The Peculiar Pink Toes of Lady Flora

by Jayne Fresina

  "Miss Cam—eee—llia Know-it-all Snobby-arse." For instance.

  Most people shortened it to Cammy. And no, her last name bore no resemblance to Know-it-all Snobby-arse. But she was getting used to it by now. Lately she had been caught in the gum-smacking Shelly's line of sight too often. Amazing, since the slack-jawed annoyance so rarely lifted her false lashes to look up from her phone.

  But when Shelly Trent liked a boy, she made certain everybody knew it and then other girls were not supposed to look at him.

  Especially not to laugh at anything he said.

  Lesson learned.

  But, unlike Shelly Trent, she didn't have time for all that. Boys did not impress her. They were stupid enough sometimes to make her laugh— at them, however, not with them— but Shelly, it seemed, did not know the difference. No, Cammy wasn't interested in boys. She waited for something special and she would know it when she found it.

  Time to get up. A quick skip of excitement danced through her stomach as her gaze moved from the phone to the museum leaflet beside it.

  Hidden Treasures: Lost and Found.

  A new eighteenth century exhibit opened today, just in time for the art class trip. Last night she'd fallen asleep in a state of agitated anticipation. Other girls her age thought her crazy, but she would take a trip to a museum over Alton Towers or a rock concert any day. History was her thrill ride. Mozart and Bach were her playlist. And her dream boyfriend...well, she hadn't found his portrait yet, but she kept looking. She never gave up.

  Who knew? Today could be the day.

  As she slipped her feet out from under the duvet, Cammy spied her toes, painted bright pink last night in a girly fit. What would her make-believe eighteenth century suitor think of pink toes?

  It would certainly get his attention.

  Her mother called up the stairs. Did she want some burnt toast?

  No time for that. She had a bus to catch.

  She glanced at her window, where a few spots of rain speckled the glass. The sky was milky and curdled. This time of year the weather was generally dull and rainy, but something looked different today. Felt different too. The atmosphere was heavy and expectant. As if a change was on its way.

  "It's raining out," her mother shouted again. "You'll need a brolly."

  Nobody her age carried an umbrella, but her parents seemed oblivious to the fact. "Okay," she shouted back.

  It was not as if a little rain would melt her and she rather liked to feel it on her skin actually. Rain was good; it made things grow, made the earth fertile. Where would they be without it?

  She got up to brush her teeth.

  * * * *

  She had disappeared without a trace.

  Martha told him later, "She must have known, your grace, that she was not coming back." And she showed him the sapphire necklace that Flora— or Rosie— had given to her.

  Why would she leave him? She said that Rosie Jackanapes did not run away. She said she kept her promises.

  But now where was she? He was angry, hurt and bitter for a while.

  There was no word from her, nothing to prove she remembered him, wherever she was.

  "Perhaps she thought it for the best," Francis suggested. "She's gone away somewhere until all this dies down. Then she'll come back. You'll see. She'll come back."

  Persephone Radcliffe and her husband Joss came to help with the wine-making at Darnley.

  "She would never have walked away without a fight," Persey assured him. "She would never have left you. She is a loyal friend. Something must have happened that was beyond her control."

  He looked askance. "Such as?"

  Her face, he thought, was a little guilty, sheepish. "I do not know. I have no answer for that. None that would make any sense."

  Lady Flora was never found. Neither the first nor the last.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  A Footnote by Ha'Penny Plumm

  In May 1784 it was reported that the Duke of Malgrave, quite without comment, got up and left a room when his mother entered it and sat. His friends swiftly followed suit. Then those who wished to be his friend. Then those who did not want to be his enemy.

  The dowager soon found herself alone with only a footman in attendance and, naturally, she had nothing to say to him, nor he to her.

  Finally, with nothing else to do, she got up and left. After that she was never again seen in the same society as her son, or her grandson.

