ Emma flashed an indulgent smile. ‘Grandmamma likes to think she is being avant-garde.’
‘Undeniably so.’ Flora managed a serious expression. ‘What shocking suggestion has she come up with this time?’
Flora wished the girls would get to the point and leave her to her book. She enjoyed their company, but they didn’t believe in speaking one sentence when three would suffice, and thought nothing of constantly interrupted one another. Flora was perfectly sure that their latest spat with the countess would prove to be something of nothing. She had left Hardy’s heroine dithering between three suitors and was keen to know which one she would settle for. If she accepted the dashing yet cowardly nephew of the local squire, Flora would lose all patience with the silly girl and leave her to her fate.
‘She insists that I marry in turquoise satin!’ Emma cried, eyes wide with despair.
Flora laughed. ‘Is that all?’
‘All, you call it?’ The girls exchanged a horrified look. ‘You know how Grandmamma can be when she sets her chin in a stubborn manner. There is no challenging her opinions, and I would prefer not to offend her by ignoring her advice. But turquoise satin…’ Emma spread her hands, looking appalled and for once lost for words.
If Emma was so determined not to offend her grandmother, Flora wondered what she expected her to do about the situation. Perhaps a paid companion giving offence was not considered quite so…well, offensive. She thought about her austere, joyless existence as the eldest of the Canon Chancellor of Salisbury Cathedral’s five daughters. It was a life that she had left behind without a backward glance when the position as Lady Swindon’s companion was unexpectedly offered to her. It was also a life that she didn’t have the least desire to return to. Thus, she would have to find a way to settle the dispute without offending anyone’s sensibilities.
She had only been at Beranger Court for four weeks and her position was still temporary. She had become adept at handling the countess’s idiosyncratic behaviour with diplomacy, and on occasion by openly challenging her assertions. The old lady seemed to enjoy butting heads with someone who wasn’t frightened of her. Even so, no one had yet mentioned making Flora’s situation permanent, and until such time as they did, she wasn’t willing to allow any discord within the family’s ranks if it was within her power to prevent it. Given that the dowager countess was usually the source of that discord, it was not unreasonable for the girls to run to her with their troubles—troubles that seemed petty to Flora but would, she knew, be of the utmost importance to the meticulous bride-to-be. Flora’s father expected her to fail and return home with her tail between her legs, willing to marry the dull cleric he deemed suitable and settle down to a life of devout drudgery.
Never!
Everyone here at Beranger Court had made her feel like a valued addition to the household, and had shown her a very different aspect to family life to that which she was accustomed. The earl and his five siblings were affectionately inclined and not afraid to let the world know it. Laugher and frivolity were not frowned upon; pleasurable pursuits actively encouraged. Flora dined with the family and was treated almost as though she was one of them. They included her in their conversations and the girls in particular sought her opinion on any number of subjects. The dowager countess had taken a liking to her—not that she would ever admit it—and Flora had quickly grown content with her lot.
The fact that her gift of second sight had helped to prevent the earl from being trapped into a disastrous marriage hadn’t harmed her cause either, despite the fact that the dashing yet annoyingly sceptical Luke Beranger refused to believe in her powers, such as they were.
‘Grandmamma is quite serious about the turquoise. She claims that it’s a family tradition. She married in turquoise and so, apparently, did our Mama. She will be mortally offended if I do not follow her advice—and yet if I do, I shall be considered de trop. Everyone knows that white is the only colour for a wedding gown. The queen set that trend and everyone who is anyone now follows it.’
‘Did you point that out to her ladyship?’
‘For all the good it did us,’ Emma replied glumly. ‘She refers to the queen as a feeble dwarf who wallows in self-pity just because her husband died years ago.’
‘She makes a fair point,’ Mary added. ‘Grandmamma has remained relatively robust despite the death of our grandfather and then our father, her only child. Her grief manifests itself in her eccentricities, I suppose, and we can none of us deny her them. The queen has a whole brood of children to comfort her. Some might even argue that she shirks her duty by barely being seen in public nowadays and hiding herself away on the Isle of Wight. That is certainly Grandmamma’s opinion. And as for the rumours one hears about that man who acts as her gatekeeper… However, that is not the point.’
