Blossom Time

by Joan Smith

  “How very kind! Perhaps I could stay a day longer and drop Papa a note.”

  “We’ll be in touch, then,” she said, and patted his fingers familiarly before striding out the door with a predatory smile on her face.

  Harwell was thoroughly annoyed with his houseguest. To avoid coming to blows with him, he suggested that Sylvester take this opportunity of viewing his library while he tended to some accounts in his study. Once in the handsome oak-lined room, however, he ignored the thick leather-bound accounts and sat, frowning at a sketch of Drayton Abbey as it had looked before it was confiscated by Henry VIII and given to a previous lord of Harwell. He thought of life at the hall without Rosalind living nearby, and the frown grew deeper.

  He would miss her. She was as knowledgeable as any gentleman about estate matters and had always taken a keen interest in his doings—commiserating with him during his troubles, rejoicing at his triumphs, and aiding him out of his personal difficulties, which usually involved women. It was nice to have a female friend with whom one could be so comfortable. If she were to marry some local fellow, it would be bad enough, but this freakish notion of removing to London permanently, and under the auspices of that demmed popinjay Sylvester, was sheer folly.

  Was he being damnably selfish? Perhaps he didn’t know Roz as well as he thought he did. He had never had the slightest suspicion that she was interested in poetry. Odd she had never mentioned it. He realized, then, that it was always his interests that they discussed. He had never really bothered to get to know her. He had just taken for granted that she would always be there. Life would be different—lacking something—without her.

  In Dick’s carriage, a different matter was under discussion.

  “You should have Lord Sylvester to dinner before he leaves, Dick,” Annabelle said as they drove home. “He is so gentlemanly.”

  It seemed an unlikely conclusion for her to have reached, but Rosalind was pleased. “Yes, we really should,” she said. “He is being so helpful to me. He is seeing about a flat for me in London.”

  “So odd to think of you as writing poetry,” Annabelle said. “I believe I was a little hasty to dismiss Lord Sylvester from consideration as a potential suitor, Roz. The son of a marquess is bound to be well to grass. I should think you would enjoy London. So exciting compared to Croydon.”

  Rosalind recognized this as an effort to get her bounced out of Apple Hill, but as the ladies were of a mind, they continued to press the notion of a dinner party.

  Before Miss Fortescue was dropped off at her door, it had been settled that Dick would host a dinner party the next evening. The guest list was not settled, but Rosalind was quite determined that Lady Amanda would not be invited.

  What she wanted was a few guests who actually appreciated poetry and could discuss it knowledgeably with Sylvester, but as she mentally scanned her party list, she came to the sorry conclusion there was not a single poetry lover among them. It firmed her resolve to move to London.

  Chapter Six

  As Rosalind didn’t have time to rearrange the neckline of another gown before Sylvester’s call the next morning, she wore the one she had transformed for his first visit, with a different shawl to alter its appearance. The prospect of her burgeoning career, the remove to London, and Sylvester’s admiration combined to act like a tonic on her spirits. A smile hovered at the corners of her lips and lit her eyes. She looked, and felt, five years younger as she fussed in front of the gilt-framed mirror in the saloon, giving her hair a final pat before his call.

  Her glowing smile dimmed somewhat when she saw Lord Harwell’s broad shoulders looming behind Sylvester in the saloon doorway. Sylvester smiled and came forward, while Harwell lurked behind like a shadow, frowning at her.

  Being in a poetical frame of mind, she was taken by the idea that Sylvester’s blond radiance might stand for a symbol of goodness and light against the menace of Harwell’s dark hair and swarthy coloring. She had never considered Harwell a menace before, but she sensed he was against her remove to London and might try to prevent it.

  Sylvester raised her fingers to his lips. “ ‘Full many a glorious morning have I seen’—but none have given me such pleasure as seeing you again, Miss Lovelace.” Then he made a deep, playful bow.

  She enjoyed the attention, but would have enjoyed it more had Sylvester come alone. She felt a little foolish with Harwell scowling in the background.

