Love Among the Spices

by Briggs, Laura

  Would Captain Lindley be pleased to have a wife who ran about in the countryside with a butterfly net? Or would he, like Mr. Nimbley, prefer an ordinary London life once his fortune was secure? If he was a mercenary in his request–but she banished this thought along with the flame of her candle. The faint smoke trail in the darkness was scarcely visible to Marianne’s eyes as she lay troubled in the darkness.

  Oh, why must gentlemen propose to her! Why must every pleasant companion be set upon turning her into a proper lady, mistress of a proper, ordinary English house?

  Even with such a suitor as a daring regimental officer to carry her away from life in London, escaping the tedium of its rules might never be possible.

  Chapter Nineteen

  “I do not know why Miss Marianne’s dance card is scarcely full at these balls and parties,” complained Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “Do the young men have no eyes for beauty?”

  A month had passed since the ball held at Lady Easton’s townhouse. The Season’s glories were at their zenith for most eligible young women and their interested suitors–but not for Marianne Stuart. For all the balls and parties, the suppers and card tables had not resulted in a suitor for her, merely the two proposals. Including the one which she had yet to answer to the dashing young captain, unbeknownst to her aunt.

  She had not seen Captain Lindley again in society, refusing a card party invitation she feared he would most certainly attend. Her heart might pound at the thought of his dashing figure upon horseback in the regiment, the pressure of his hand upon her arm when he escorted her to the wooded pond–but it was not ready to answer him.

  As for the Nimbley’s India Trading Tea and Spice Shop, she had not returned there even once. It gave her a feeling of pain whenever she glimpsed its sign upon the street, the scent of dried leaves from the West Indies, the spices of China tempting her like perfume. Strangely enough, she felt more pain than relief when she passed by it.

  “I suspect the young gentlemen in society have no heart for pursuing a young lady who does not return their attentions,” answered Sir Edward, glancing over the rim of his teacup at his daughter, who was pretending to take interest in her egg and toast.

  “Whatever do you mean? Surely you are jesting?” She looked at her niece. “You would not discourage any proper young suitor–any eligible gentleman willing to engage you for pleasant conversation or a dance?”

  “I have only discouraged the suitors of whom you would disapprove, aunt,” responded Marianne. “Surely you would not fault me for that?”

  Her aunt’s pursed lips were proof that she believed her niece’s response to be playful and not at all serious. “What is it you wish for in a gentleman?” she demanded. “I would think pleasant manners and good character would be enough for any young woman, even one as stubborn as you–yet you have already rejected a proposal from a young man who was acceptable in these. If another is made by a gentleman with a little fortune and property in addition to these, why not accept? What of young Lord Hepperly, for instance?”

  “Lord Hepperly is dull,” Marianne protested. “He is forever preening and only talks of the weather and carriages. I do not think he has ever had an original thought in all the months I have seen him in society.”

  “Lord Hepperly is a good-natured young man without a hint of scandal to his name and an income of four thousand a year,” reproved Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “You could do much worse, Miss Marianne.”

  “I would prefer that mention of any young man and such dealings with Marianne be omitted, if you will oblige, Ma’am.” Sir Edward's tone was one of warning, although Mrs. Fitzwilliam did not seem greatly affected by it.

  The maid Letty entered with the morning correspondence. Sir Edward glanced at the two letters handed to him, the topmost one bearing the obvious address of his solicitor. The maid placed one before Marianne, addressed in an unfamiliar hand. She recognized Adam Nimbley’s name upon it.

  “If the young man is a gentleman, she need not be ashamed of the offer; but I certainly hope Miss Marianne shall choose well for her own sake,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. As her aunt spoke, Marianne was turning the letter over, breaking the wax seal and unfolding the square of brown paper.

  Dear Miss Stuart, it began, I beg you will forgive me for the boldness of writing you. I wished to have written you aboard the ship–and did–but there was no vessel in passing, no port of call from which I could part ways with it. Now, here in Dominica, I can at last be assured, as I write these lines, they will reach you.

