Lady of the Rose

by Patricia Joseph

  “Indeed?” If the Dowager noticed a mocking note in his tone, she did not mention it. “When was that, may I ask?”

  “When Miss Davenport arrived earlier today, bursting in through the front door as though demons were chasing her.”

  Janet Whitney pressed a gloved hand to mouth and snorted. Even her snorts are ladylike, damn her, Harriet thought.

  Blushing to the roots of her hair, Harriet replied in her best imitation of Mrs. York's disapproval, “And as I recall, sir, you were up to your elbows in mud. I nearly took you for a gardener.”

  If Harriet expected him to become angry, she was disappointed. The gray eyes remained inscrutable, but the same ghost of a smile appeared across his features.

  “Yes, quite right, Miss Davenport,” the Dowager was saying. “It is simply horrifying the way you root around in that garden, George. It must stop.”

  “Yes, Mother,” George Whitney said, but he didn't take his eyes off Harriet.

  She was becoming quite uncomfortable under the scrutiny when he finally offered her his left arm. She was so surprised that she took it. He gave his mother the right and led them both into the dining room, leaving Lady Whitney and Louisa to follow.

  ~~~

  The meal was more sumptuous than anything Harriet would have at home, even when they had guests. There were so many courses that Harriet had to confine herself to small bites of each. Janet, she noticed, ate barely anything and spent the whole evening engaging George Whitney in conversation. Harriet watched her lean towards him and whisper into his ear for the fourth time. He smiled at whatever she had said, then turned to speak to his mother.

  Harriet spent most of the evening talking to Louisa, which suited her fine. Louisa was by far the easiest companion in the group. Though, she seemed to miss her brother greatly.

  “Frederick was a very good brother,” she said openly. “He always took care of Mother and I after Father passed away. I shall miss him.”

  Harriet was surprised and appreciative of her candor. “You are very lucky to have had such a brother.”

  Louisa sighed, “Yes, and now there is George. We are still lucky.” She smiled fondly at her brother across the table.

  Harriet, too, looked in George's direction. She thought briefly of her own brother, Lucas, away at university. She had not seen him since he left, not even when her father became ill. She had sent him a few letters, but not in several months.

  As though he sensed her eyes upon him, George Whitney looked across the table at Harriet. Their eyes met for a single, brief moment. Harriet was about to turn her head away, when George Whitney slowly and purposefully winked. Harriet did not know whether she should laugh or be offended. She settled with shaking her head and staring determinedly at her plate. When she looked back up, George was talking to his mother once again, but Janet Whitney was staring at her with wide, dark eyes. Harriet had never seen anyone look at her with such hatred before, and she flinched, as though slapped.

  It happened so quickly that Harriet thought she must have imagined it. Neither George nor Janet Whitney were looking at her, indeed they were talking quietly to each other. Louisa certainly hadn't noticed anything and was still contentedly extolling the virtues of both her brothers.

  “It came as quite a shock, Frederick's passing,” she was saying. “He had always been so robust, so healthy.”

  Harriet remembered Sir Frederick as a rather obese gentleman with a red, puffy face and swollen limbs. She, for one, had not been shocked when his heart had simply refused to beat anymore.

  “But then George came to us,” Louisa sighed. “He has been such a help during this time.”

  “Yes, I'm surprised I haven't seen him here more often.”

  “Well, he's always so busy. He lives in London, or he did until now. He was studying the law, but with Frederick gone, he's had to give it up.” Louisa frowned into her pudding.

  Harriet wondered if the new Sir George would actually miss the law. She knew of few men who would pine over a profession once given a title.

  Normally following such a rich dinner, the women would retire to the sitting room to give the men time to drink and smoke and otherwise entertain themselves. However, since the new Sir George was the only man at the table that evening, he elected to join the women.

  The Dowager immediately cornered Lady Whitney with talk of her late son. Louisa joined in enthusiastically, if solemnly, but George seemed reluctant to enter the conversation. He hovered on the outskirts of the group with Harriet, who felt that she had not known the late Sir Frederick well enough to join in.

  “I did not see you at the funeral,” he remarked.

  He spoke so quietly and so suddenly that, at first, Harriet was not sure she had heard him. “Pardon?” she asked.

  “I did not see you at the funeral,” he repeated.

  “Oh,” Harriet blushed slightly. He was criticizing her for not being in attendance. She had nearly gone, but at the last moment had decided that her father's absence would be less remarked upon if she were missing too. “I heard it was a very dignified event.”

  He looked questioningly at her. “But you were not there, so how would you know?”

  “My mother and my youngest sister were present.”

  He didn't say anything, just continued to look at her, holding her gaze with those intriguing gray eyes. She thought, for some reason, that they looked kind.

  “My father is not well at the moment, and I was needed at home to care for him.”

  She immediately regretted saying it. She did not know why she had mentioned her father at all. It was precisely to avoid talk about him that she stayed home from so many events and gatherings. She braced herself for all the questions that must inevitably follow any mention of her father's condition.

  No questions came. George merely nodded, as though he completely accepted her excuse.

  Harriet was stunned. “I am sorry for your loss,” she said quietly, and she meant it.

  He nodded again, a bit more stiffly, she thought. “Thank you.”

  After that, the conversation faltered, and they fell into an uncomfortable silence. Harriet could feel the tension in his body, see the way he clenched his large fists.

  She cleared her throat, “I really must see to Margaret before bed. I bid you good night, sir.”

  Sir George gave the same stiff bow, “Good night. Tomorrow, if you would like, I would be very pleased to show you around the grounds. The gardens are very lovely this time of year.”

  Harriet knew of no polite way to refuse. “I would enjoy that, thank you.”

  “Until tomorrow, then.” He moved away from her, finally going to join the rest of his family.

