Lady Vivian

by Agnes Forest

  Vivian came to dinner prepared for what lay ahead. When Lord Benedict beheld his glowing daughter, he knew that his plan had been sound. She was as lighthearted and gay as he’d wished she would be.

  “Was there any trouble along the ride?” Lord Benedict asked, hoping that the horse he had purchased would cause no danger. If it ever did, the animal would be promptly shipped to the glue factory.

  “It was a perfectly pleasant ride,” she assured her father, smiling to herself. It was more enjoyable than anyone knew.

  Fanny chimed in, finally at ease. The claret played a small role in that. “The steed is a dream to behold in action. And my mistress handled him excellently.”

  “It took no effort on my part,” Vivian assured her.

  The soup course was served, and this was one of Vivian’s favorites. It was a fine chilled pea soup - peas from their garden - served with thin slices of white bread and garnished with mint. The perfect dish for spring, and Vivian relished in it. Fanny was not as pleased. She felt that the soup course was rather non-eventful and wished for the main faire. Lord Benedict took hearty bites, bemoaning that there was not enough cream, and Lord Phillip approached it as an opportunity to exercise his prowess with a silver spoon.

  “This is marvelous,” Vivian cooed, enjoying the earthy, rich flavors upon her tongue, in partnership with the delicate bread.

  “Quite,” Sir Phillip replied, hoping to segue to more important matters. “I must say, Lady Vivian,” He placed his spoon to the side of his bowl. “You look remarkable this evening.”

  Vivian was softened by his words. On some occasions, he could be the perfect gentleman, and she would briefly question whether her assumptions about him were sound or not.

  “That is lovely of you to say, Lord Phillip. I do thank you,” she replied, taking another spoonful of her refreshing soup.

  “But I feel emboldened to mention that it’s altogether unseemly that a woman might choose to ride alone upon the heath without the company of her husband,” he added.

  Lord Phillip quickly managed to ruin any warm feelings towards him. Lord Benedict became sheepish and Fanny looked downright offended. For surely her own good company was enough for a young lady of means.

  “I quite disagree,” Vivian replied.

  “And why so?” Lord Phillip asked, knowing full well that Vivian’s argument could not be accepted by anyone raised in proper society.

  “I think that a woman should enjoy the same benefits of fresh air and exercise which gentlemen are privy to,” she said with no animosity. “It’s advantageous for the spirit.”

  “I do request that you amend your opinion of the matter,” Lord Phillip said in no uncertain terms.

  Silence. Lord Benedict’s hands were tied. His position in the power struggle was cloudy.

  “I do not wish to offend,” Vivian added. In that, she was sincere. "But as you can see, I have no husband as of yet, and therefore, if I were to wait to be married in order to experience the pleasantries of life, then heaven knows how long I would be deprived.”

  One month’s time, Lord Phillip thought to himself. For truly, they would be married by the end of spring.

  “It’s commonly known,” Lord Benedict expounded, “that when a lady finally marries, it’s as though all the freedoms of life open up to her like a flower and are within grasp. Suddenly,” he was waxing elegiac, “They are a remarkable everyday occurrence.”

  “Such as?” Vivian questioned.

  “Having a home of one’s own. The freedom to suggest that the household be operated as one pleases. A gentleman escort to the various events in South Downs, as well as in town. Finally, experiencing the thrill of motherhood,” Lord Benedict went on. Vivian couldn’t help but think that this speech had been rehearsed, but she had to admit that he made it sound fine. The tone of his voice was honey-like. He painted images of matrimonial bliss that brought a tear to the orator’s eye.

  “And thus in brief,” Lord Benedict concluded, “marriage is, in essence, the beginning of one’s life.”

  The table went silent. No one could argue with the amazing performance that they had just witnessed. It was the perfect cue for the soup bowls to be cleared and the main course to be served.

  Fanny felt defeated. There was nary any mutton or tenderloin. Fish was served, and it made her frown. Had the rumors been true, then? Were Lord Benedict’s account books so grim that it called for fish on a Thursday?