  Dominica? Her eye re-read the passage in disbelief, her breath catching in her throat. The change in her countenance, in her manner of attention, might have attracted the notice of her aunt and father, had they been more attentive at this moment. Instead, Marianne was unobserved as she sat frozen with her letter in hand, rereading it as her heart beat swiftly in response to its lines.

  She had not imagined this–picturing him at home or in his uncle’s shop, toiling away in his study of the law. Had he not resolved to do this when he spoke to her before?

  I have begun a study of the native insects and species of fragile life largely neglected by the initial visitors to this place. The merchant trade of my good uncle and others has pushed the mark of civilization further into the land, so I have made my way to a less-inhabited part–a part I believe has seen few visitors from England, if any, and almost no one who explored it for the sake of its native landscape.

  “I think we need not fear Marianne choosing anyone, Madam, much less a suitor who is neither a gentleman in rank or character,” responded Sir Edward, bitterly.

  “How can you say so, Sir Edward! And of your own daughter –when Flora has made such a splendid match herself!”

  “Lady Easton’s nature was far different from her sister’s; she was more amiable on the subject of polite manners and slightly less stubborn on the subject of being an accomplished young lady in society,” said Sir Edward, with emphasis as his glance turned towards Marianne to study the effect of these words. Her eyes remained fixed upon the letter held below the surface of the table.

  Enclosed is a sketch I made of a strange flowering plant which attracted several insects when it opened yesterday morning. I made a sketch of it from the doorway of my hut, a dwelling kindly loaned to me by one of the villagers or tribesman who dwells here and was greatly surprised by the appearance of a tall Englishman in his country. The insects I have sketched, studied, and made notes upon also. But the flowering plant I wished for you, Miss Stuart. With regards, Your Friend Adam Nimbley.

  Folded within was a piece of paper on which a shrub was drawn in swift, careful pencil marks; large rose pink blossoms and broad green leaves painted with shades of watercolor. Adam Nimbley’s signature was scrawled in the corner, now so familiar from the letter’s lines that it brought to mind his earnest face bent over the atlas in the shop, the spectacles sliding forth on his nose.

  “Different in personality, most certainly–but if Miss Marianne would only quit such childishness as marked this Season, could not next year be better? Next year is not too late– Almirah Smith was two Seasons out before the Duke of Sayers took notice; and there is always the Little Season–”

  “Kindly do not raise the prospect of yet another Season when this one is not yet over,” groaned Sir Edward. “I shall be heartily glad when not another invitation to dine, to play cards, nor to dance arrives to torment me on the subject of marriage markets and eligible beaus!”

  They did not notice Marianne raise the paper to her face, catching the scent of exotic places still clinging to it, the smell of dried tobacco and tea becoming the perfume of an unknown land to her imagination. Eyes closed, she pictured the brightness of petals in vivid pink beneath the sun, the hum of wings in motion around them.

  “May I be excused, Papa?” she asked, lowering it out of sight after a moment. Her father and aunt glanced at her.

  “Go,” said Sir Edward, waving his hand permissively. Her aunt had now taken a seat at the breakfast tab
le.

  “But surely you see the urgency of our predicament, Sir Edward,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “There are but a handful of engagements which offer her opportunities and she resists so many of her invitations...” The rest of her words were lost to Marianne’s ears as she closed the door behind her.

  In the library, she drew her father’s atlas from the shelf, opening it to the page depicting the map of Dominica and the surrounding sea. Like the afternoon long before in the tea and spice shop, her fingers traced the outline of its shores, the port of call where surely his ship must have docked. Where he embarked to an unknown location in a strange land.

  How must he feel? Was he frightened, was he content? Was it a thrill beyond her imagination to see what most of London believed only possible in picture books and the journals of explorers? He could answer all of these questions in a way she could not imagine nor attempt to feel through the sympathy of a kindred spirit.

