Blossom Time

by Joan Smith

  “Come and kiss us good-bye, Sukey,” Rosalind said.

  Sukey threw her arms around her sister, dislodging her shawl in the process, then hopped into Dick’s arms for a whirl that nearly knocked over the vase of flowers on the table.

  “Oh, Mr. Lovelace, do be careful!” Miss Rafferty exclaimed, and rescued the tumbling vase.

  Rosalind, listening, thought that “Mr. Lovelace” would have been “Dick” if the two were on a more familiar footing. In her excitement, she would have used the first name that came to mind.

  When Dick put Sukey down, he looked at Miss Rafferty with a self-conscious smile.

  “I’m sorry you aren’t coming with us, Miss Rafferty,” he said.

  “Have a dance for me. And some of Miss Fortescue’s lobster patties,” she replied. If she was heartbroken to be left at home, she didn’t reveal it by so much as a blink as she took Sukey’s hand and led her back upstairs.

  “Next time I shall insist that Annabelle invite Miss Rafferty,” was all Dick said about it, but he said it in a very determined voice.

  Several carriages were on the road as they headed toward Croydon. Rosalind recognized two or three of them as belonging to friends who would be at the party. Harwell, who always drove like a madman, shot past them in his curricle and waved from the perch.

  He was waiting for them outside Fortescue’s mansion when they alit. As his dark eyes raked Rosalind, she observed that he was wearing a new jacket. Its cut told her it was from Weston, London’s premier tailor. The dark bottle green looked well against his swarthy face, with the flash of an immaculate cravat adding a contrast. His cravat pin was an emerald so dark it looked black.

  “Yes, it is last year’s gown,” she said.

  “But this year’s coiffure. Très chic, Miss Lovelace. I am happy to see that modest gown. I feared Miss Fortescue’s shanghaiing of Sylvester might have led you to some immodest excess with your shears. Or did you give her arm a tweak to talk her into this party?”

  “It was Annabelle’s idea.”

  “A pity the guest of honor won’t be here,” he said.

  “What?”

  “Don’t be alarmed. He’s not injured. He stopped at the Abbey on his way from Astonby. He planned to go straight through to London this evening. Pity, after your careful toilette.”

  She let him gloat a moment, then said, “Not straight through, Harry. He stopped at Apple Hill to see us. We convinced him to remain for the party. In fact, he will be staying overnight.”

  Harwell’s lips pinched into a thin line. He betrayed only an instant’s annoyance before smiling. “That’ll teach me to count my chickens before they’re hatched.”

  “Why were you so eager to hatch that particular chicken, I wonder?”

  “Selfishness, pure and simple. I dislike the notion of losing you. To London, I mean.”

  “I, on the other hand, always look forward to your taking off for London,” she retorted.

  “It’s the sugarplums that accompany me back that you look forward to, no doubt.”

  “What sugarplums? Sukey is still waiting.”

  “Good Lord! Didn’t I give her any?”

  “What a convenient memory you have.”

  As he took her arm and led her to the door, he said, “I shall buy them the next time I am in Croydon.”

  “Promises, promises.”

  Chapter Twelve

  The party was a fiasco or a wild success, depending on one’s point of view. The food was good and plentiful to the point of excess. Wine of the most expensive sorts flowed freely from the moment Rosalind entered the lavish saloon, whose more garish excesses in the way of red brocade and gilt were hidden behind bushels of flowers.

  Twenty-four sat down to a dinner that would have satisfied a glutton, but perhaps not the refined taste of a Lucullus. Still, one did not have to eat soup and turbot and lobsters and oysters. Ham, mutton, three kinds of fowl, roast beef, pork, and rabbit need not all be tried. There was certainly something for every taste, and a host of desserts of all kinds, from a simple syllabub to a cake in the shape of a magazine, with Camena inscribed in gold and colored icing on its surface. A wedge of simple apple tart with cheddar was smuggled to the board as well for Mr. Fortescue.

  Anyone but a cannibal could find a meal to his liking amid the bewildering array of choices. Even Lord Sylvester was tempted to stop talking for a few moments and eat a stalk of asparagus and an oyster.

