Like a Flower in Bloom

by Siri Mitchell

  “You mean this is what I would do, should I marry?”

  She nodded.

  “For a living? As a matter of course?” Horror swirled in my stomach.

  “What else did you think you’d be doing?”

  “Thank heaven I’m not in this for a marriage. I can’t marry. I can never marry. I won’t. It’s much too exhausting!”

  “Come now, don’t tell me you’ve become fainthearted.”

  “I would never get any work done if I had to read up on giving balls and creating guest lists and come up with ideas for benefits and raffles.”

  “And you won’t have to. Surely after this, your father will understand what peril awaits if he insists upon pushing you to matrimony. You hosted the extravaganza of the season.”

  “Come now, Miss Templeton, it was in fact you who came up with the plans and you who told me what to do.”

  “But he doesn’t know that. Perhaps I can persuade the newspaper to write it up on the front page. Your father does read it, doesn’t he?”

  “I don’t think that he—”

  “Seeing it in print ought to make quite plain to him the danger with which he’s flirting.”

  “It ought to . . .” It had to.

  “It’s just a matter of time. You might even wish to pack Mr. Trimble’s bags for him when you get home! The man will soon be but a fond memory.”

  “Fond?”

  “I do so like the cut of his hair and shape of his chin. If only he came from a better family. If only he was a gentleman.”

  “I think you miss the point!”

  “I understand your point entirely. It’s just that I have my own. If his family weren’t so dreadful, he might do quite well in society.”

  That was the problem. If they weren’t so dreadful, then he could go back to them. “Have you achieved any success in pushing him back to his family?”

  “I’m awaiting a reply from an acquaintance in Essex. But one way or another, I assure you, your problems will soon be behind you.”

  As I gained my strength, though I could not seem to interest myself in a true ramble, my walks took me increasingly far from home, and I often happened upon the rector as he made calls on his parishioners. As long as we did not speak of plants or of his collections, I found him pleasant company, and though he could not converse with any knowledge on botany, he did have a bent toward philosophic discussion that I enjoyed. We discussed birds and stars and the failings of the local paper as well as parliament and Lady Harriwick’s inexplicable fondness for obscure hymns.

  “And what are your thoughts on children?” he asked one day at the beginning of December as we walked along.

  My nose had gone cold, so I had tucked it into the folds of my muffler. I pushed the folds down with a gloved hand as I replied. “Children? I don’t. Think of them, that is.”

  “You are your parents’ only child?”

  “I am.”

  “But you do like children?”

  “I don’t dislike them.”

  His smile hesitated for a moment, and then it came on full-fledged. “You’re very different.”

  I laughed and birthed a cloud of condensation. “A species of my own. That’s what Mr. Trimble says.”

  “I’m sure he means it in a kind way.”

  “I’m not.”

  “But truly, I find children quite add to life, don’t you?”

  I wondered why he was so set on speaking of children. We hadn’t ever discussed the topic seriously before. Upon reflection I supposed, as a father of eight, they must never be far from his mind. “I would have to agree. If it weren’t for children, we would all go extinct.”

  He blinked. “I suppose that’s true . . . but I was speaking of children in particular, not as a . . . not as a group.”

  “In particular?”

  “My children, for example. I find them very . . . very dear.”

  I found them rather loud, although I was quite sure it would be rude to say so.

  When I said nothing, he continued, “Some people might find their number daunting, but they’re not so difficult as you might think.”

  “With adequate water and enough sunlight, I suppose almost anything will grow.”

  “That’s a very . . . philosophical way of looking at things. But . . . what I’d really like to say, however, is that I think we work well together, Miss Withersby.”

  We did. Although following along behind him and fixing the mess he’d made of his collection and labeling required far more work than I was used to doing.

  “I was hoping you would do me the honor of helping me for many more years to come.”

  Years! I hoped not. My fingers would be worked to the nibs. But a gracious invitation required some sort of polite response. At least that’s what Miss Templeton’s etiquette book had said. And he was looking at me as if everything depended upon my words. Gracious. I hadn’t noticed before what nice eyes he had.

  “I’d be pleased, Mr. Hopkins-Whyte. Truly I would.” I wouldn’t. Not really, but he was a nice man. “Perhaps I could even come help you with your collections tomorrow.” I gave up my hold on the muffler, and my nose settled once more into its folds.

  He grasped his Bible more tightly. “Splendid! Just . . . just splendid, Miss Withersby.”

  After the rector left me, I stopped in at Overwich Hall on my way home. I was interested in a new orchid Mr. Stansbury had acquired. I knew I should have gone with someone—the Admiral or Miss Templeton—but as it was on my way home, and since I really did wish to see the orchid, I didn’t think my lack of chaperone too grievous a sin.

  Mr. Stansbury was not long in appearing and he seemed quite happy to see me. We spoke for a while about his growing number of specimens, and he showed me his new acquisition. He had taken my advice and written to one of my father’s correspondents for assistance, and I was quite happy to verify he had in fact received exactly what he had paid for.

