by Agnes Forest
The flowers that surrounded the estate were so abundant in pigment and potency that Vivian could even smell them from inside the home - or was it just her imagination? Off in the distance, a sheepherder was taking his customary course from the river up to the adjoining hillside. All was a patchwork of green, ranging from the lightest grass to the deepest forest hues.
Vivian was inclined to laugh, it was all so splendid. She imagined a happy bird flying through the window and landing on her shoulder, chirping its morning song. It was something out of a storybook, but in reality, Vivian’s situation was dire. There were matters that she would have to face that day which she had been postponing.
“Miss, your father calls,” Georgette, her maid, said from the door. Vivian turned to see an anxious look on the girl's face and instantly knew that her father was not in good spirits.
“Father knows that I take my morning tea in my room,” Vivian said, not choosing to sound haughty, rather wishing to delay the talk she was about to receive.
But just a moment ago I was telling myself that it was time to face this, Vivian thought to herself, and now I’m running from it yet again.
“I know, M’Lady, but he requested your presence nonetheless,” Georgette replied anxiously. Vivian sighed to herself and turned back towards the window.
“Very well. I shan’t be but a minute,” Vivian said. She could hear the door close behind her and knew that she was again alone. Vivian needed one more moment to enjoy the morning. It was like a fine English pastoral set in front of her. She studied each brush stroke, wondering how it was that anyone could possibly live anywhere else.
The grounds of the Stockwood Park were opulent, to say the least. Lord Benedict hired only the best help for keeping the landscape up to snuff. He was always entertaining important figures of English society, and the estate served as the stage for propitious business deals and advantageous connections. Everything had to be just to her father’s liking, and nowhere was this more evident than with his labyrinth.
When her father first commissioned the maze, Vivian’s late mother scoffed, saying it was far too extravagant, but that did not prevent Lord Benedict from proceeding. Vivian was glad that he did because its majesty could not be described with the English language. It was breathtaking and quite easy to get lost in! Vivian recalled doing so on several occasions as a child.
Adjacent to the maze was the garden. Foxgloves, bluebells, tulips, and a wide selection of roses greeted visitors, and at that time of year it was difficult to walk through due to all the bees. Vivian was convinced that there were no creatures more delighted by the garden than those bees. They must be in heaven, she thought to herself.
“Very well, then,” she said to herself, her reverie done. That was all that there would be time for. Biscuits and scones awaited her downstairs, as well as eggs and bacon, and her fate. She was arrayed by her attendant in no time and ready face things.
With each step down the marble staircase, Vivian kept repeating one word like a humorous song in her head, “boor, boor, boor, boor.” This was, of course, in reference to Lord Phillip who would no doubt be at the breakfast table, buttering his toast with measured swipes. For some reason, she detested the way that he buttered his toast. There was something far too deliberate about it.
Servants passed to and fro, scurrying out of Vivian’s way. Such marvelous service, she thought to herself. It would be most difficult to live any other way. She knew no other life but privilege, and Lord Phillip would argue that if she didn’t accept his hand, then she would never know such a life again.
Popping into the breakfast room, the light pouring through the latticed windows felt warm and inviting on her skin. To Vivian’s great surprise, Lord Phillip was not in the breakfast room at all. She considered that perhaps he stayed in London last night, or even better, maybe he had indulged in too many spirits upon leaving Almack’s and lay in bed ill. The thought brought a smile to her face.
“Come, daughter,” Lord Benedict said, seated at the end of the table. Cutlery was in his hands, and it appeared that he had served himself some ham, roasted tomatoes, and mushrooms from the sideboard.
“Father, you know that I prefer to take a warm beverage in my room,” Vivian said, scolding him.
“Yes, but today I have plans for you,” Lord Benedict said, setting down his cutlery and inspecting his youngest child.
“Very well,” Vivian replied. Within moments hot tea sat before her, and with the first sip, Vivian felt as though she had finally come to life. She leaned her face over the dainty cup and felt the steam suffuse her skin.