  The said fish - skate - was accompanied by new potatoes, roasted to perfection, as well as asparagus, light and bright, and just the sort of spring vegetable that one finds palatable. A fine mushroom broth was presented in a porcelain tureen that steamed and emanated wonderful aromas. All in all, it was an ideal meal in Vivian’s estimation. The colors and flavors were just to her liking, and she was confident that digestion would be sound.

  Lord Benedict, as well, took a liking to the fish, but altogether thought that it was in need of more butter and salt. Those two ingredients alone could amend any situation.

  As Vivian looked out the window of the dining room, the sun slowly setting upon the hillside, she felt grateful for those early dinners in South Downs. She would awake in the morning refreshed and full of possibility, and should it be early enough, she’d be fit for a surreptitious ride upon Caelus before her father was served his tea.

  Salad was presented at the end of the meal. It was a French custom that the British aristocracy had adopted of late, and it was widely accepted. The table was in marvelous good spirits. But calamity struck with the serving of plum pudding and blackberry sorbet.

  “It seems that more soldiers return to London every day,” Lord Phillip mentioned casually. That very afternoon he was frustrated that they were crowding the streets.

  “How marvelous,” Vivian replied dreamily. Lord Benedict thought that this was in reference to the pudding, but Fanny knew otherwise.

  Lord Phillip felt emboldened by Vivian’s enthusiasm, and shared his mind on the matter.

  “I daresay,” Lord Phillip went on. “Most of those who have returned are ruffians at best. They feel that, by their service, they are somehow entitled to luxuries that they in no way have earned. And not only that, but the manner in which they are ogled over. As if simply bearing a uniform made one worthy of respect. Of course, I’m not referring to those that have handsomely purchased their colors, like gentlemen.”

  Vivian froze. She could not eat another morsel of pudding. His words filled her with contempt. How dare he be so insensitive to those that had served?

  “I do not agree with you in the slightest,” Vivian said, placing her napkin upon the table. “And if you’ll excuse me, I’m long overdue for a bath.”

  Vivian ran from the room and up the stairs. Her words played in her mind again: I’m long overdue for a bath. How trite. But it was the only pleasant way of excusing herself from the conversation.

  “What was that about?” Lord Phillip asked with a smug smile. He enjoyed a bite of pudding and the notion that his good sense was far too apparent for Vivian to endure.

  Vivian had her bath drawn at once. The steam filled the room and suffused her skin with lavender. Stepping into the mysterious cloud, Vivian imagined that she could disappear in it and never be seen again.

  How maudlin, she thought to herself. Buck up. All those fantasies about disappearing and escaping. She needed to rise above the occasion and find a way through using her keen intelligence and will, not just her excited imagination.

  Vivian dipped one toe into the hot bath and gritted her teeth. It was rather hot, but within a short time it would be perfect. Best to plunge in and brave the scorching temperatures as it was good for the constitution and a pity to see so much hot water go to waste.

  “Eeeeeeh!” she cried aloud.

  Once inside, she took a natural sea sponge and began to remove the remnants of her rigorous day. The sea of bubbles came up so high that Vivian could scarce see through them. She giggled like a school girl and dippe
d her head under, holding herself down and enjoying the pristine silence. Vivian counted to ten whilst pinching her nose. She daren’t open her eyes, for the bubbles and lavender would irritate them far more than the speck of dust from earlier that day.

  Vivian reemerged and gasped for breath, feeling the little crinkly, popping bubbles all along her face, tickling her nose.

  “Lieutenant Sawyer Cook,” Vivian said aloud, playing the role of the soldier. “Let me assist you,” she added, putting out her hand as though it were Sawyer’s own, and reimagining when he had helped her over the log.

  How remarkable, Vivian thought to herself. Why, this is more entertaining than reading one of my novels.

  “Lady Vivian,” a faint voice called through the door. No response. All that could be heard was a faint dripping sound upon the tile floor. “Lady Vivian.”