  As I took my leave, he stopped me. “I’d just like to say, Miss Withersby, that I have quite enjoyed our time together. I hope you have done the same.”

  “I have, Mr. Stansbury.” Especially when I did not have to look at his stumpery.

  “You have done a great deal of good here.”

  I had not been able to persuade him from his stumps, but aside from that, I had gotten quite far in putting his glasshouse to rights. “I hope so, Mr. Stansbury.”

  “I consider what we have started here to be a long-term project, and it is my greatest wish that you would do me the honor of continuing with me what we have begun.”

  “I would be delighted to.” Then maybe I could turn his stumpery into one of those grottoes of which Miss Templeton was always speaking. Or a garden. Surely he could be reasoned with.

  “Before you agree with such alacrity, I must tell you, Miss Withersby, that as a result of an unfortunate illness in my youth, I am . . .” His ears had gone red at their tips. “Rather, that is, my doctor has told me quite plainly that I will never be able to . . .” He paused to clear his throat. “That is, fatherhood will never be a part of my life.”

  I wasn’t quite sure what his particular situation had to do with his interest in botany, but it clearly disturbed him. I put a hand to his arm. “If that is the case, then just think, Mr. Stansbury, your stumpery will never be endangered by the whims of your heirs.”

  “Our stumpery, Miss Withersby.” He patted my hand. “I must say, you are a marvelously understanding sort of woman.”

  25

  After leaving Overwich Hall, I stopped in at Dodsley Manor, but Miss Templeton wasn’t in so I decided to walk home by way of a field. It had been too long since I had given myself the pleasure of such a long walk, and I was both exhilarated by my time out of doors and dismayed that there was so little by way of plants left to behold.

  All told, I was rather pleased with myself. I’d done quite well both at helping the rector understand what he had collected and planning the next stages of Mr. Stansbury’s acquisi
tions for his glasshouse. Soon I forgot the state of my head altogether and found myself climbing over rocks and scampering down a clough in order to see what might be found.

  Had I remembered to remove my gloves, it might have been all right, but thinking of the Christmas season later in the month, I found some ivy to pick and holly as well. Soon my gloves were stained beyond redemption and my boots were thick with mud. But what did it matter? Who did I have to impress?

  My foot slid across a stone and I fell onto my knees.

  What a perfectly useless botanist I’d become in the past few months! Really, there was no point to me now. Having received no intimations of proposals, I was a failure at society just the same as I was a failure at botany. I might be dressed in the latest modes, but for what purpose?

  I spent several hours wandering about before I turned my steps toward home. And when I did so, it was with the intention of calling a halt to the search for a husband.

  Upon my return, Father called out from his study for me, and I went in to see him.

  “I must say, Charlotte, you’ve done exceedingly well for yourself.”

  “I rather thought so. The rector’s collection is just about sorted out and Mr. Stansbury’s plants are coming along rather nicely. He just got a new orchid.” I took off my gloves, swept a sheaf of papers from a chair, and sat.

  My father was chewing on the tip of his mustache. “Only . . . I cannot quite work out what you would have me say . . .”

  “About what?” I wrenched my boots off and set them down beside the chair.

  “About the proposals.”

  “What proposals?”

  “For marriage.”

  “Whose?”

  “Yours.”

  “Mine!” Mine? “I’m quite astonished. Who has asked to marry me?”

  “Why, the rector and Mr. Stansbury.”

  “Then you’ll have to refuse them both.”

  “But you already accepted.”

  “I did?” I had? “Whose?”

  “Both of them.”

  “Both of them? Why would I accept two of them when I’m not even interested in one of them? In any case, I find it quite hard to believe I agreed to marriage, considering I just saw both men today and neither mentioned anything of the sort.”

  Mr. Trimble had been working at his desk in the parlor, but now he left his work and came in to stand beside my father. “So you did speak with them . . . ?”

  “Of course I did. I spoke with both of them, just the way you taught me to.”

  “Of what did you speak?”

  “Mr. Stansbury talked of plants and his ridiculous stumpery and he said how he thought I had done a great deal of good and wasn’t I happy there and what an honor it would be to continue what we had started.”

  “That would do it.”

  “Do what?”

  “You must learn to hear what people aren’t saying, Miss Withersby!”

  “And how am I to do that if they don’t say it? Really, Mr. Trimble, how could it be my fault that I fail to realize what people can’t bother to put into words?”

  “And of what did you and Mr. Hopkins-Whyte speak?”

  My father held up a finger. “I just . . . can’t quite . . . How did you find a proposal in all of that, young man?”

  “He quite clearly made it in that bit about Miss Withersby being happy there and what an honor it would be to continue what they had started.” He turned to me. “He did ask for some reply didn’t he?”

  Had he?

  “Did you reply?”

  “I did, but—”

  “In the affirmative?”

  “I said I would be delighted to continue—”

  “And when she agreed, she accepted his proposal.”

  “But I agreed to nothing of the sort! How could I when I understood him to be speaking only of what he was speaking about?”

  Mr. Trimble sighed a drawn-out, long-suffering sort of sigh, of the kind I wished very much to make myself. “And what did you say to the rector?”