  After greeting Sylvester, she said, “Harry, I didn’t realize you meant to come this morning. Was there a special reason?” He often called to discuss parish or church business with her or Dick. If that was the case, she might palm him off on Dick.

  “I didn’t realize I needed a reason other than friendship to call,” he said with a mocking grin.

  “Of course not, but Lord Sylvester and I had planned to discuss my work this morning, as he has to leave soon, you know. I fear we will bore you.”

  “How could I be bored in such stimulating company?” he said, and walked toward the sofa.

  She gave him an impatient look, then turned to Sylvester. “As it’s such a fine day, I had thought we might have our discussion in the garden.”

  “Excellent! Perfect! It would be sacrilege to stay indoors on such a morning. ‘Flowers to strew our way and bough of many a tree.’ “ He took her arm and she led him out to the garden, while he showered her with more floral quotations, and Harwell listened, occasionally shaking his head and rolling his eyes in amusement.

  “I need not inquire who is the muse of this bower of bliss,” Sylvester said, as they wandered arm in arm through clouds of roses. Petals covered the ground like a carpet. Their perfume hung heavy in the air.

  “I do take an interest in the roses,” she admitted, blushing.

  He picked one of the Provence roses that were a feature of the garden and held it to her cheek. “I see where the rose got its lovely soft petals,” he said.

  With Harwell’s scalding eye on her, she replied woodenly, “That one is a deal pinker than my complexion, I think.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Miss Lovelace,” Sylvester replied archly. “I think that pretty blush you are wearing is quite Provencal—not to be mistaken with provincial.” Then he laughed at his own sort of pun.

  Sylvester soon deduced it was Harwell’s presence that interfered with his à suivie flirtation and changed the subject.

  He looked all around and said, “What an inspiration this magical spot must be for you, Miss Lovelace. One wonders how you could tear your eyes away from it all to get down to the business of writing. And now—alas!—we must proceed to business as well.

  “For the autumn poems, I hoped for a continuation of your theme of the cycle of life: the rich harvest of summer—paralleled, of course, with the Age of Reason—followed by the decline of human hopes and aspirations as the sun’s diurnal visits shorten, plunging us into ever longer periods of darkness. This will call up a collateral memory of the Dark Ages, with the decline of learning and all cultural endeavor. We really ought to have begun with autumn—the sleep of reason, advancing to winter’s symbol of the Dark Ages, on to spring’s Renaissance, and so on, which you have already done so marvelously in your Blossom Time poems. When the oeuvre is collected into a book we shall give the seasons their proper order.”

  Rosalind was overwhelmed by this casual mention of her contributing four sets of poems. Why, she would be that honored figure, a regular contributor! She was particularly excited by the idea of a book. It was a heavier burden than she had anticipated. How was she to learn enough history and philosophy to tell the story of mankind through flowers in a few months? Sylvester had imagined her simple nature poems into a whole philosophy, and presumably the meaning of her falling leaves and shorter days would be similarly expounded by him in his critique.

  Harwell listened with only half an ear. His greater interest was to learn what plans Sylvester had for Rosalind’s remove to London. When, after a deal of poetic discussion, this topic arose, he l
istened closely.

  “What of the flat you mentioned?” she asked Sylvester, after the Camena business had been settled.

  “I shall discuss that with Papa when I go to Astonby. I know he has a block of flats on Glasshouse Street. I doubt they are all rented yet as he has been having them painted and repaired. They ought to be quite comfortable, and the location is good.”

  “What sort of rent would he charge?” she asked.

  With Harwell hovering close by, Sylvester answered vaguely. “That would depend on how many rooms you require. How many people will there be, besides yourself? How many servants would you be taking?”

  “Only two servants, I think. A footman and a general servant who can clean and do some cooking. I shan’t take a groom or carriage. I can hire a carriage when I need one. I would like to take my mount.”

