I repaired to the parlor after our midday meal, determined to keep an eye on Mr. Trimble. Again I had trouble concentrating on my Bible reading. The thought of marriage kept intruding. I found I could not object to the idea of pretending to look for a husband if the result would have Father returning me to my position. I did not, of course, actually want to marry. That would be taking things a bit too far. I reminded myself not to worry over things unlikely to happen. At the rate Mr. Trimble was disrupting the household, my reinstatement was only a few short days away.
Someone pulled at the doorbell, and I rose before remembering I wasn’t to do things like that anymore. I returned myself to the sofa.
The bell sounded again.
I coughed. “Aren’t you going to get that?”
Mr. Trimble started. “Get what?”
“The door. It’s something I used to do that I’m not to do anymore.”
“Surely getting the door won’t interfere with your finding a husband.”
“It might. I’ve never sought a husband before, so I’m sure I don’t know.”
He sighed, put down his pocket glass, and stalked to the hall. He yanked the door open with no apparent trouble, spoke for a moment with someone, and then shut the door. As he returned to his task, he pitched a letter into my lap.
“Tsk, tsk.” I tossed it back at him. “I’ve been relieved of all responsibility for correspondence. Have you not heard?”
He gritted his teeth, broke the seal, and began to read. “‘My dear Charlotte, it is with a gladdened heart that I hear of your decision to take up your Christian duty and turn your attentions to securing a suitable marriage. Being somewhat familiar with the way the boat rolls—’”
I snatched the letter and continued on with the reading of it. In silence. I recognized the Admiral’s handwriting.
. . . may I be allowed the honor of providing you an escort on those occasions when your father may not be available?
Knowing how little my father involved himself in drawing-room affairs, even when my mother was still living, I suspected those occasions would be many.
I have taken the liberty of securing for you an invitation to a dinner party this evening, and it is with great hope that I await your reply.
Reply? I lifted my gaze from the letter. “Who delivered this?”
Mr. Trimble blinked at my inquiry. “I have no idea.”
I waved the letter. “It’s from the Admiral. He’s requesting a reply.”
“Then I suggest you make one.”
I might as well agree to go. It was vital that I pretend to take this seriously if I wanted to prove to my father how invaluable my assistance had been.
Motioning for Mr. Trimble to move from the desk, I rummaged through my drawers for a sheet of stationery. I could not find any. In fact, I could not have found anything I was used to finding there.
Mr. Trimble shut up one of the drawers I had opened. “May I offer my assistance?”
“You’ve been enough help already.” I went to the sofa, where a stack of father’s notes was tidily stowed beneath a cushion, awaiting the day when I would find someplace to file them. Flipping through the pages I found a sheet of paper that recorded a line of investigation he had recently abandoned. Taking it back to the desk, I marked a diagonal line across his musings, then turned it over and wrote out an acceptance of my uncle’s invitation and his offer to escort me.
“You can’t send that.”
I raised my head to see Mr. Trimble standing over me. I don’t know why he felt the need to insert himself into my business. Hadn’t he enough to keep himself busy? “I don’t see why not. The Admiral asked for a reply.”
“Haven’t you got a clean sheet on which to do it?”
“Not at the moment. And I can’t see how it very much matters.”
“It shows an appalling lack of taste. And the man, you say, is an admiral?”
“He’s also my uncle. And it’s a good thing this reply is to him and not to you.”
He snorted and went back to his work, while I stepped out into the lane in my stockinged feet to see if the messenger might have waited for a reply.
He had—and my begrudging answer was soon on its way to the Admiral.
That afternoon I nearly forgot about the Admiral’s dinner entirely in my attempt to pretend as if I did not realize a bill was going unpaid for want of notice, father’s notes were rapidly multiplying as they waited to be transcribed, and a draft of his latest memoir was in danger of arriving late to the Botanical Society—that is, if it ever happened to be posted at all.
When I found myself once again picking up a pen with the intention of writing to the butcher, I finally decided to take a good long ramble out toward Gavel Green. For simple pleasure, of course, rather than for any particular purpose. I dug my elastic-sided boots out from the cupboard and donned one of the Admiral’s old shooting jackets. To the costume, I added my cylindrical vasculum in which I could store any specimens worthy of further investigation. Not, of course, that I would actively search for them, but if I happened upon one, it would be a pity not to collect it.
I occupied my thoughts with questions of the distribution of the earth’s flora as I walked, and then I spent some time over the puzzle of exactly what a dinner party entailed. In the midst of my pondering, I realized I did not know what time the Admiral would be coming for me.
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.”
5
It 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. T
hose 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?”
Like a Flower in Bloom Page 5