‘Turquoise would not suit your colouring, Emma,’ Flora said musingly. At the same time, if the tradition was that important to the old lady, she didn’t think it would be the end of the world if Emma indulged her grandmothe
r’s whim. Clearly, it would cause Emma considerable distress if she didn’t appear on her wedding day in the latest style, so a compromise would have to be found. ‘You, on the other hand, Mary, would look well in it. I am not acquainted with the other ladies whom you have asked to be your bridesmaids, Emma, but—’
‘Of course! That is inspired. Thank you!’ Emma threw her arms around Flora’s neck, almost strangling her. ‘You will meet Miranda Defoe, my closest friend, any day now.’
‘She lives nearby?’
‘Yes, just the other side of Ashton Keynes in a large manor house. I pointed it out to you the last time we went into the village. It’s been closed up for two years now, which is a great pity, but I expect Miranda found the memories too painful, given the sudden death of her Papa, to whom she was devoted.’
‘She is an only child, I think you said.’
‘Yes. She inherited Ashton Lodge and her papa’s fortune, but she doesn’t care about being an heiress. She would prefer to still have him here with her. Her step-mama is now her legal guardian. She married again as soon as she was out of mourning, which raised more than one eyebrow.’
‘I expect she thought that she would have control of Miranda’s inheritance,’ Mary remarked with a cynical twist to her lips, ‘but Mr Defoe left instructions that it be administered by his lawyers. I believe the widowed Mrs Defoe got an allowance, but I expect that stopped when she remarried, and now they all live at Miranda’s expense.’
‘They have been travelling these past two years, I gather.’
‘Yes,’ Emma replied. ‘Miranda wrote to me of the splendours of the Pyramids. Then they moved on to India. They returned to London a week ago and were due to come down to the country yesterday. I know Miranda will call as soon as she is settled. She will be anxious to see me.’
‘I look forward to meeting her.’
‘Miranda will look angelic in turquoise. But perhaps if the suggestion came from you, dearest Flora, Grandmamma might be more favourably disposed.’
‘If you like. I’m due to resume my duties in an hour. Leave it to me to talk her round.’
Flora pointedly opened her book again. The girls took the hint and wandered off, heads together as they discussed the ongoing arrangements for Emma’s nuptials. Flora tried to return to her novel but quite lost patience with the heroine’s dithering. Surely one either knew if one was attracted to a gentleman or one did not. Having three suitors would, she supposed, muddy the waters. Even so, the girl was a dimwit. Flora felt no sympathy for her situation and would not finish the book.
She strolled through the rose garden, inhaling the collective scent of the new blooms as she went. She threw back her head and smiled, grateful for the twist of fate that had landed her with this most desirable of positions. She ignored the nagging sense of doom that intruded upon her reverie, as it had done spasmodically for the past week, choosing to accept that perhaps the earl was right about her. She possessed no exceptional gift that offered her advance warning of danger and was permitting her imagination to get the better of her.
Her mind had wandered as randomly as her feet and she was now in danger of being late reporting to the dowager, who couldn’t abide tardiness. She scurried back into the house and made her way to the countess’s room. She found the old lady in her usual chair beside the window, surrounded by framed photographs of her dead relatives. She wore a bright turquoise turban. The dowager countess was fond of her turbans but never wore them in her sitting room. This one had certainly not adorned her head when Flora left her two hours previously. She suppressed a smile. Subtlety was not one of the countess’s attributes.
She banged her stick against the floor when Flora joined her, looking disgruntled.
‘About time, miss. I suppose you have been enjoying yourself and forgot all about me.’
‘I have certainly been enjoying myself, that much is undeniable. It’s a beautiful day and I sat in the garden, reading.’
‘Ha! When I was your age, reading was the last thing that gave me pleasure.’
‘Freedom of choice has been denied to me until now, so modern literature seems quite shockingly sacrilegious.’
‘I could suggest a few books that will improve all aspects of your education,’ the countess replied with a wicked little smile.
Flora was accustomed to the old lady’s attempts to shock her and refused to rise to the bait. ‘Books that you would recommend to your granddaughters?’ she asked innocently.
‘Bah! Those girls!’ She flapped a gnarled hand. ‘Emma is about to marry. She will find out for herself soon enough.’
‘And the rest of us must either live in ignorance, or adopt your suggested reading material.’ Sitting on a stool at the dowager’s feet, Flora leaned her chin on her fisted hand and grinned up at her. ‘In which case, what titles would you suggest?’
‘On second thoughts, I’m sure your puritanical soul would be deeply offended by evidence of man’s baser desires, given that you are unmarried and likely to remain so.’