  Harwell assumed she would also take a female companion to act as chaperon. Every atom of his body disliked the scheme, yet when he saw how happy Rosalind was, how radiant, he realized that he was being selfish. He should be happy for her. But he didn’t intend to let Lord Sylvester monopolize her entirely. He was indebted to Roz for dozens of past favors.

  He said, “It sounds a happy arrangement. It will do you the world of good, Roz. I shall be sure to call when I am in London and introduce you to some of my friends. You mustn’t keep your nose to the grindstone night and day. You will want to socialize. Pity you haven’t made your curtsy at St. James’s, but there are still plenty of do’s you could attend. I know your love of dancing. There are the theaters as well, concerts, exhibitions, and so on.”

  “Thank you, Harry,” she said, surprised and pleased at his sudden volte-face.

  He studied her flushed face for a moment, and she met his gaze steadily. When he spoke, his voice held a new tone of gentleness, almost regret. “It is I who should thank you for a hundred past kindnesses, which we shan’t go into at the moment. I am in your debt.”

  Sylvester sensed a conspiratorial note creeping into the conversation. What “past favors” were these that could not be discussed in front of him? Had Rosalind been Harwell’s mistress? It was possible. Harwell’s reputation with the ladies was pretty well known, and Miss Lovelace, living so close, must have been a strong temptation. She was no girl—must be a quarter of a century. Harwell’s gaze seemed still to hold some echo of tender love as he studied her. Yes! They had been lovers. But the affair was over now, and the lady was available. An older lover would be all the crack. Lady Oxford certainly hadn’t done Byron’s romantic reputation any harm.

  It was odd that Lord Harwell had invited him to stay at Drayton Abbey. Harwell had insisted on accompanying him this morning as well. Sylvester soon concluded that there had been an affair, it had ended without rancor, and Harwell was now trying to ease Miss Lovelace gently out of his life.

  “You have only to ask if you have need of anything,” Harwell was saying. “You mentioned taking your mount. You can stable it with my cattle, if you like.”

  Sylvester walked on a few paces, pretending to admire the flowers, but he could still hear them.

  “I hadn’t considered all those details,” she replied. “Yes, I would like to be able to ride—but then I would need a groom.”

  “Rubbish, use mine. I keep a couple of fellows in London year-round for Aunt Margaret’s convenience. They are sitting on their haunches most of the time.”

  It had been arranged that Dick would join them in the garden and invite Sylvester to dinner that evening. He was to leave them alone for an hour first, but as he was eager to get down to the orchard and see to the spraying for greenflies, he went early. Sukey accompanied him. Sandy was at her heels, making life difficult for Snow Drop. The two had not come to terms yet.

  While Dick spoke to Sylvester, Rosalind said to Harwell, “Now that no big ears are eavesdropping, may I know what all this new civility is in aid of? Last night you were against my going to London. This morning you are suddenly offering bribes to be rid of me.”

  “Not bribes! Rewards. I have been a selfish dog, Roz. I am only trying to make your life in London as pleasant as possible and help the romance with Sylvester along.”

  “I don’t need any help with Sylvester.”

  “But you do, my sweet idiot. When he said—with a great lack of originality for a poet—that your cheeks were like rose petals, you should have batted your lashes and simpered, not said in that flat voice, ‘That one is a deal pinker than my complexion, I think.’ That was not romantical.”

  “I was embarrassed. I’m not accustomed to flattery.”

  “Better get used to it. The new coiffure and gowns are charming.” His eyes glanced off her hair and face down to admire the new neckline.

  “I wish you wouldn’t stare at my bosoms,” she said curtly, and pulled her shawl together.

  “Merely admiring nature’s handiwork. Breasts are the perfect example of beauty and practicality.”

  “Spoken like a good dairy farmer. Don’t ever try to become a poet, Harry.”

  “I don’t intend to, though it’s not actually necessary for a man to be a fool to be a poet. Byron is quite sane. He gave a dandy speech in the House about the Luddite riots in Yorkshire. Pity he never followed it up with action.”

  “Sylvester is not a fool, nor, I hope, am I.”