“I’m told by Fanny that you behaved yourself last night,” Lord Benedict said, pushing his plate aside and unfolding his newspaper.
“Don’t I always?” Vivian said innocently and walked over to the sideboard where she procured an orange blossom scone, a generous portion of clotted cream, and a soft boiled egg.
“Yes, child. You are the best behaved of your sisters,” Lord Benedict replied, lifting his brow. In his estimation, Hattie and Margaret were nearly the death of him, but not Vivian. She was his angel.
“Then what is this about?” Vivian asked, in reference to the breakfast request. She took a hearty bite of scone and relished in it. The mixture of cream and orange was delectable. She topped it with marmalade to enhance the effect.
“Can’t a father request his daughter’s presence at breakfast?” Lord Benedict asked with a huff.
“Of course, he may,” Vivian said, thinking that perhaps none of this was about Lord Phillip at all.
“After all, how much more time do I have to enjoy these breakfasts?” Lord Benedict asked.
So, this is about Lord Phillip, Vivian thought to herself. In essence, it was, but Lord Benedict seemed to be dancing around the subject, and Vivian was glad for it.
“You have all the time in the world, father,” Vivian said with her delicate smile. Lord Benedict frowned at her. The marriage conversation was entirely necessary because he feared that without pushing, his youngest daughter should be content never to marry at all. He could see how happy she was on her own, reading poetry in the garden or taking strolls on the heath. These were healthy priorities for any female, yet still, ladies must have their sights set on the ultimate prize of finding a husband.
“Do you remember that steed you admired so on our weekend trip to Whitfield?” Lord Benedict asked.
“Oh, yes I do!” Vivian replied, enthusiasm filling her. “It was the chocolate steed with the white star on its forehead.” She remembered the creature fondly. It was like no other that she had ever seen.
“Caelus,” Lord Benedict said from behind his paper. The horse was named after the Roman god of the heavens.
“Yes, his name was Caelus,” Vivian said dreamily, looking out the window and finishing her scone.
“I have purchased him,” Lord Benedict said calmly. Vivian paused.
“What?” she asked, not knowing if she heard correctly.
“I have purchased Caelus, and that’s why I invited you down to breakfast. Otherwise, you might have been up in your room till goodness knows what time.”
Vivian was utterly speechless. What caused her father to perform such a generous task? No doubt he was trying to butter her up. But for the time being, she put it out of mind. The steed was everything that she could possibly hope for.
“Father!” Vivian exclaimed and ran to him, throwing her arms around his shoulders.
“Alright, alright,” Lord Benedict said, swelling with pride. “Go on then, and put your riding habit on.”
With that, Vivian dashed up the marble steps as fast as she could. Georgette was there to greet her, with the riding habit already laid upon the paisley bedspread.
“How marvelous,” Vivian said, beginning to undress before the attendant could even lay a hand on her.
Lord Benedict continued to read his paper in silence, his heart full for a bittersweet moment. There was no better feeling for a father than to bring
joy to a beloved daughter. But he knew that this warm sensation was short lived. In the end, he was a man bound to duty, and his most significant responsibility to his daughter was to place her in the right hands. Perhaps he’d have the conversation with Vivian after she returned from her ride in good spirits. She would be lighthearted and gay.
“Goodbye, then,” Vivian yelled, running down the hall.
“Stop at once!” Lord Benedict bellowed. Vivian heard his wild call and slinked back into the breakfast room.
“Yes, father?” she said, reminding herself that she must show deference.
“Do take care not to go past the borders of the estate,” Lord Benedict said in a huff.
“Yes, father,” Vivian replied, eyes cast down. She made a motion to leave, but Lord Benedict stopped her again.
“And!” he hollered.
“Yes, father,” Vivian repeated, another curtsy for good measure.
“Ride as best suits your status as a gentlewoman,” he added. By this he meant sidesaddle, slow of pace, short of distance, and with an erect spine.