‘I am sure that I would be thoroughly shocked by the content of the books you refer to.’ Flora enjoyed sparring with the countess and suspected that her charge found her willingness to stand up to her equally stimulating. So few people had the courage to hold their ground against a formidable old lady’s fixed opinions, so she either terrorised them or amused herself at their expense. ‘Speaking of weddings, Emma tells me you would like to see her in turquoise satin.’
‘Certainly I would, by no one cares about my opinions. I might as well be dead for all anyone cares.’
‘Don’t die yet, ma’am,’ Flora replied calmly. ‘It would inconvenience me greatly. I enjoy my position here and would prefer not to have to seek another.’
‘Impertinent child. I shall probably dismiss you tomorrow.’
‘Before you do so, we were discussing weddings.’
‘No we were not. We were discussing educational literature.’
‘Be that as it may, we cannot ignore Emma’s forthcoming nuptials, even though you find the entire rigmarole exhausting.’
‘I do not. I have the constitution of an ox and never tire.’
‘Well then, since you take such a lively interest in your granddaughter’s affairs, you will be aware that Emma will do whatever you ask of her because she is inordinately fond of you. She cares about your wellbeing and defers to your authority, despite the fact that you have a tongue that’s sharper than a razor.’
‘I have no such thing.’ The countess gathered her shawls around her shoulders and emitted one of her indignant huffs. ‘I merely give the child advice that she seldom heeds. Someone has to. Her mother is gone and I am her closest living relative.’
‘She doesn’t want to seem unfashionable by not marrying in white,’ Flora said softly. ‘But she will, if you insist upon it.’
‘Tradition counts for nothing anymore. I cannot abide people who follow fashion like sheep.’
Flora’s gaze settled upon the countess’s flamboyant costume. ‘No one could level that accusation at you,’ she remarked, smiling.
‘Certainly they could not. I have always been a leader, not a follower.’
‘But you must make allowances for the less robust attitudes of ordinary mortals, ma’am.’ Flora pretended that an idea had just occurred to her. ‘What if her bridesmaids were to wear turquoise? Would that satisfy you?’
The countess harrumphed. ‘I suppose it will have to.’
Flora leaned forward and kissed the old lady’s brow. ‘Thank you. I will tell her.’
‘Does she bring all her troubles to you?’
‘I am close to the girls’ age, even though I come from a completely different walk of life. I think that sometimes helps me to see their difficulties from an alternative perspective.’
‘And unlike mine, they follow your advice to the letter.’
‘You seem determined to quarrel with me today. However, it takes two to argue and it’s far too nicer a day to disagree with anythin
g you say. Shall we take a walk, or would you prefer for me to read to you?’
‘It’s too warm to walk.’
The countess would never admit that her arthritis pained her. Her condition had vastly improved since Flora had insisted that she ingest the herbal remedies she made up for her, but there was only so much relief they could provide.
A sudden shiver travelled down Flora’s spine for no explicable reason. A voice she had heard inside her head several times before called a warning that she was unable to interpret. She began to worry that hearing voices was the first sign of madness, although she felt perfectly sane. Imagines of her father’s austere features filled her mind. What the devil…
Before she could decide if she’d had an excess of sun, a tap at the door announced the presence of Paul Dalton, the earl’s secretary and friend.
‘Excuse the intrusion, ma’am,’ he said, inclining his head towards the countess. ‘If I may borrow Miss Latimer for a moment.’
‘You can keep her, for all the use she is to me.’ The old lady closed her eyes and pretended to fall asleep. Flora knew she would be itching to know what Mr Dalton wanted with her and would try and listen to their conversation.
‘How may I be of assistance, Mr Dalton?’ Flora asked, leading him to the other side of the room and lowering her voice.
‘Your father has just arrived, asking to see Luke.’
‘Damn!’
Flora paced the length of the room, nibbling at her finger as she tried to decide how to respond. She was as concerned about her premonition of his visit as she was by the visit itself. Her instincts had warned her to expect it, even though her letters home had gone unanswered. Her father was unaccustomed to being disobeyed, and although he had washed his hands of her when she insisted upon taking up this position, she had known he wouldn’t accept defeat that easily. Not because he felt any great affection for her, but because her rebellion could be used against him by his rivals in the church. If he was unable to control members of his own family, then questions must arise regarding his suitability for high office within the clergy.
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