  ~~~

  Harriet spent breakfast the next morning with Margaret, in spite of Margaret's many arguments that she should be with the Whitney family.

  “Margaret, I am here because you are hurt, not to have a social visit with the Whitneys,” Harriet said for the third time.

  Margaret smiled sweetly at her sister. “I know, but I am all right. Janet needs you more than I do.” Margaret winced slightly as she shifted her injured leg.

  Janet Whitney was probably the last person in the world to need her, but Harriet kept this thought to herself.

  “Promise me you will look in on her,” Margaret squeezed her hand.

  “Of course, if it means something to you, I will,” Harriet assured her.

  Margaret leaned back against the pillows with a deep sigh. It occurred to Harriet that even the short conversations they had were trying on Margaret. She must be in a great deal of pain, though she said nothing about it. Harriet pulled the blanket up to her chin and tucked the covers under her, careful not to jar her leg. She leaned over and kissed her sister softly on the forehead, but Margaret was already asleep.

  ~~~

  George was waiting for her when she came down from Margaret's room. “Miss Davenport, are you ready for our walk?”

  Stepping outside, Harriet stopped
short at the sight of a carriage hitched to a set of matched bays, two beautiful animals stomping and pawing at the ground in anticipation. “I thought we were walking in the gardens,” she said.

  George pulled her toward the waiting carriage, “I thought of something I wanted to show you. It's a bit far to walk.”

  He was led her along, holding tightly to her arm, and he handed her in. Climbing aboard, he yelled to driver, and they were off before she could protest. The carriage hit a bump, jarring Harriet out of her temporary paralysis.

  “Where are we going?” she demanded.

  “You will see,” he smiled slightly.

  Anger boiled up from the pit of her stomach, lending her tongue a sharpness she would not normally have. “I can not see how you thought this would be acceptable behavior in a gentleman, but perhaps you do not fit the name,” she surprised herself with how calmly she spoke.

  “Perhaps not,” he matched her cool tone, “but then I am depending on you having a very unladylike sense of adventure.”

  Before she could stop herself, Harriet laughed out loud, a single brief explosion of laughter that she hastily turned into a cough, but the smirk on George's lips said she had not fooled him.

  The carriage jerked to an abrupt stop, and Harriet stepped out without waiting for assistance. She found herself before a gently sloping green-covered hill, dotted by flowering shrubs and tall patches of heather.

  “It is quite pretty, but I see nothing that requires any adventurousness.”

  “Now we walk,” he said, offering her a hand to help her over a rocky path.

  She ignored it, purely out of spite she knew, and trudged up the path ahead of him.

  It was a warm day, but a light breeze played across the grasses, bringing up the scent of summer. Harriet breathed deeply, greatly enjoying herself, though she would never dare admit it. She strode quickly over the top of the hill and found herself suddenly in shade. She stopped in place and gasped at the sight before her.

  Instead of sloping downwards again as she had expected, the hill leveled off into the most beautiful wood Harriet had ever seen. Bluebells covered the ground so closely that she was afraid to step forward and crush one of them. The bright sunlight was dappled on the ground through the overhanging trees. The smell had changed from summer, grass, and flowers to the deeper, mustier smell of the forest.

  “Do you like it?” George spoke from close behind her.

