She and her mother arrived at the Buckley mansion at half past three. The butler led them through the grand entrance and down a long corridor—the sound of their heels echoed on the polished marble floor. He halted before an imposing pair of gilt-edged white doors. Lily drew in a breath—not as deep as usual due to the tight corset—and glanced at her mother, noting the subtle signs of tension in the set of her shoulders.
“Viscountess Fernhaven and her daughter, the Honorable Miss Lily Strathmore.” The butler held the door open for them.
“Come along, darling,” murmured Lady Fernhaven, stepping forward.
The room was dominated by a pair of tall glass cases containing dozens of porcelain figurines: artfully arranged shepherdesses, ballerinas in mid-twirl, fat men in waistcoats, and fairytale princesses. Mirrors set at the back of the cases allowed the figures to be admired from all angles.
Countess Buckley rose gracefully to greet her guests—a figure from her own collection come to life with impeccably styled hair and fashionable gown. Older, of course, but as carefully sculpted. Her eyes in particular were a pale blue, like the faintest wash of watercolor. Those eyes—yes. Lord Buckley had those same eyes. Lily suddenly recalled them staring mildly past her as they danced a schottische at the Chadwicks’ ball last Season.
The countess’s eyes were far from mild as she turned an appraising look on Lily. She did not smile—perhaps she was afraid that such a slip would mar the well-preserved perfection of her face.
“Miss Strathmore. Your mother has told me so much about you. Please, sit, and we can become better acquainted.” Countess Buckley gestured with one slender white hand to a grouping of velvet-upholstered chairs.
Lily sat and laced her fingers together in her lap. Her green skirts, edged with creamy lace, settled about her. The afternoon gown was truly lovely. The subtly patterned taffeta was gathered into hundreds of tiny pleats at the waist, which dropped to a point. Overall, it gave the impression of waves—discreet, ladylike waves that knew their place and would never rise and crash onto some desolate, rocky shoreline.
As the countess rang for tea, Lily’s mother leaned forward, speaking softly. “Don’t worry, darling. I’ll take charge should you get in over your head.”
“Really, Mother. I’m capable of holding a polite conversation.”
Their hostess rejoined them in a rustle of silk. “I am so pleased you could come calling today. We can have a cozy chat, just us women.”
Cozy? That seemed unlikely—there was nothing remotely cozy about Countess Buckley.
“Miss Strathmore, your mother tells me you are something of a lady artist.”
“Yes, I paint. Botanical illustrations, mostly. Are you interested in horticulture, Countess Buckley?”
“Heavens no. I leave that to the gardeners. But botanical illustration—rather a man’s business, don’t you think?”
“There have been any number of women whose illustrations have been well received. Clara Pope, for one.”
“I think one should make a distinction between what is well received and what is proper.”
“Lily makes charming flower pictures,” Lady Fernhaven said before Lily could reply. “I even have one of them in my drawing room. Roses. Beautiful roses.”
“I see. Well, roses are a refined flower, and a worthy subject for a lady artist.” Their hostess swept Lily with her pale gaze. “You are actually rather pretty. You have met my son, Gerald? A very handsome man, I’m sure you agree.”
“I’m sure.” Lily turned her lips up at the corners and hoped it would do for an answer. What could she say? I’m sorry, but I have only the vaguest recollection of your son?
The countess gazed deeply at her for a moment before turning her attention to pouring out the newly arrived tea.
Lily let the smile drop from her face. So, her painting was barely acceptable? Would Lord Buckley share his mother’s opinion? The thought made her stomach tighten.
“And how is your son?” Lady Fernhaven asked. “Lily has been wanting to know. Is he enjoying his travels?”
“Very much.” The countess handed each of her guests a cup of tea, her back remaining perfectly straight. “His most recent letter described a great fall of water somewhere in the state of New York—the name escapes me. He intends to take in more natural wonders, I believe, as well as visiting the Eastern cities—what he sees in them, I cannot say. Why, I have hedges in the garden older than most of those cities. I much prefer the European capitals, myself.” She gave a polite little laugh. Lily’s mother joined her.