  “I know you’re not. I didn’t see any mention of all that hackneyed twaddle about the Dark Ages and the Renaissance in your poems. They were just pretty verses about nature.”

  “Harry! You actually read them!”

  “Of course I did. I felt it a duty.”

  She just shook her head. “How like you to not even bother pretending it was a pleasure.”

  “When have I ever pretended with you? Or you with me, come to that? Between us two, your Provencal roses wear their everyday name of cabbage roses.”

  “Only you call them that!”

  “I believe in calling a spade a spade. I thought your poems were pretty. Better judges than I say they are something special. I accept their opinion and am truly happy for your success.”

  Once Dick had extended the invitation, he could find little to say to Sylvester. He led Sylvester over to join the other group. Sukey followed along, cradling Snow Drop in her arms to protect her from Sandy. Deprived of his amusement, Sandy gave a final bark of disgust and took off in pursuit of a squirrel.

  “I have just been inviting Lord Sylvester to take his mutton with us this evening,” Dick said. “I hope you will come as well, Harry.”

  “Thank you. I will be happy to.”

  “Can I come, Dick?” Sukey asked, pulling at his hand to get his attention.

  “Of course not, ninnyhammer, but I’ll have Cook send you up some plum cake if you manage not to rip your pinafore,” Dick replied.

  “I want to sit at the grown-up table!”

  “When you are a little older, child,” Sylvester said. “Children are to be seen, not heard.”

  “That’s silly. What if I want something?”

  ‘Then you ask your nanny for it.”

  “I told you, she’s gone.”

  “Surely it’s possible to find a replacement,” he said to Rosalind. “It seems a shame to waste time when a child has so much to learn. They are peculiarly amenable to instruction at an early age, you must know. The child is not too young to begin an appreciation of good literature. I had a dozen soliloquies by heart when I was her age.”

  Snow Drop squirmed in her arms and succeeded in hopping down. The tassels on Lord Sylvester’s top boots caught her attention, and she began leaping at them. Sylvester shook his foot to be rid of the kitten.

  Sukey let out a holler. “Don’t kick her! Harry, he’s kicking Snow Drop!”

  “Do stop your racket, Sukey!” Rosalind scolded. “And take that kitten away.”

  Harry picked up the kitten, tucked it into the crook of his arm, took Sukey’s hand, and led her down the path toward a bench under a lilac bush. “Come along, dumbie. I’ll teach you a Shakes
pearean sonnet. But first we’ll learn the alphabet.”

  “I know the alphabet, Harry. Will you teach me to curse? Roz says you’re good at it.”

  “My vocabulary is extensive to be sure, but I fear you’re a little young for advanced cursing. ‘Deuced’ is the farthest I go with minors.”

  “I already know that, and ‘tarnation’ and ‘zounds.’ I learned them at the stable. ‘Deuced’ is not cursing.”

  Something twisted in Rosalind’s breast when she saw Sukey and Harry, with the white kitten frolicking in his arm, walking hand in hand down the path, talking nonsense. The sun shone full on them as they left the garden. Harry’s dark head was inclined down toward Sukey’s tousle of curls, which shone like a golden halo. The notion of good and evil did not occur to her on this occasion.

  When Sylvester began to boast how he had translated Cicero at the age of eight, she could hardly suppress a yawn. She wanted to run down the path after Harry and Sukey, and play with the kitten.

  Chapter Seven

  Although the social life of Apple Hill was not dull, Rosalind was not accustomed to entertaining both morning and night. Lord Sylvester and Harwell had to be offered wine and biscuits before leaving that morning, which made the afternoon doubly busy in preparing for the dinner party.

  At Dick’s suggestion, done to please Annabelle, it had been enlarged to include more guests and some dancing after for the younger folks. A large party, Annabelle decreed, must include Lady Amanda Vaughan. Annabelle had a great hankering after titles. Dick, thinking to help his sister, took the misguided notion of asking Annabelle over to give her a hand.