Love Among the Spices

by Briggs, Laura

  Captain Lindley's warm smile faltered. "I know it is not our difference in fortune," he began.

  There was genuine surprise in his reaction, which pained her. Already she reconsidered her answer–was it worthwhile, to keep her position if it meant pain for another? The same pain she had inflicted upon Adam Nimbley once before.

  "It is not," she answered, with difficulty. "It is our difference in character. At first I did not see it; but it has become plain to me that I would not be steadfast in myself to do as you ask. To wait, and remain a proper lady in society –be it to provide the material happiness of another– I cannot do."

  "Then it is my endeavor to leave you in England that leads to this reply," said Captain Lindley. "And nothing else–nothing of the subjects we spoke upon, our similar opinions, my desire for a different life–" His movement had become restless, as if the answer or explanation must lay within the his grasp or but a few steps away.

  She touched his hand, a fleeting motion which did not press forward when his hand recoiled.

  "For all of the proprieties of which you would release me, the one you mentioned is the one I would not beg of you," she answered, softly. "That I would share another's life wherever they would be–that is what I desire."

  There was a tone of bitterness in his laugh. "We have at last the difference of our minds; be it ever so little as a simple request," he said. "And it leads to our parting. Far from what I had hoped, but there is nothing to regret on my part."

  She looked down at the walkway, feeling tears gather in her eyes. The lump in her throat prevented her from speaking. She could sense his gaze was now removed from her, looking somewhere in the distance.

  He took her hand and pressed it in his own. A little of his former smile reappeared, although it was faint and unhappy. "I am sorry to lose my chance with you, Miss Marianne," he said. "Heartily sorry."

  "Forgive me," said Marianne. Her voice cracked beneath the strain of emotions. The warmth of his touch was a reminder of their pleasant friendship. All the possibilities she had entertained upon something more stirred for a moment before vanishing beneath self-will. "I should have known my feelings sooner. I should have recognized that I could not make you happy and ended your suspense."

  "There is nothing to forgive," he answered. "We have always been honest with each other–equal in address if not in birth. And now, I must seek my fortune elsewhere than in your heart, Miss Stuart." His voice grew softer. "For I remember that propriety bids me not to ask you a second time."

  He raised her hand to his lips and kissed it; as she met his dark eyes, she recalled the first glimpse she had of his face in the Park. It was too much to be born–she drew free of his touch and turned away, unable to respond to the word of farewell he spoke afterwards. Hurrying down the path, ignoring the curious gaze of more than one patron as she fled towards home.

  Tears stung her eyes, forcing her to wipe them away. Her fingers brushed the pink strings of her bonnet clumsily, pushing the brim away from her heated face, as several curls escaped.

  Was it the wrong answer? She had cared for him; had been capable of loving him, she knew. All he asked of her was patience in London, perhaps the influence of a friend or two that they might escape society and the Season for the pleasant companionship of the countryside.

  But if I had bent my resolve–and he had not kept his promise? A career in London for him after a long separation–who was to say that they would not despise each other in the struggle to be fashionable in the city? For such a life, she would have compromised her integrity and found herself ashamed before others. Including the young man whose proposal had ended in such distress at Norland Park. Perhaps in such a life, Captain Lindley would have regretted his choice to marry her.

  "But we might have been happy together in such a place as he goes now," she murmured, "if he had only wished me to be as I am." Tears would be noticed by her father or Madge, she feared, upon entering Evering House. She hurried past the housekeeper without a word and climbed the stairs to her room.

  A half-hour later, she was quiet again after many tears and the storm of self-doubts. Her heart was constant to her pledge that she would not seek fortune or marry for convenience in society. No longer did she fear reproach on the subject of inconstancy of mind for resigning herself to the lower circles of London's tedious society, the wife of a man whose career would be made by her hand despite her claims to abhor such doings.

  With that, she could be content even in the pain of losing Captain Lindley's friendship.