“Then he is not planning to return soon?” Lily asked.
Countess Buckley’s expression warmed slightly. “Not immediately, but there is no cause to worry. He will return in good time to pay you court—though I can see you are anxious over it.”
Anxious. Yes, that quite described Lily’s feelings. “I would like to know that we will have time to become properly reacquainted before, well, before any final decisions are made.”
“Lily, there is nothing to fear,” her mother said. “The two of you are perfectly matched.” She turned to the countess. “I recall my own anxiety before Viscount Fernhaven proposed. That is the way with women when a man of high station pays court.”
“I quite agree. My, but that was a Season. You with your viscount, and I with my earl. We were the talk of the ton.”
“We had to coordinate the wedding dates carefully. It wouldn’t have done to have the two grandest weddings of the Season tripping over one another.”
“Fortunately, we won’t have that problem this time, but we will have to choose the date wisely…”
Lily began to tap one foot, the movement hidden by her skirts. If Countess Buckley favored the match, it had far more to do with her father’s position and political connections than any virtue or talent Lily might possess.
She was really quite irrelevant to the whole scheme. They expected her to be one of those porcelain dolls—poised, beautifully dressed, and lifeless. Someone who stayed exactly where they were placed until the time came to show them off.
Was this what she had chosen?
So it seemed, if it could be called a choice at all. It was either this or finding herself a dutiful spinster daughter, spending the rest of her life accompanying her mother to interminable teas.
Like this one.
“So you see, Lily, there is nothing to be anxious about,” her mother said. “Lord Buckley is a fine gentleman, and he will make you a fine husband.”
The countess rose. “I have something for you that will be a comfort while my son is abroad.” She lifted a locket on a slim gold chain and held it out to Lily.
“Really, countess, it is not necessary…”
“But I insist.” She took Lily’s hand and pressed the locket into her palm, closing her fingers over it. The countess smelled of talc, and her hands were as cool and smooth as alabaster. “This is very precious to me, but I thought you should have it—especially with our expectations for the future.”
Lily felt trapped by the woman’s pale eyes. She dropped her hand back into her lap, the locket clenched in her fist.
“Really, darling,” her mother said, “your restraint is charming. Go ahead and open it—you needn’t be modest with us.”
Lily fumbled with the catch. A miniature portrait of a man that must be Lord Buckley gazed out at her, his face the face of a stranger. He had light blond hair receding from a wide forehead, his mother’s pale blue eyes, thin lips, and a soft chin that was lifted with a superior air.
She swallowed and slowly raised her eyes to the countess. “Thank you.”
“Oh, do put it on, Miss Strathmore. Don’t be shy. I am sure Gerald would approve.”
With a sinking sensation, Lily glanced at her mother. Lady Fernhaven’s gaze was bright and avid. She nodded encouragingly.
“I really don’t think…”
“I will fasten it for you.” Her mother took the locket from her daughter’s hand and closed the chai
n about Lily’s neck. The gold-encased portrait came to rest on the green taffeta, nestled between her breasts.
“There. You can wear it near your heart.”
The weight of the locket dragged against her neck. So heavy for something so small.
What had she done?
Lily was quiet as the carriage took them home through the streets of Mayfair. Her mother was vexed with her—that much was clear in the way her lips were tightly pinched together, the way she avoided looking at her daughter.
At last Lady Fernhaven turned stiffly. “You could have been more helpful, Lily. Really, one would almost think you did not want this match to succeed. Making a mention of your botanical work after I specifically warned you—and accusing the countess of an interest in horticulture! I nearly thought she would see us out then and there.”
Lily stared straight ahead. The countess was going to have to make some adjustments to her way of thinking about lady painters. Lily had a mind to show her some of the sketches she had done illustrating the differences in root structure between hybrid and climbing roses. How refined would she consider roses once she had seen them with their earthy parts on display?