  Her heart was pounding, feelings of longing and admiration stirring in response to the envisioned adventures of Adam Nimbley. He had not gone to the law–had not abandoned his ambition–and she cheered his success more heartily for that reason. But there was something else in her feelings which dampened it. A sense of disappointment in her own circumstances, perhaps; or the memory of the last words spoken to him before his bitter departure from Norland Park.

  Cheeks burning, she closed the volume and hugged it to herself as she gazed through the window at the busy street outside. The motion of passing carriages and servants upon errands became the blur of wings in motion, of native tribesmen driving their herds forward beneath the summer sun as the strange Englishman in their midst drew their actions with the swift strokes of his pencil.

  In the hallway outside, the sound of her aunt’s imminent departure could be heard, the good lady’s voice echoing in final protest to Sir Edward in between ordering her carriage.

  “But what is her future to become if Marianne should make no match at all?”

  Chapter Twenty

  The first winged insect I saw in this place was a butterfly, Miss Stuart. It is quite true, I assure you, and since I could not pursue it with the vigor of your own passion in the countryside, I was forced to be content with setting down my luggage and sketching it instead. I made several others of the nocturnal insects I observed, which I have sent to my brother John to amuse him at Oxford.

  There is an array of such sketches on the wall of my hut; in my bag whenever I travel forth two or three days’ walk into the veritable jungles in search of others. I pack lightly and return burdened down with specimens and a great many notes upon that which I could not carry away. Once, I found myself emerging from a clearing where a waterfall stood directly ahead, cascading down in a great white foam to the rocks below.

  I have three chrysalis now in my possession and can scarce bear to wait for them to hatch. I have live specimens of winged gnats and flies, and busily-spinning spiders of bold color contained in baskets and crocks of all manner with the most exotic of leaves and blossoms feeding them. I have in my possession a scarab-like beetle greenish in color which I believe would please you greatly to see, since he is similar to our old friend in the forest...

  He did not enclose the sketch of the butterfly he mentioned, something which disappointed Marianne's curiosity; nor was there a drawing of the beetle, although his pen had added a small one to the corner of his letter which drew a smile of pleasure to her lips She read the letter twice before carefully tucking it into her reticule.

  She carried with her the first letter he had written, which was worn along the creases from subsequent folding. She was curious to know more–to write back, somehow, although it was impossible to write to him without a true address.

  Reading while walking along Bond Street was difficult, since she tended to collide with busy patrons moving to and fro from the shops. This was the reason she tucked this second letter out of sight instead of reading it yet again.

  Pausing before the glass window of a milliner’s shop, she gazed at her reflection, faint and dark against the backdrop of feathered turbans and bonnets trimmed with crinkled ribbons. No trace of the Marianne of the countryside was visible, the dark curtain of curls flying freely, the light muslin gown of summer tucked high about the waist to keep its hemline from growing too damp from the tall grass.

  Instead, her hair was pinned neatly and fashionably beneath a straw bonnet, her blue pelisse and afternoon muslin quite as ordinary as any other girl passing by in the scenes behind her. It was far from the image of the girl who had encountered Adam Nimbley in the forest–or had made the acquaintance of Captain Lindley in the Park, for that matter.

  “The silk turban is quite fetching, Marianne,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “Let us go in and inquire–for I think it would compliment your green silk nicely for Flora’s card party on the sixth.”

  “I have hats enough to satisfy, aunt,” Marianne answered. “I do not think it matters whether the silk is complimented or not, since it must be worn anyway. I shall do my hair up with little flower pins, perhaps.”

  “Too much nature,” scoffed her aunt. “It would do you good to expand your tastes to the point of accepting something a little more fashionable. Ribbons must be worn as well as flowers, you know.”

  “Indeed,” Marianne answered, with a sigh. She was content to follow her aunt through the bustle of the shopping trip, where the negotiations made over the price of ribbon and the shocking expense of lawn were beyond Marianne’s interest and never involved her opinion.