  Carefully, she lifted the bird's nest from her bedside table, turning it this way and that as her eye traced the bits of branch and straw woven therein with a strand of scarlet thread. Her fingers touched the edges gently, holding it cupped between them, protectively.

  A moment later, she rose and placed it gently in a drawer, closing it to hide the object from sight. Bathing her face in cool water, she tucked her stray curls in place again and made her way downstairs for tea before her father grew suspicious of her long absence.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  "I declare, I never would have believed it true if Mrs. Russell hadn't seen it–there, in the Park, before Heaven knows who else!"

  Word of Marianne's meeting with Captain Lindley had spread to the household of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, for at least one of the patrons strolling in the Park that afternoon had been acquainted with the young girl in question and witnessed her parting from a young officer. With haste, Mrs. Fitzwilliam departed to Evering House to weigh the truth of such a report.

  "Surely it was a mistake," said Sir Edward. "Marianne has seen no one–been nowhere– in all of two weeks! Even the delay of her sister's leaving has not stirred her from this house above once, Madam."

  "Once is quite enough to meet a gentleman," Mrs. Fitzwilliam retorted. "And to think she refused him! He was never to my taste for Marianne–and an officer with but little prospect, as Myrah was wont to say–but at least he offered something after the baronet's son was declined."

  "It is merely Marianne's first Season," Sir Edward growled. "I anticipate that she shall not be a hopeless spinster, for even her sister found a suitable partner at length, as you are aware."

  "Are you forgetting the difficulties of Flora's chances, sir? We had despaired of her more than once before Lord Easton made his offer –and it was indeed an unexpected miracle..."

  Marianne heard all this and more as she passed the library's half-open door. Her steps slowed momentarily, then increased in her haste to avoid hearing any more on this subject–one with which she was painfully acquainted.

  Flora had delayed her departure by a week, for the sake of attending the Bartons's final dinner party of the Season, in order to please those two good ladies who had long been her friends and companions before her marriage. Little Edward's cold was greatly improved–as was his grandfather's–so her children could once again see her doting parent before their departure to Donnelly Hall.

  "I suppose it is true, what my aunt says," said Flora to her sister, when they were alone in the drawing room that afternoon. "That Captain Lindley has proposed; and you have refused."

  "It is," Marianne answered, growing a little paler with these words. "I did care for him, you know. It was only–he did not wish me to be his wife until his career was truly settled. I suspected once that he hoped I would make his promotion possible–but it was the manner in which he determined to keep me from his life abroad which hurt."

  "He had not wished you to marry him right away?" said Flora. "That is not such an unreasonable request from any gentleman, I think."

  "His temper was so different when we saw each other in Surrey," protested Marianne. "I believed then he was not a young man who wished his wife to be confined to embroidering cushions or content with a large income. I thought he would be pleased to have me with him wherever he was or whatever he faced. Such adventures or hardships that came to an officer would not be merely a postscript in a letter to his betrothed."


  Flora sighed. "I suspect that you might ask too much of a gentleman to wish him to risk his wife's health and safety, Marianne. What young man would wish to be burdened by additional cares?"

  "One who knows that his wife would be unhappy in any other life," Marianne answered, passionately. "Who knows she is not a creature merely to be petted."

  Flora did not understand, she realized; but she would have understood if she had heard Captain Lindley's first compliments or witnessed his admiration when they first met. He had given her reason to entertain a very different vision of the life he would wish them to share. And disappointed her with the truth of his feelings after his proposal.

  Captain Lindley had not been present at the Bartons's party, much to Marianne's relief. She had been in very low spirits upon the occasion, with more than one guest remarking that Miss Stuart's complexion was all pale and roses, and very likely consumptive if she did not take care.

  Resisting the urge to argue her sister any further, Flora reached across and pressed her hand. "Perhaps our Heavenly Father has designed such a suitor with you in mind," she said. "And he will be pleased to find a woman who will not shirk from sharing his lot in any part of the world."