  It was her maid’s voice. Georgette, she assumed; tiny, bug-eyed, and thin as a reed. Again, Vivian chose to play dumb. She submerged herself in the water and counted to twenty. When she came to the surface yet again, her face covered in bubbles like a mermaid doused in sea foam, she screamed.

  “Aaaaah! Georgette!” The young attendant had instantly transported herself from outside the door to the tub’s edge, and Vivian met her face to face upon returning to fresh air.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry, M’lady,” Georgette replied, pulling back.

  “You startled me. You’re always appearing out of nowhere like that,” Vivian protested.

  “Your father wanted me to check and make sure that you’re alright,” Georgette said, standing to her feet and stepping back even further.

  “Yes, I’m merely enjoying my bath. Tell father that I shan’t be down again this evening and I send my love.” Vivian traveled from one end of the tub to the other, flipping from her back to her stomach, and leaning upon the front of the bath. The porcelain felt cool against her chin. There was no need for modesty. Vivian’s attendants had seen it all, and besides, she was in essence wearing a gown of bubbles.

  “Might I get you anything, miss?” Georgette asked, wishing to appease her mistress after her hasty entrance.

  “No, I — “ Vivian began, and then an idea came to mind. “Georgette, I do believe that I left a plum pudding uneaten at the dinner table. I’ll take a bit of that.” A lovely smile came to Georgette’s face.

  “We’ll get you a fresh slice, then.” Georgette went for a hasty exit, excited that she was part of a plot that involved dessert.

  “Oh, and Georgette,” Vivian called back.

  “Yes, miss.”

  “Have a piece, yourself.”

  Georgette and Vivian smiled at one another conspiratorially. Lord Benedict of late had decreed that the servants were not to eat pudding. He stated that he did not want his staff to have rotten teeth, but Vivian knew that he was trying to cut corners and save expenses wherever he could.

  Once the pudding was delivered in Georgette’s anxious hands - all the while looking behind her to see if she was being followed - Vivian sat up and tucked into the desert. Georgette took her pudding out into the hall.

  The plums from the Stockwood Park garden were just as rich and juicy in the spring as they would be in the summer. It was like a magic trick that their garden performed each year. The pudding was creamy and ripe, the flavors positively scandalous. The blackberry sorbet added more dark color, and it quickly melted atop the warm pudding and became a pool of purple sweetness, soaking into the plum confection.

  Vivian’s lips turned blue from the berries. She thought of how indulgent it all was. Did she truly require all that richness? Did she need the bubbles, the lavender, the pudding, and the sea sponge?

  Yes.

  Wait, no! No, no, no. Vivian knew better. In fact, could she trade it all for a small blanket on a hillside overlooking the sea, with one sweet plum in her hand, it would be plenty. To have her books, and her little adventures, and some good company. Perhaps yes, the company of a man. A man like Sawyer . . . good, honest, courageous, trustworthy.

  Was he trustworthy? He certainly seemed so. Vivian had to admit that she hardly knew the gentleman. But she truly wished to.

  Chapter Eight

  The soldier’s feast was haphazard. Men sat about wherever they found a comfy surface, be it log, turf, dirt, or even in the trees. Ale, wine, and whiskey were provided by the proprietor - it was all part of his fee - and the men drank heartily. Cutting boards brimming with English cheeses and meats were placed here and there, and loaves of bread were torn by hand. Although most present were men of means, they all looked forward to those picnics when they could toss away the buttoned up customs of their dining rooms and indulge in informal cuisine. When the sun was completely set, a fire would be assembled.

  The fox had returned to his cage, and the hounds sat near their masters and eyed the orange creature with suspicion.

  “I do not care for your custom of sparing the fox,” Sherbet said. Lord Christian Sherbet grew up slaying the fox after a hunt. It was the way that it was done. In fact, on his first hunt as a young lad, the fox’s blood was smeared upon his face by way of initiation. It was one of his fondest memories as a child.

  “I say shoot it,” a man said whilst chewing on cheese.

  “Come now, look at the poor creature,” Sawyer protested. All eyes turned to the fox, who looked back with moist, a pleading stare. “Give him another chance at life.”