  The card party was not an affair within Marianne’s power to refuse, since her father would wonder at such a decision. She preferred it to the possibility of supper at Mrs. Smith’s, where there would be dancing and the unpleasantness of refusing the invitation of more than one eager gentleman hastening to procure a pretty young partner; and the imminent threat of her aunt’s party, which would attempt to matchmake those unfortunate youths and eligible ladies left without partners at the end of the Season’s marriage market.

  There were others more pleased by the invitation, including the Miss Bartons, who had returned from their cottage to the London townhouse at the Season’s midpoint. The finished cushions and painted screens were in place in their drawing room, Miss Catherine’s new watercolor occupying a place of honor upon the parlor wall.

  Marianne and her aunt were engaged to drink tea with them on Wednesday, a day on which both the ladies had assuredly pledged to be home instead of visiting their many friends in the city. Marianne usually preferred to have the Miss Bartons to tea at Evering House in order to avoid the bountiful cushions and crush of accomplished arts, but could not refuse an invitation extended with such kindness and eagerness. For the sake of her friends, it was quite right to endure an hour of so in the crowded drawing room at Timbley Corners.

  Miss Eliza, her pince-nez clipped severely in place, sewed upon the edges of an embroidered handkerchief as Miss Catherine poured the tea. “We are ever so excited to attend Lady Easton’s card party,” she chirruped. “It is so kind and thoughtful of her to ask us–we are sure that she has so many fashionable friends to consider–and her suppers are always so nice!”

  “Flora’s cook is well enough; but I wish that her drawing room was not so drafty,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “I abhor a stuffy room above all things, but there really is such a damp air about her chambers that I find it quite as uncomfortable as the opposite.”

  “Oh,” said Miss Catherine. “I never noticed; indeed I did not. I am so sorry for it, for their house in Mayfair is quite well-situated and such a lovely place.”

  “They are to leave quite soon for Donnelly Hall, are they not?” inquired Miss Eliza of Marianne.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Before the first of the month. Roger is eager to be in the country again, I think.” She gently shoved aside a large embroidered cushion which was occupying most of her seat upon the sofa.

  “Had you many pleasant parties to attend this Season, Miss Marianne
?” asked Miss Catherine. “You were here a vast deal of the year, whereas we have missed most of the excitement while at our little cottage, I fear.”

  “Miss Marianne would have been better employed at home with her needle work or the pianoforte, I suspect,” said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. “For the interest she takes in balls and parties appears to be very little.”

  Marianne blushed. “I believe I have kept most of the engagements Papa believed proper for me to attend,” she answered, loftily. For while she had begged off many of the most tedious invitations, Sir Edward was intractable upon others.

  “I’m sure many a young gentleman has been pleased to ask for a place on your dance card,” said Miss Eliza to Marianne.

  “I do not care for dancing,” answered Marianne. “I do not care greatly for parties or Society, either. I confess I have not tried very hard to ‘make a match’ as they say.”

  “Miss Marianne! Such bold professions indeed! Is it your intent to shock Miss Barton or merely make yourself disagreeable on the subject?” demanded Mrs. Fitzwilliam.

  “Neither,” she protested, “only to be honest. Miss Barton has said that young gentlemen are pleased to ask me, but it is not true. Only two have been pleased to do so and since they were treated coldly, there was no reason for them to try again.”

  She was not talking of dancing, but of other matters, she realized; of Adam Nimbley’s pale face upon leaving Norland Park, of the impertinent smile on Captain Lindley’s face on the subject of being re-introduced to Marianne. She attempted to check the misery and impatience in her voice, but it was too late, for the words had already emerged.

  Mrs. Fitzwilliam’s own tongue was momentarily checked; Miss Catherine Barton’s cheeks were pale.

  “More tea, Mrs. Fitzwilliam?” she inquired, after a moment.

  “No thank you,” her guest answered, in a mortified voice. “I am quite content.” Her tone suggested she was anything but content as her niece rose from the sofa and moved towards the windows. The first traces of rain pattered the glass, the sunshine removing itself behind a cloud as an afternoon shower began.