  This was the last bit of advice she spoke to her sister before taking her leave, since the carriage was at the door for the Easton family. She said her farewell to her father in the privacy of his library.

  "And of your sister–do you think she is broken up over the attachment?" he asked. "You do not think she refused him merely for propriety's sake?"

  Flora's smile was faint. "Perhaps a little," she said, "but not for the reasons you have imagined, I assure you."

  Her father sighed. "Will anything either of you ever says be meant for understanding?" he asked.

  "I think you need not fear for Marianne's heart," said Flora. "Only that it does not find someone who returns its affection wholeheartedly." Kissing him on the cheek, she allowed him to escort her to her carriage.

  As it rolled away from Evering's door, she turned to her husband with a sigh. "I confess, I feel a little despair over Marianne's predicament. For her standards for a husband are impossible–he must not wish her to be a proper lady, nor care about titles or society at all–"

  "As I recall, Marianne's sister once held similar views on the subject of matrimony," he said. "Perhaps she is merely copying the ideal from another's portrait?"

  "I was never so impossible as this," Flora protested. "Was I? I only knew my title and fortune were worth next to nothing and so I must wish for a husband who cared little for them. Marianne, however, shall reject any, I fear, who profess to care at all for such things. I am afraid she shall resist all sensible advice since my aunt insists upon holding me forth as an example upon every occasion–and I make a very poor example."

  "Only if they are aware that Anonymous is alive and well with its author's pen," he whispered teasingly in reply.

  Flora blushed. "Do not speak of such things, Roger," she scolded. "Imagine if they should ever suspect such a thing."

  *****

  At her desk, Marianne was laboring over a small sheet of paper but a few hours after her sister's departure. She made several attempts at writing lines, only to crumple them all in a dreadful waste of paper.

  The wrong words persisted in coming; and Marianne continued on with her efforts until dinner was announced and she reluctantly set them aside.

  Sir Edward cut into a generous portion of mutton upon his plate, while Marianne's sat untouched before her. Conversation at such an hour was generally scarce, unless Marianne was conversing upon a subject belonging to one of her many passions.

  On this evening, however, the topic lay with Sir Edward. "Madge," he said, when the woman entered the dining room with a bowl of potatoes, "it appears that Letty has torn my new journal, whether by accident or design."

  "Torn it, sir?" repeated Madge. Marianne stirred in her seat.

  "Yes, practically a whole page. It was the one from the Royal Society– undoubtedly she tumbled it from my table by accident while stoking the library fire or some such thing. But you really must tell her to be careful in the future." Across from him, Marianne's eyes flickered up from her plate momentarily, where an edge of guilt was visible.

  She confessed after dinner, her conscience unable to bear poor Letty's scolding. "It was I, Papa," she said, confronting him in the library. "I tore your journal–I am very sorry."

  "Why on earth did you do such a thing?" asked Sir Edward. "Upon my word it makes very little sense, such a childish accident–"

  "It was not an accident, Papa. I merely wished–that is, I wanted an item upon one of its pages," she said, the words tumbling forth in her haste. "It was but a little article on some butterflies and took it for my own. I did not know you had not seen it yet; else I should have waited."

  "An essay in a journal of science? But then, I should not be astonished, given the nature of the culprit," he said, his tone growing kinder. "Well, then, what is done is done. But do not repeat such a performance again, if you please."

  "Yes, Papa," she answered. She hurried away before he could ask to see the page in question, hoping that such a notion would not occur to him readily.

  The essay was indeed upon butterflies: bearing the name of Mr. Adam Nimbley, a published account of his observation of a native species of butterfly whose size and color was unlike the ones in England. It was not a long piece, but Marianne had heard it praised in the tea and spice shop and waited anxiously for its appearance among her father's reading material.