  None of it was her fault, of course. They were all ingrates, cruel and shameless in their treatment of her.

  Harriet Seton never married George Tarleton, despite their lengthy, oft-disputed engagement. She remained in her brother's house, soon donning the cap of an old maid and busying her days with visits from the local curate. In her elderly years she was known as a pious, devout lady, by those who had never met her in youth and those who had forgotten. She even took in stray cats and made clothes for the poor.

  But if anybody ever dared mention Lady Flora Chelmsworth a flame of rage still lit her eyes from within. "She stole away every man who ever looked at me. My youth and beauty was wasted because of her. I had the misfortune to spend the same thirty-eight summers and winters on this earth as that wretched woman."

  Even to her last years, she was known to throw china at any woman with the ill-luck to sport red hair in her presence.

  A day came when the Duchess of Malgrave returned to her husband— not to reconcile her marriage, but because she was ill. Her poet lover had deserted her in Paris, as revolutionary fervor brewed in the streets. By the skin of her teeth, she escaped on a boat to England and slunk home, bruised and sorrowful, but never fully repentant. Mostly she cried for herself and her losses. For her own broken heart.

  Because she was, by law, his wife, the duke took her in, gave her back a suite of rooms at Castle Malgrave and paid for the services of Doctor Osgood, as well as a full-time nurse to tend her at all hours of the day and night. But her years of reckless, decadent living had taken their toll. She lingered but a few more months and died with her son at her side, forgiving her in the end.

  "I do not know whether she heard me, or whether she cared, but I did it for myself," he told his father. "I had to forgive her. If I did not, it would be a burden I always carried."

  The duke moved to pat his son's shoulder then, but the young man swung forward energetically for a warm embrace instead and, this time, it was tolerated. For at least fifteen seconds. Nicholas counted every one of them.

  Francis Chelmsworth married happily, for love as well as fortune. He frequently regretted that the walls of Wyndham held no portrait of his sister. She had never sat for an artist. At least, as far as he knew.

  But Fortitudo Maximilian Fairfax-Savoy kept her tiny likeness inside his silver watch-case, hoarding it jealously to himself. With Captain Fartleberries at his side, he made Darnley Abbey his home, only occasionally visiting Castle Malgrave, but maintaining it mostly for his ancestors and his descendants. And for the folk who would, one day, come and tour the place in little groups, marveling at its treasures, learning about the past.

  The presents he'd once given to the woman he knew as Flora, were packed away in a box and hidden. In time they were lost, forgotten about for many years, until, during a restoration of Darnley Abbey, the old box was found.

  Maxim would never look at them again. Could not bear it. Not until she came back to him. She must. Surely, she must. His love for her was too great to let her go forever. Somehow he would find her again.

  Martha Grey, you may be interested to know, took the proceeds from the sale of her sapphires and opened a most successful coffee shop in Holsham. It was never the fashionable, pretentious salon that disguised itself as a coffee shop in London. Martha had a different vision for her small, cozy establishment and certain members of the nobility were rumored to travel all the way out into the wilds of Norfolk occasionally, just for a taste of her legendary cakes and pies.

  As for Halfpenny Plumm, well here you see him n
ow— a man possessed— scribbling away frantically to write her story. Some of it was told to him; some of it he took from her diary, found long ago; some of it he knew himself.

  "You've toiled over that manuscript for ages," his wife complains, leaning against his hunched, aching shoulder with her candle in hand. "What are you writing?"

  "Naught," he mutters, unthinking, lost in another world.

  "When shall you be done with this naught of yours and come to bed then?"

  "Soon," he promises.

  But not yet.

  The story of Rosie Jackanapes is far from over.

  * * * *

  London

  1826

  "Make haste, my dear, or you shall miss the mail coach. Make haste!"

  As she emerged through the door, Goody Applegate's gentle urging behind her, she found the fog thick enough to choke the breath out of her lungs. A typical London pea-soup.