  Truly, had it not been for the fox, he should never have run into Lady Vivian that day. Sawyer would do everything in his power to ensure that the rascal was spared.

  “Don’t be so soft,” Rutherford chimed in. He held a mug of claret aloft. “But let us continue with our drinking and make a decision once we’re good and sauced.”

  “Here, here!” the other soldiers cheered, lifting their mugs.

  Oh, the devil with it, Sawyer thought to himself. If those men wanted to wait until they were half-sprung and bosky then the fox had no chance. He decided that when the opportunity presented itself, he would have a word with Percival and spare a few quid in order to take the fox to safe harbors.

  “A great influx of men returned this morning,” Sherbet said with pride, then filled his mouth with meat.

  “Ah yes, I read of that,” Rutherford concurred. The solders nodded their heads in pride. Little did they know that not everyone in Britain was as keen on those returns. Lord Phillip was an excellent example. Even Fanny O’Malley was not amused.

  “Who have we got now?” a man called from the branch of a tree.

  “Let’s see here,” Sherbet replied, pulling a folded paper from the back of his trousers. He opened it and shook it, smoothing out the wrinkles and crinkles. “There is Rupert Birtwistle, Ridgewell Swift, Nigel Dick, Bryce Tambling-Goggin, Fitz-Lloyd Smith, Laurence Luckinbill, Giles Millais-Scott, and Dermot Trickelbank.”

  “That’s a mouthful,” Rutherford protested.

  “Good, sound men, all. We’re happy to see them returned,” Sherbet added.

  “Hopefully with two arms and two legs,” a soldier offered

  “And their two cockles!” At that, all the men nodded their heads in agreement.

  “And where are they returning from, then?” Rutherford asked.

  “The Americas,” a soldier cried out, his voice muffled by bread.

  “That’s without question, you dolt. I’m inquiring as to where,”

  “Ask Lieutenant Sawyer. His knowledge is capital,” Sherbet said. Dubious, inebriated eyes turned on the orphaned lieutenant.

  Sawyer set down the piece of cheese that he was about to enjoy and considered the question.

  “The latest skirmish was in New Orleans, so they’re either returning from the front lines there or were stationed along the border of Canada,” Sawyer replied, well-versed in the mechanics of the war. He even kept a map at his home in Bedringham Court where he tracked recent progress.

  The men seemed impressed enough. Although they had all served, it was their understanding that Sawyer ha
d been a navy man in the true sense of the word. He had blood upon his hands. He had watched those around him perish by sword, bayonet, pistol shot, musket fire, even cannon bomb. The other soldiers in his midst had experienced their fair share of it, as well, though many of them, since of stately birth, enjoyed what could be described as more clerical and leadership positions.

  “Tell us a story, ole’ lad,” Sherbet said, wishing to hear of blood, guts, and glory. Sherbet had had a taste of it during his service, but not enough for his liking. At least not enough for a nasty story to impart to his grandchildren.

  “Story of a Bastard Soldier,” someone shouted out, as though the title of a book.

  “Ho there!” Sherbet hollered, standing to full height and ready to attack. The men went silent. Sherbet would defend him like a younger brother. ” That’s a commissioned officer that you’re speaking of, and respect is called for.” Sherbet stood there for another moment, making sure that his fury had sunk in. He then sat and returned to his ale. “Now, then.”

  “I have many stories to tell,” Sawyer began. There were the dark and gruesome stories that played in Sawyer’s head as he lay in bed at night, but those he would not share, wishing to expel them from memory. Instead, he chose a story that he held onto for sweet dreams.

  “It’s about the pudding grandam,” Sawyer began. The soldiers looked at one another in confusion. “Our regiment was scouring the Hudson Valley, en route to a siege in New York. Tensions were high, and the land was forested and difficult to navigate. Myself and a soldier by the name of Pottsworth were separated from the others and found ourselves in a remote river town - unsure as to our whereabouts - but knowing that if we merely followed the river on a southerly course, we would eventually find our way.”

  Sawyer’s telling of the story was natural and effortless.