“Indeed,” Vivian replied, then darted towards the door as her spirit was beckoning her to do.
“Vivian!” He hollered again, and she turned back once more. “Lord Phillip shall be with us for supper tonight.”
That was it. The ball had to drop at some point. Vivian’s heart sank. Lord Benedict could see her face sink and couldn’t understand it one jot. What was it with women, that they couldn’t see a good business deal if it hit them in the face? The inanity of it. That’s why women must be sheltered, trained, and sent in the right direction. Without the help of men, who knows where they might end up?
“And why does that concern me, father?” Vivian asked, laying down the gauntlet. She opened the door for the unspoken elephant in the room to be voiced, but the challenge was not met.
“Because. . . “he faltered. “You must take pains that you’re back from your ride in time. Lord Phillip would find it most offensive if you should be late,” Lord Benedict replied, feeling as though his foot had been placed in his mouth.
“Very well, then,” Vivian replied, her demeanor altered from what it was moments before.
“Very well, then,” Lord Benedict repeated, pulling his newspaper in front of his face.
Vivian walked down the hall, mortified. She would be the perfect lady at supper that evening. Just what her father and Lord Phillip expected her to be, but she was dreading what she might feel within. The sense of being locked in a cage. Vivian’s legs broke out into a fast walk, and from that breezy clip, into a run.
The run to the stables filled Vivian with life and energy, although she feared that she might stumble upon one of her skirts. What a nuisance, these long skirts, she thought to herself.
Once at the stable, she stopped in amazement at what she saw. There stood Fanny, next to a groom holding onto Caelus by the bridle. Fanny appeared lighthearted. The hefty chaperone noted the girl’s confusion.
“Did you think that I didn’t know my way about a horse?” Fanny said, her breath heavy no doubt from making the journey from house to stable.
“I must admit, Ma’am, I’ve never seen you ride,” Vivian said in shock.
“Well, isn’t it a great pity, then,” Fanny said, taking Caelus and pulling him towards Vivian.
She was enamored by the beautiful white print on Caelus’ face, from which he got his name. She felt the smoothness of it with her hand.
“We’re going to be best of friends, aren’t we then?” Vivian said to Caelus, and the steed seemed to nod in approval.
“He’s broken in, alright,” Fanny said with certainty. “But he may require a steady hand.”
“Dearest Fanny,” Vivian said, turning to her longtime sour companion. “When did you attain your knowledge of horses?”
“Grew up on a horse breeding farm,” Fanny said, nodding her head and puckering her lips. “They’re fine animals, but they can be right briny if you give 'em the chance,” she added, scolding Caelus with her finger.
“Very well, then. Let’s have a ride,” Vivian said, easily mounting Caelus and combing his hair with her fingers.
Vivian did not want to admit that Fanny's method of mounting a horse was comical. However, she did need to stifle a laugh. It took two large bales of hay, a stepladder, and a pitchfork to get her aloft. (The fork was for steadying purposes.) Once on her black mare, the two women rode off onto the hillside, both as content as kittens.
The exhilaration was profound, the sense of escape without compare. For the expanse of that afternoon, Vivian would not think once of her predicament, but would rather drink South Downs in like a warm, intoxicating cup of tea.
Wildflowers dotted the endless countryside, and sheepherders waved as they passed. The women were within riding distance of the sea, and the salt could be tasted in the air. Gulls mixed with pigeons in the sky, and tiny flowers sprouted from below.
Yes, Vivian would be ready to face the supper table when she returned home. She should be so fully in a state of bliss at that juncture - to the point of drunkenness! - that nothing her father or Lord Phillip would say could possibly do her any harm. The fresh air made her impenetrable; or so she thought.
“That Caelus’ a mighty fine horse!” Fanny said, admiring how well he handled on the first go of it.
“Truly,” Vivian replied.
“My horse is quite daft,” Fanny added, frowning at the creature. “I pull left and she goes right.”
Vivian had to laugh. She had never in her eighteen years seen Fanny O’Malley in such good spirits. It was becoming clear that they needed to go riding more often.