  “It's beautiful,” she whispered. Though they were alone, there was something about the place that made her speak softly. “I've never seen a place like it. It doesn't feel like a normal wood. It feels...” she struggled to find the right word. “Ancient,” she finished.

  George was nodding his head slowly. “I had a feeling you would appreciate it. I used to come here as a boy and spend hours listening to the trees. I was certain that they had something to tell me,” he smiled at the memory.

  Harriet had a sudden vision of a boy, perhaps twelve years old, lounging under one of the hazels, knowing people were probably looking for him and not caring in the slightest. She laughed, this time not bothering to cover it up.

  “And what, may I ask, is so amusing?” he asked, but he was smiling.

  “I can see you here. That's all. I was remembering you as a boy.”

  George turned to her at that, suddenly serious. “I was under the impression that you did not remember me at all.”

  It was her turn to smirk then. “I didn't recognize you at first, but I do remember you. I was about sixteen when you left, I think.”

  She moved away from him, letting her eyes roam the wood, landing finally on a overgrown, thorny bush of wild roses. It held her gaze, and she and moved towards it, hand outstretched. On it was the single most beautiful rose, she had ever seen. It was a soft, dusty red and perfectly open. When she got closer, its scent was strong enough to make her dizzy. She placed her hand delicately under the rose, so gentle as to not make it drop a single petal.

  “That one reminded me of you,” George said, from somewhere behind her. “Sublimely lovely, and full of thorns.”

  Before she had time to retort, the sound of footsteps made her turn. The driver was huffing heavily up the hill behind them carrying a large basket over one arm. He set it down with a thump, turned and walked away.

  George gestured to a large blanket spread in front of the field of bluebells. “I thought we might have some luncheon, while we were here.”

  Harriet shook her head as George bent down to unload the basket. “You know I can not stay here,” she said.

  George continued setting out bread and cold meats, whistling softly to himself.

  “I really must ask you to take me back now,” she said louder.

  “I was afraid you might feel that way. The rest of the party will be along shortly, and they will be so disappointed if you choose not to join us.”

  Sure enough, Harriet heard the sound of more horses and wheels coming to a stop at the bottom of the hill. She heard a man's voice and a woman's laugh, and she exhaled slowly in relief.

  “Afraid I might try to ravage you in the wilderness, Miss Davenport?” She heard rather than saw the smile in his voice.

  Blushing slightly, she turned to face him. He was closer to her than she had expected, and she took a step backwards before she could stop herself. The small pit of anger in her stomach was back.

  “You are so like the boy I remember from when I was a girl,” she said sweetly, stepping towards him to close the space between them.

  He unconsciously swayed his body nearer to hers, almost touching her with his hips. He stared at her mouth as he spoke.

  “In what way?” His voice became deeper, huskier. He reached out a hand, brushing his fingertips lightly against the soft skin of her arm.

  “You are just as arrogant and irritating as ever.” she said, and she twirled around to meet the approaching party before he had a chance to reply.

  “Harriet!” A voice filled with excitement called her name.

  “Lillian!” Harriet hurried to meet her sister. The girls embraced in a flurry of auburn hair and flounces, both speaking excitedly at the same time.

  “How is Margaret?” Lillian asked.

  “How is father?” said Harriet.