  When it was over, the ladies staggered to the saloon to sit benumbed until the gentlemen joined them. Half an hour was not really sufficient time to digest such a gargantuan repast, but the moment the gentlemen appeared, Annabelle ushered them to the ballroom, where more delights awaited their jaded eyes. The other guests who had been invited to only the rout began to arrive to swell their numbers.

  It was difficult to credit that Annabelle had transformed the ballroom into a Persian tent in only five days, but she had done it, and spiced the room up with an overpowering aroma of incense as well. Pleated muslin covered the ceiling and half the walls. The baroque chandeliers peeked through the muslin, casting refracted light on the stalls of flowers and fruit and vegetables placed between the chairs at the sides of the room. The musicians were dressed in Persian costumes hired from London for the occasion.

  “I wager Lord Sylvester has not seen anything to beat this in London,” Annabelle said, as she stood with Dick and Rosalind at the doorway, admiring her handiwork while waiting for the music to begin.

  “You’ve gone to a deal of trouble for a fellow you hardly know.” Dick scowled. He was not thinking of his own much simpler birthday party as Annabelle thought, but of how Sylvia would have loved to see this extravaganza.

  “It’s not just for him,” she replied. “I wanted to show you how well I can entertain, too. I would like to have a do like this for our wedding party, Dick.”

  “Dash it, we ain’t Persians. Next you will be saying you want to go to Paris for the treacle moon.”

  “Oh no! Italy, I think. Lord Sylvester was telling me that everyone should see Rome before he dies. Or was it Greece? One of those foreign places anyhow. Not Paree. That’s how the French pronounce it.”

  Lord Sylvester had the first dance with Rosalind. He had not come prepared for such a gala affair and wore again the same canary yellow jacket he had worn to Harwell’s small party.

  “This do must have set Fortescue back a small fortune,” he said, looking around assessingly. “Such excess is in wretched taste, of course. Had Miss Fortescue consulted me as to what sort of party I would like, I could have spared her the tent and three-quarters of the menu. I would rather have had the blunt put into Camena.”

  “Don’t feel guilty at the expense. I expect the party was as much to display Miss Fortescue’s talents as for you. She is from London, you know, and finds our do’s hopelessly provincial.”

  “Yes, she was mentioning that she misses London dreadfully. You ought to have her to Town for a visit, Miss Lovelace. I think her papa might do something handsome for Camena if we showed her about a little.”

  The irony of inviting Annabelle to London, when the major reason for going was to escape her, was not wasted on Rosalind.

  “She will be busy with her wedding plans,” she said.

  “Still, she seemed mighty interested in going to London. It is all she speaks of.”

  Rosalind didn’t encourage this notion. The surest way of diverting Sylvester’s attention was to let him prattle on about his magazine. She broached the subject, then looked about to see who Harwell was dancing with while Sylvester answered at some length. She saw that Lady Amanda, wearing a strident yellow-and-black-striped gown and gold turban and looking like a gigantic bumblebee, had captured Harwell and was bouncing him about the square.

  When the set was over, Harwell joined Rosalind and Sylvester.

  “Lady Amanda has been wanting to speak to you,” he said to Sylvester.

  “Naughty boy!” Lady Amanda said, as she got a grip
on Sylvester’s elbow and led her captive away.

  “Well,” Harwell said to Rosalind, “Miss Fortescue has certainly put us all in the shade with this do. Take care or she’ll be snapping Sylvester out from under your nose. This wild extravagance is all in his honor, n’est-ce pas?”

  “I believe he is just the pretext to show us what she can do when she puts her mind to it.”

  “Her mind and her papa’s lucre. This must have set him back a packet. Shall we go to the refreshment tent to escape that sickening smell? What the devil is it?”

  “Incense, Harry.”

  “Ah, incense for the great god Sylvester. He certainly knows how to impress the ladies.”

  “Yes, it is quite a novelty for a gent to go out of his way to impress us with cultured conversation, or anything but setdowns and condescension. We provincials never open a book.”