  She could hear the ruckus of people and trunks being loaded onto the waiting coach, horses hooves clattering on the cobbles, eager to be off.

  "Go forth, my dear," the lady behind her was already closing the door, not wanting to let the murky vapor inside. Her voice faded. "Time for another adventure. Now, you must be a proper lady and do...do keep your shoes on this time."

  Somebody pushed against her in the haze and she stumbled, gripping her luggage tighter. Well, of all the cheek...they did not even stop to apologize and now she'd twisted her ankle. She paused to check her bonnet with one hand and quickly assess her feet, or as much as she could see of them in this blinder. Yes, walking boots on. She felt well equipped to handle this adventure.

  For just a moment though she could not recall where she was going.

  A brisk rumble and rattle warned her that the mail boxes on the back of the coach were being shut and fastened down. "Last passengers for Norwich and Yarmouth!" a man shouted gruffly. "Any last passengers!"

  Yes, that was her. Norwich. She remembered now.

  She hurried forward. Her toe hit something that was sitting on the pavement and she fell forward. Fortunately two gloved hands shot out and caught her, dropping a walking cane to do so.

  "Madam, do be careful."

  "Oh. Thank you." She righted herself quickly, looking down to see what she'd tripped over. There was his walking cane. "Let me retrieve that for you, sir." He held on to her still. Must have moved to save her without thinking, acting on instinct, despite his need for that cane.

  As she passed it back to him there was a little clearing of the fog and she saw that he tipped his tall hat. "My dear, that is good of you. I just didn't want you to fall. My good– " He stopped. "Good god."

  "Are you alright, sir?"

  He stared at her. Despite his advanced years, his eyes were bright, intense, not at all clouded or uncertain. "Rosie?" Leaning heavily against his cane, he looked as if he might collapse for a moment, but his gaze remained fixed upon her and then he drew himself up taller, making an effort. "Rosie," he murmured. "My...my Rosie. Is it you?"

  "Last passengers!" the coachman yelled again. Doors clattered and thumped all around her.

  "I must go, sir," she said, her hand slipping from his.

  "Rosie."There was such anguish in the word. It cut through her heart like a spear.

  "No, sir, that is not my name. I don't know you. I'm sorry." She hoped he was not out there all on his own in this dreadful fog, but it was clearing now and he didn't seem to notice it anyway. His only concern appeared to be her.

  "I would know you anywhere," he said.

  "You should go inside, out of this weather, and get a cup of tea, sir," she advised earnestly. "This rotten air will lay heavy on your chest."

  He had to be in his eighties. Only those eyes seemed unaffected by his advanced years. Most men his age would be in a chair, pushed around by a faithful retainer, but he stood with only his cane for assistance. He was smartly, elegantly and richly dressed, but not in a showy way. A man of consequence, obviously. She could see now that he had a very fine private carriage on the other side of the street, the horses facing in the opposite direction to the way she meant to travel. A man in livery stood with the door of it open, respectfully waiting for him to get in. They must have stopped there for refreshment and a change of horses.

  "Rosie," he said again, sounding bewildered. "Stay."

  "I'm sorry, sir." Looking around for proof, her gaze alighted on the hatbox, which had just been handed up to her in the coach. A name was clearly marked there on the leather-trimmed label. "My name is Miss Ivy Marcheford. See?" She showed him. "Ivy. You mistake me for another."

  "Not possible," he replied steadily, his gaze unblinking.

  The door was shut. She was the last one in and the other passengers stared at her with curiosity.

  The stranger remained on the pavement outside the coaching inn, looking at her still. There were tears in his eyes, she realized, shocked.

  "I've been waiting for you," he said. "Come back to me."

  But a trumpet signaled the start of her next journey and the horses lurched forward.

  She hugged the hatbox that had been put into her lap. It was the same one she'd tripped over on the pavement. Was it really hers or had somebody in the bustling crowd merely thrust it in after her, thinking it must belong to her? Was she Ivy Marcheford? Suddenly she didn't know. The name sounded odd on her lips. New. Untried.