  “It’s not what I said, because I’m quite clear about that. Apparently, it’s what he said.”

  “Then what did he say?” He asked the question with an infinite reserve of patience, as if he were speaking to one of the rector’s children.

  “I . . . well . . . I’ve been working on the rector’s collection, helping him to understand where the gaps are.”

  “Yes, but what did he say?”

  What had he said? “Well, he . . . he spent some time talking about children and then asked whether I liked them very much and what I thought of his in particular, and then he said that we worked well together and that . . .” How had he phrased it? “That he hoped we could work together for many more years.”

  “And you said . . . ?”

  “I said exactly what I didn’t mean, which was that I’d be truly pleased.”

  “Then you accepted.”

  “Accepted what? He didn’t even ask a question. He made a statement. He expressed a hope, not a proposal.”

  “Yes! He expressed a hope of union.”

  “Union? It was a hope of my fixing his mess and filling in his collections.”

  “He asked you to marry him, and you accepted.”

  “Well, then I must protest. How am I to be responsible for a reply when he didn’t even ask a question?”

  “You must always be careful what you say in unguarded moments, Miss Withersby. I know, from unfortunate experience, how even the simplest phrase can be misconstrued.”

  “I hardly know how anyone ever dares to speak at all if you cannot say what you think and are not allowed to mean what you say. Polite society is rather rude!”

  “What are you upset about? All you women have to do is say yes. It’s the man who has to summon the courage, and think of what must be said, and fix a time at which to do so. It’s no wonder those men had a difficult time coming around to the point of it all.”

  “The point of it all? The point of it all is, if a man can’t bring himself to ask me to marry him in no uncertain terms, then why should he consider himself worthy of my hand? Is there nothing worth speaking plainly?”

  He was ignoring me. In fact, he’d already turned to my father, who was mumbling to himself and blinking quite rapidly. “And what did you say, Mr. Withersby?”

  My father started and looked up at him. “Say? About what?”

  “What did you say about the proposals?”

  “Oh! Well . . . I . . . congratulated him. Them. What else was I to have done? Charlotte kept going on about finding a husband, and I just . . . ”

  I kept going on about finding a husband? “You’re the one who forced me out into society to find a husband. The only reason I kept on with it was because I was sure you would soon change your mind once you realized all the work I had been doing. Only he”—I pointed a trembling finger at Mr. Trimble—“came in and stole my position. And then he did it all so much better than I did, and I just . . . I’ve tried so hard to be what you needed, and now I’ve come to understand that I’ll never be the kind of daughter you want.”

  “You’ve always been the kind of daughter I want. It’s just that I was made to realize you should have so much more than this.”

  “But this is what I want.”

  “It can’t be.”

  “And why can’t it? It’s all I’ve ever had. All I’ve ever known. It’s the only thing I’m good at.”

  “It shouldn’t be.”

  “But it is. And I am. In spite of what BAAS thinks, in spite of what all the others insist, I am good at botany.”

  He was staring at me quite miserably. “How was it that we came to all of this?”

  I knew how. “It’s the Admiral’s fault. All of it. So let him figure it out.”

  “Then . . . what shall I tell your husbands-to-be?”

  “Tell them anything you want.”

  “But which one did you want to marry?”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t car
e. The point was to find a husband and I did. Have I not fulfilled my Christian duty? What does it matter who he is?”

  Father was looking at me now with pity. “But of course it matters. You’ll have to live with him for the rest of your life.”

  I felt a sort of wild panic rise in my throat. I looked toward Mr. Trimble. “I suppose changing one’s mind about a proposal isn’t done.”

  He shook his head quite gravely.

  “Then let’s hope I’ll be short-lived.” I never once thought I’d be envious of Miss Templeton for that particular reason.

  Father was frowning. “I’m not quite certain . . . Which proposal are you saying I should accept?”

  Mr. Trimble sent me a long glance. “Have you no preference, Miss Withersby?”

  “None.” I faced either trying to come to terms with one man’s stumpery or trying to put in order the collections of a haphazard clergyman while I cared for his motherless children. At least I had some experience at being motherless. “The rector.”

  Mr. Trimble’s brow arched. “The rector? But Mr. Stansbury sits atop a veritable fortune. He might not be a gentleman, but he is not unworthy of consideration.”

  “Which underscores how very little you know me.” The image of a bluebell danced in my head, but I refused to be taken in by the wild imaginings of a sheep farmer from New Zealand. Picking my boots up, I rose and stalked upstairs.

  I had almost succeeded in forgetting that I was twice betrothed as I drew, from memory, Mr. Stansbury’s new orchid. And then someone knocked on my door.

  “Enter.”

  My father stepped into my room and looked around as if he had never seen it before.

  I followed his gaze as he took in all the new gowns that hung like pressed flowers from their pegs and the stack of hatboxes by my washstand. His eyes finally settled on my illustration. He took hold of it and turned it round. “I don’t think . . . I mean . . . there’s something different about your drawing, Charlotte.”