  “I didn’t mean you!” he said, then flushed as he realized that this was exactly what he had meant.

  They strolled out of the ballroom, arguing amicably. The refreshment parlor felt cool and fresh after the bazaar-like atmosphere of the crowded ballroom.

  “Champagne!” he exclaimed, when he glanced at the refreshment table. “Is Sylvester suitably appreciative of all this, I wonder?” he asked, handing her a glass.

  “He regrets that the money wasn’t spent elsewhere. I think you know where.”

  He peered over his glass at her. “Do I detect an irreverent note of cynicism creeping in?” he asked archly.

  “No, a note of common sense.”

  A smile quirked Harwell’s lips. “That is music to my ears!”

  “I mean I agree with him. His papa wouldn’t forward him any money.”

  “Dunston is no fool.”

  “You think it foolish to foster culture, Harry? How very like you!”

  “I think it foolish for a youngster to squander his patrimony on a magazine that is doomed to failure. These literary rags seldom make a go of it.”

  “I see it as a beautiful, idealistic quest.”

  “Yes, the sort that ruins a man.”

  “Or makes his reputation. Who would have heard of Leigh Hunt if it were not for his Examiner?”

  “I hope this doesn’t mean you’re thinking of putting your dowry into Camena.”

  She was shocked at the idea. “Of course not! I can’t afford it.”

  “Then you assume financial disaster for Sylvester’s venture. I think I have just made my point. Why are you really running off to London, Roz?”

  “To broaden my literary and artistic horizons,” she said vaguely. He scoffed. “What’s the matter, Harry? You don’t want me there, seeing how scandalously you behave when you’re away from the Abbey? Don’t worry. I shan’t be seeing you much, and I shan’t carry tales back home.” She added rather smugly, “I shall be too busy having my own life, for a change.”

  “You have a good life here. And what of Sukey? I hear Miss Fortescue is not happy with Miss Rafferty, though I think her a very good sort of girl myself.”

  “Where did you hear that?”

  “In town,” he said with a shrug. Obviously Annabelle had been spreading word of her unhappiness with Miss Rafferty.

  “Annabelle thinks Sukey ought to be sent to an academy in a few years,” Rosalind explained. “And don’t bother frowning at me! Dick is her guardian, and he is under Annabelle’s paw. Annabelle doesn’t want me in the house. She’s quite right. If I stayed, we would only come to cuffs. I’m just a busybody old spinster, as you said.”

  “I didn’t say that!”

  “You said something very like it the other day.”

  “I didn’t say busybody.”

  “It was the ‘old spinster’ that stung.”

  “I was only funning!” She gave a dismissing tsk, as if not believing him, or caring much what he thought. A frown grew between his eyebrows. “Roz, you do realize that Sylvester runs with a pretty racy set in London? I have been making a few inquiries. . . .” He hesitated, wondering how much he should say. It was only rumors, after all.

  She gave him a cold stare. “How . . . considerate of you.”

  “It was your own idea. You said I oughtn’t to hand you over to just any old hedge bird.”

  “Odd, I seem to recall your saying quite recently that Sylvester is too young and innocent for me.”

  “You have a way of hearing what you want to hear. I did not say too innocent, just too young.”

  She took a sip of her champagne before answering, in a pensive mood. “It’s time I shed my innocence.”

  Harwell’s frown deepened to a dark scowl. “Rosalind, listen to yourself! What’s happened to you? You were always the sensible one.”

  “Did it ever occur to you I might be tired of being the sensible one? I’m four and twenty years old, Harry, and I’ve never had a life. That’s what has happened to me. I run the house and do the bookkeeping for Dick. I look after Sukey. I run errands for you when you’re away, and help clean up the shambles you’ve made of your love affairs. I know more about the parish than the vicar.”

  His scowl dwindled to a troubled gaze as he considered what she had said and admitted that she had a point. But surely Sylvester Staunton was not the answer to her problem. “You have your poetry,” he said. It still seemed odd to him that sensible Roz was a closet poet. How little he really knew about her. From her pleasant manner, he had always assumed she was happy with her lot.