“Fanny, might I ask you something?” Vivian said, catching her breath. Funny how riding a horse was such good exercise.
“Of course, miss,” Fanny replied, also winded.
Similar to the quadrille the night before, Vivian marveled at how both dancing, and riding, made the words flow without thought.
“Have you ever heard a story about a woman marrying for love?” she asked.
Chapter Four
“Ho there!” Lieutenant Christian Sherbet proclaimed with a flourish as he mounted his horse. “Adventure calls.” He chewed his words like a pirate.
“I daresay, Sherbet, you have an exceeding amount of energy this morning,” Lieutenant Paul Rutherford said, already situated on his steed.
“I mount my horse as I mount my wife. With rigor,” Sherbet added with a smile. Despite his innocuous name, Lieutenant Sherbet was known for his bawdy talk.
“I must admit that I do not mount my wife - or the other ladies in my harem - with quite as much force,” Rutherford said with an air of gentility. It was masked gentility, nonetheless. Deep down, Rutherford had his dark side, as well. “Nothing to say, old chap?”
Sawyer looked onto the horizon, enjoying the spring morning.
“I must admit that I can’t add to the conversation,” he replied with humility.
“You’ll see when you’re married, Lieutenant,” Sherbet said. “Everything changes. A sweet tongue becomes sour once you’re out of the house. Your words turn dirty enough to make a whore blush.”
With that, Sherbet, Rutherford, Sawyer, and the rest of the soldiers kicked off into the morning air. It was their custom to get together on a Thursday morning for fox hunting. Business was notoriously slow on that day of the week because most of society had been out the night before carousing at Almack’s. For those not admitted to the club, there were the taverns near King Street, St. James.
“We need to get you a new saddle, ole’ Sawyer,” Rutherford said, riding at a feverish clip. “You have had that one since the reign of Henry VIII,” he added with a laugh. The other soldiers laughed in kind.
“I have seen many adventures on this saddle,” Sawyer replied with pride.
“And I know many a lady that would like to jump into that saddle,” another soldier cried.
As the soldiers carried on, racing through the fields, Sawye
r couldn’t help but marvel how he simultaneously felt at home and out of place with his comrades. He knew that his lowly birth was a factor, but also that he was not wed. The other soldiers were married just as soon as they returned from the war; eager all the while that they were abroad, dreaming of petticoats and whatnot. They selected the first lady that came into view once their feet touched English soil. Sawyer had a different predicament.
“My pretty wife is overlooking the preparation of a roast stew this evening,” Rutherford said.
“I have a hankering for a good stew,” Sherbet replied, lunging on his horse with force. “I might pop in myself to taste what the misses has to offer.”
Rutherford huffed.
“You’ll taste nothing having to do with my wife,” he replied.
“What if I said that I’ve tasted it already?” Sherbet said bitingly.
With that, Sherbet raced ahead and Rutherford followed him, incensed. That was how it was. Gone were the days when the men would talk of horses and hounds, fine ale houses, and the art of war. Now it was all talk of wives and mistresses, wealth and prestige. Sawyer missed the old talk.
He remained quiet, content on enjoying the ride. Fox hunting was one of Sawyer’s favorite past-times, and he thought that it was best relished in silence.
Once they made their journey deep into the countryside, the morning dew drenching their boots and the hooves of their horses, the men dismounted and prepared for the hunt. The hounds were anxious at that point, smelling the allure of nearby foxes, but they’d have to wait and pass the time by licking their damp paws.
“Well, then,” Sherbet said, dismounting. The earth shook when he landed upon it. “I hear you were at Almack’s last night, old chap.”
“I was, indeed,” Sawyer replied, dismounting as well.
“And who was the lucky lady?” Rutherford asked, sure that there must have been at least one.
“None to speak of,” Sawyer replied, fiddling with a worn piece of his bridle. Perhaps they are right. I’m desperately in need of new supplies.