Her mother shook her head. “We were fortunate I was able to divert the conversation. It was a very narrow escape.”
“You think she approved, then—despite my painting?”
“She would have never given you the locket if she had deemed you unsuitable. Still, it is a good thing you will be going abroad with your uncle. There will be far fewer chances for you to make a misstep that could jeopardize our plans.”
“Mother, I need to tell you—”
“And speaking of plans, here we are.” Lady Fernhaven pulled back the curtain as the carriage slowed.
Lily looked out the window. They were in an area of fashionable shops—nowhere near the Fernhaven residence. “Where are we?”
“Why, at the modiste’s, of course. We need to have the preliminary fittings for your wedding gown so they can begin on it while you are away.”
“You have chosen my wedding gown? But there is not even a groom yet.”
“Really, darling, one must be practical about these things. He will call on you, and he will offer. It has all been arranged. And of course I have not chosen your gown—I have merely made a few preliminary selections. Do not frown so, it is hardly becoming. I want Madame Voisseur to see what lovely features you have.”
A few minutes later, Lily, dressed in her shift—and her frown—stood before the modiste. The quick, beak-nosed woman fluttered around her like a bird.
“So petite, the waist,” Madame Voisseur said as she drew the tape tightly around Lily. “You have a lovely figure—it will look well in the beautiful gown. Your husband will be most pleased to see you coming up the aisle—a vision of beauty. And your neck, so slender. Viscountess, your daughter will be a beautiful bride.” She pulled the tape around Lily’s breasts, pausing to glance at the gold locket. “Such a lovely trinket. Whose picture does it hold, I wonder?”
Lily held her breath, trying to keep her chest very still. Would this woman never be finished?
“It is a portrait of her betrothed,” Lady Fernhaven said.
Lily exhaled in annoyance. “Mother. We are not betrothed.”
“Of course, darling. Open it and show Madame Voisseur.”
The modiste craned her neck as Lily sprang the catch. “Ah, oui. Very lordly. And the eyes—so remarkable. What a lucky girl you are.”
Lily snapped the portrait closed. “I beg your pardon, madame, but I do not think I can continue much longer.”
“Certainly, ma petite. We will just measure here, and lift your arms once more. Bien. That will do for now.”
This was impossible. Not just the fitting—the entire production. Lily felt like a moth that had blundered into the middle of a spider’s web, and her mother was blithely spinning more plans, more sticky strands. If she remained, soon she would not be able to breathe, or move, or think. Lily touched the locket, felt its cold through the thin fabric of her shift. Already the paralysis was setting in.
The sky lowered and it began to snow on the way home from the modiste. Lily looked out at the shivering grey buildings and leafless avenue trees and imagined Tunisia: Palms capturing the red glow of sunset. Citrus and pomegranates. Ancient Roman ruins to explore and sketch. And sunlight, warm, pure sunlight on her upturned face. She should not go to Tunisia. But she certainly could not remain here as her last days and hours of freedom trickled away. It was simply impossible.
What right did James Huntington have to waltz into her life and do this to her? Why did his needs outweigh hers in the matter? Hadn’t her uncle begged her to reconsider the decision to stay behind? Uncle Edward needed her artistic skills for his work. And she needed to be there, with the family of her heart, if she was to have the strength to face her future.
As soon as they arrived back at the Fernhaven residence, Lily summoned Edwin. “Did the morning post go out?”
“Yes, miss. And the afternoon post as well.”
Oh no. Lily began pacing. If only they had not stopped at the modiste…
“Are you perturbed, miss, or are you simply expressing your distaste for the new carpet by treading upon it?”
“I am perturbed. I need to send a letter to my uncle. It is most urgent.”
“Then I will arrange for a courier to go tonight.”
She spun to face him. “Could you?”
“I have a nephew. He is young, but quite reliable, and in possession of a very fast horse. Would that do?”