  The girls erupted in giggles, earning them frowning looks from some members of the party, particularly Lady Whitney who was being led toward the wood by a gentleman Harriet had never seen. Louisa, however, smiled and waved at the sisters as she went to meet her brother.

  “Margaret is fine. She has broken her leg, but the doctor says there is no danger in it. I believe she is in some pain, but she is keeping her spirits up.”

  “I would be very concerned if she weren't” said Lillian, feigning shock. “Margaret has not had low spirits since the day she was born. Mother has stopped sobbing for Sir Frederick, but now she sobs for her 'poor injured darling.'” She spoke in such a perfect imitation of their mother that Harriet broke into a new fit of giggles.

  “And what of father?” she said, wiping her eyes with her handkerchief.

  Lillian became serious. “The same, Harriet. You know he is always the same.” Her voice was tender, and she squeezed her sister's arm.

  Harriet nodded and made to rejoin the party, but Lillian held onto her arm.

  “There is some other news, though, sister.”

  Harriet felt suddenly alarmed. “What is it?”

  “Lucas came home today. He wants to see you.”

  Harriet shook off her sister's arm. A chill settled itself across her shoulders and infused her voice with coldness. “I can think of nothing I would have to say to him. Come, let's join the others.” She strode off ahead of Lillian, who had no choice but to follow.

  The rest of the group was settling in for the picnic luncheon. The other man of the group, who Louisa introduced as one Harold Gregor, was monopolizing Lady Whitney to excess. He doted on her, serving her lunch and hanging on her every word. He seemed to find her soliloquy on
Mrs. Wilson's choice of dress to be fascinating. Louisa and Lillian, close in age and long friends, were talking quietly, heads together, leaving Sir George and Harriet a little apart from the others.

  “So you planned this party from the start?” she asked, already knowing the answer.

  He couldn't keep the smirk completely off his face. “Of course. The two of us alone in a secluded wood for hours? Whatever would people say!” He spoke mostly in jest, but he was also right, Harriet knew.

  “Nothing good, I can assure you. At least not about me,” she said dryly.

  He looked up at that. “I am sorry if I upset you earlier. I wanted you to see this place, and I wanted to see your reaction without any... distractions.” He cast a meaningful glance at Lady Whitney, who was looking periodically in their direction with a frown plastered across her features. Harold Gregor did not seem to notice and continued to talk to her, eyes filled with open admiration.

  Harriet laughed softly under her breath, but he was close enough to hear it.

  “You do laugh quite often, don't you?”

  “Yes, I suppose I do. I've often been told that it is not acceptable behavior in a lady to be so quick to laughter. Perhaps I am meant to make you work harder for the pleasure of my amusement.”

  “I don't know, I quite like it. And as far as laughs go, yours is very ladylike. Small and clear, like a fast-moving stream over rocks. It would be different if you sounded like a choking mule.”

  Harriet didn't know whether to be flattered that he liked her laugh or to laugh again at such a ridiculous description. She settled on a small smile and taking a bite from her lunch to compose herself.

  She cleared her throat and tried to turn the conversation onto safer ground. “This really is the most beautiful spot for a picnic,” she said, in all honesty.

  George looked around at the woods. “Yes, it is one of the few things I missed about this place.”

  She could have let the comment pass, smiled politely and continued to talk of trivialities, but something in his voice made her ask. “One of the few?”

  George sighed and looked directly into her eyes. There was a storminess to the grey orbs - sadness, she thought,or even anger.