  Something about the hatbox did seem familiar, however.

  Rosie. Why would a stranger call her that? And be so certain?

  Her head ached.

  With trembling fingers she unwound the silk scarf from around her neck and checked the initials embroidered along the edge.

  I. M.

  So that was that. She ought to be relieved. A moment of madness was passed.

  Yes, she was Ivy. Ivy Marcheford.

  But the longer she stared at the initials on the scarf the odder they looked, until the letters seemed to be saying "I'm". I am.

  Who am I?

  She couldn't resist one last glance back through the window as the mail coach turned out of the street.

  He was still there, surrounded by a swirl of lingering mist. An enigmatic stranger with eyes that looked right through her and reached for her heart.

  My Rosie. I would know you anywhere. Come back to me.

  Poor fellow. He seemed so genuinely perturbed. As if she was his long lost love.

  Whoever Rosie was, she dearly hoped that he would find her.

  Final Curtain

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Present Day.

  She had slowly and carefully made her way around the museum gallery, savoring every one of these treasures. The pretty fan with turtle doves, the flute— so finely decorated— the dancing slipper with ribbons of silk. What had happened to its twin? Finally she came to that final cabinet in the corner.

  And there she was.

  "Miniature portrait of a young woman, set in a silver case. Watercolor on ivory. Attributed to the artist John Smart. Sized and curved to fit comfortably inside a man's palm. Engraved with the name, Flora. c. 1760."

  It wasn't him she found. It was herself.

  She was hot. Couldn't breathe. Needed air.

  Her feet spun beneath her as she looked around, desperate. There was nobody there. Not a soul. Just herself with all these things that had belonged to a woman who lived long, long ago.

  She saw it all— his hands passing the wrapped gifts; his tentative smile as she opened them. It was so real. She could smell his sweat and the hint of balsam he wore after he'd bathed, and his hair wet from the rain. She could feel the heat of his skin, the damp linen of his shirt.

  Suddenly she was running through a field of long grass that scratched and tickled her ankles. Dandelion seeds rose up in a white cloud as she disturbed them. Laughter. She tried to catch the seeds in her hands, but they escaped.

  Now, here was that same hand, but bigger, the fingers leaner. She raised it to shade her eyes from the sun's glare as
she looked out over a brilliant, sparkling ocean and felt salt spray on her lips.

  In the next breath she was blinded, descending into darkness. Somebody wrapped a black silk mask around her eyes and giggled. "Your turn, Lady Flora."

  She opened her eyes and began walking toward the little box on the wall that said "Exit". Had to get out of here and find fresh air before she fainted. But the faster she walked the farther away that sign seemed to move.

  The floor under her feet was folding in on itself. She was going down.

  No.

  No!

  Summoning every ounce of anger and determination, she forced her feet to run.

  Run.

  Run for the exit.

  "Be careful out there, young lady," someone shouted. "Mind how you go in that fog. It's like Blind Man's Bluff out there."

  The door banged shut behind her.

  Oh, but this was not where she came in. Where were the steps? Where was the street, the pavement?

  A thick, heavy fog closed in around her and all she could hear was her rapid heartbeat and her breath, gasping, desperate.

  She took a step forward cautiously, hoping not to tumble over the steps that should have been there.

  Just then she felt a rush of heat, another body brushed against hers, traveling at speed in the other direction.

  "Hey! Look out."

  But they were gone.

  She didn't look back to see who had taken her place. Wouldn't be able to identify them anyway, not in this fog.

  Somebody was calling her name, so she walked onward toward the sound, arms stretched out in case of a lamp post or any other obstruction.

  She could breathe better now. In fact the air had an unusually clean feeling. The fear drained away and as she began to hum her favorite Mozart piece, she felt her heart lift, her pulse quicken.