Bless him. Edwin was the best ally in the whole world. “Oh yes! Thank you so much.”
He bent stiffly at the waist. “It is my pleasure, Miss Lily.”
Lily stepped into the drawing room and found a fresh sheet of paper. She dipped the pen and wrote—
I have changed my mind. Look for me at the docks on Wednesday. And don’t forget to pack the folding easel.
Lily
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Southampton, England, March 1847
“That’s the last of the supplies, sir.” Sir Edward’s head gardener, Higgs, nodded toward the wooden crates being hoisted aboard the sailing steamer Sidonia.
Good man, thought James. Capable and reliable—just the kind he needed if he were going to haul the Strathmores and their towering piles of baggage to Tunisia and back. When he had left Brookdale with the wagon of supplies, Lady Mary assured him they were prepared for any eventuality. Any eventuality, he thought, except one that would require them to travel quickly.
He reached into his pocket for a silver coin. “Good work, Higgs. Why don’t you take the lads over for some refreshment? It’ll be the last pint you drink on English soil for some time.”
“Thank you, sir. We’ll drink to quick success and a speedy return.”
“Just keep it to one round. I want you all ready to board the moment the Strathmores arrive.” Which had better be soon—the Sidonia carried the British mails through the Mediterranean and would not wait for tardy botanists.
“We’ll be just across at the Tarry Mermaid there and we’ll keep a watch out. You won’t be leaving none of us behind, sir.” Higgs beckoned to the other servants. “Come on, lads. The work’s done for a bit.”
James watched them pick their way carefully through the dockside crowd toward the tavern. They looked out of place here—men with earth seamed into their hands and green stains at their cuffs. Some of them were already as far from home as they had ever been. How would they fare plucked up and transplanted to North Africa?
“Mackerel! Fine fresh mackerel!” A fishmonger stopped his pushcart beside James. “Fish, guv’nor? Any fresher and they’d jump right out of me barrow.”
James eyed the catch. “None just now.”
The monger shrugged and continued down the dock, leaving behind a stench of things too long from the sea. The odor slowly faded, blending with the smell of tar and brine and sweat.
The ship that
would carry them to Tunisia was tethered to the dock with huge hemp ropes. Amidships, a walkway with railings ramped up the side. Most of the passengers had already made their way aboard and were now strolling about on deck or waving and calling out to friends and loved ones who had come to see them off. A puff of black smoke rose from the twin stacks, and several sailors were aloft in the ship’s rigging. James flipped open his pocket watch and frowned. What could be keeping the Strathmores?
A hansom cab pushed its way along the crowded quay, headed toward the Sidonia. It was slowed by the press, halting now for a tearful group of women embracing farewell, then again by two sailors arguing in the street. It was too small to contain the entire Strathmore family, but they could well be arriving in two vehicles.
The cab halted nearby and the footman swung down to open the door and set the steps. He moved to the back and busied himself unloading luggage—hatboxes, valises, a polished black steamer trunk. Yet no one emerged from the cab. Perhaps the ladies had arrived first and were waiting for an escort before stepping out into the crowd. James strode forward to offer assistance. Setting one foot on the bottom step, he leaned into the open doorway.
“Hello, James.”
It was a man’s voice, one all too familiar. James’s first impulse was to leap back and slam the door. It was involuntary, like that of discovering a spider crawling on one’s skin. He grabbed either side of the door, steadying himself.
“Reggie! What the devil are you doing here?”
Reginald Huntington took the cheroot from between his lips and blew out a cloud of smoke. “Enjoying my privacy—that is, until you appeared. Tell me, coz, do you greet every arrival this way? Say, I’ll give you a shilling to carry my bags.”
James ignored the insult—Reggie was so full of them that it was useless to call him on each slight. It was the fact he had arrived with luggage that concerned James most. It left him feeling as if ice were slowly melting in the pit of his stomach.
Fortune's Flower (Passport to Romance Book 1) Page 10