  “Scribbling alone in bed at night to keep the blue devils at bay is a poor substitute for a life. I want more than that.”

  “But your excuse—reason for going to London is to involve yourself more in the poetry.”

  She gave a dismissing gesture with her hand. “I want to do things, meet people.”

  “People are people all over the world. They’re not that different in London.”

  Her chin rose, and she said challengingly, “Perhaps I want to find a husband. There, I’ve said it.”

  He leapt on it like a cat on a mouse. “So you are chasing after Sylvester!”

  She refused to backtrack. “He wants me to go. We shall see if anything comes of it. We’ve only known each other a few days. I find him interesting—a pleasant change from gentlemen who think of nothing but farming.”

  “I think you’re making a big mistake. I wish you would stay at Grosvenor Square, for a while, at least. Some of the tenants in that place on Glasshouse Street are no better than they should be. Failed artists and actors and such.”

  “And minor poets?” she asked, arching an angry eyebrow at him. “I’m not interested in making my curtsy at St. James’s, Harry. I am going for personal fulfillment.”

  “You mentioned finding a husband. . . .”

  “How else does a lady fulfill herself? Poetry is fine, but it’s only a substitute for life. I think we have plucked this poor crow to death. Let us return to the bazaar.”

  A reluctant smile peeped out. “At least you didn’t say ‘the party.’ You’re not enjoying this do any more than I am.”

  “I was enjoying it—until you came with your thunderclouds to spoil it.”

  Of course, it wasn’t the party that Harwell had spoiled. Roz found it quite as ridiculous and enjoyable as any sane person would. It was her going to London that he was spoiling with all his carping. Why shouldn’t she go? Why shouldn’t she have a life, like everyone else?

  She had done her share and more for the family and Apple Hill. She had already lost one fiancé to it. How much more did she owe? The house and the greater part of the family fortune had been left to Dick. It was for him to make suitable arrangements for Sukey. Her head began to ache with the worry of it all.

  After a few more sets, her headache worsened and she told Dick she would go home and send the carriage back for him.

  “I’ll go with you,” he said at once. “I’ve had enough of this do.”

  “Won’t Annabelle be offended if you leave?”

  “She’ll never miss me. She is too busy preenin
g herself over this ridiculous festival.”

  They went to thank the Fortescues for the party. Sylvester and Annabelle were with them, standing at the door of the ballroom.

  “You’ve heard the wonderful news?” Annabelle said, smiling at Dick. “Papa is going to invest a little something in Lord Sylvester’s magazine. Lord Sylvester will come back to discuss it in a few days, after he has taken care of some important business in London.”

  Dick scowled and said, “Congratulations, milord. I’m taking Roz home, Belle. She has the megrims.”

  “That is good news,” Rosalind said to Sylvester. She wondered how the hardheaded Fortescue had been cajoled into parting with his blunt and how much he had invested. Remembering Harry’s warning, she hoped it was not a very large sum. Fortescue would do anything to please Annabelle. One had only to look into the ballroom to see how his daughter bear-led him.

  Sylvester walked Rosalind to the door. “I’m so happy for you, Lord Sylvester!” she said in a low voice.

  “Dash it, isn’t it time you stopped lording me? Call me Sylvester, Rosalind.”

  “Very well, if you like. How did you manage it?”

  He drew her aside and spoke in a whisper, while Dick took his leave of Annabelle and her parents.

  “I mentioned Miss Fortescue’s visiting you in London. Don’t worry about it. I shall give you the larger flat with an extra bedchamber.”

  “I’m not sure I can afford it.”

  He looked down at her and gave an intimate laugh. “Don’t worry about the expense. I will take care of all that. We shall have to entertain her a little, but we will still find plenty of time to be alone. I’ll call on you the minute I get back. Will you miss me as much as I miss you?”

  She said in confusion, “Oh, indeed.”

  As she and Dick drove home Rosalind wondered at Sylvester’s secretive manner, his whispering in her ear. When he said not to worry about the extra expense, he would take care of it all, she assumed he meant he would give the larger flat at the price of the smaller.