  Now, concealed in the little prayer-book on her mantel where Marianne fervently prayed for his safety each night, the little article was a reminder of the success of Adam's future and the gulf between them. For what friendship could there be when he returned to London and was reminded of their previous painful encounter by the sight of her? And there could be nothing more than friendship; for his fortunes showed signs of rising even as her own dwindled on the fringe of obscurity. For once, she had reason to regret the distinctions of society which separated her from his interest at every turn, both by misunderstanding and deliberate intent.

  Upstairs, she placed her pen against the paper again and began writing. With due diligence, the surface of the page was soon filled–not with a great many words, but those which would have to do. Her fingers folded it, zealously applying melted wax to its surface with an old seal of Giles's left behind with his youthful ornaments.

  The India Trading Tea and Spice shop was bustling with customers when she entered. The last two times she had crossed its threshold, there was no sign of Walter Nimbley, nor of his son whom she had glimpsed once or twice upon holiday from his term at Cambridge. The clerk Grovner was in his familiar place behind the desk, busy measuring a quantity of fine coffee for a strict-looking matron.

  The little note clutched in her gloved hand, Marianne stood by patiently. In a moment, she would hand it over and be gone; then her conscience would be clear again on the subject of Adam Nimbley and the constancy of her resolve.

  Her gaze roved in the direction of the open atlas for a moment, its pages turned to the Americas tinted in bold colors in the sea of Pacific and Atlantic waters, a compass illustration rendered in one corner.

  While her gaze was thus fixed, she did not notice the approach of Walter Nimbley from the adjoining room. He doffed his hat and offered her a polite bow.

  "Good day, Miss," he said. "You've been here before, haven't you? Niece of Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who's one of our finest patrons, if I may be allowed to say so." Something in his good-humored manner told her that he was at once truthful and playful in this reply, provoking a warm smile on her part.

  "I thank you for your compliments to my aunt, sir," she answered. "She is very fond of your tea, I believe; although it was with some hesitation at first that she tried it, I fear."

  "It is better to fear and to try, then to fear and do naught at all," he answered. "And for yourself, Miss, might we find a selection as w
ell?"

  "Oh, no," she blushed. "That is not why I am here. I am to give this–" she handed him the little note, "–for a ship's captain bound for Dominica to deliver."

  He took it in his hand, the little square scarcely filling his palm. "It is to my nephew Adam," he said, reading the address. "Is it a love note from an admirer, by chance?" he asked, although his smile faded in response to the blush in Marianne's cheeks.

  "Ah well, then," he said, clearing his throat, "I shall take care that he sees it. I shall give it to a captain I know embarking there, a man whom I trust as a brother. He'll be happy to take charge of correspondence from any of Adam's acquaintances."

  "He may tell Mr. Nimbley that it is a note from a friend," Marianne answered. "He may, mayn't he? It is merely a subject upon which he–Mr. Nimbley–had expressed interest before." Now that she was relieved of the note, she found her words beginning to babble without any purpose, stammering with a sense of concern and embarrassment.

  "I shall see to it that it is delivered, Ma'am," he answered. Pocketing the note, he bowed to her in farewell before walking away.

  For a moment, she lingered before the atlas, as if she was rooted in place like one of the Park's trees. The clerk was too busy to take notice of her amidst his other patrons, so no inquiries were made before she found presence of mind to leave.

  Had Sir Edward or Madge chanced to glance over one or two of the crumpled sheets surrounding Marianne's desk, they would have seen many of the same lines which found their way into the young lady's note. The simple square of paper was now destined to travel swiftly across vast waters separating England from the rest of the world, where it might or might not find its way into the hand of Adam Nimbley.

  Dear Mr. Nimbley, it began, I thank you for all your letters and the splendid accounts of your studies. I am pleased that you should be so happy and should find such success and not have gone into law and made yourself discontent for life. Please, if you do not mind, I should like to hear more about your work and all the things you have discovered– the butterflies, the native moth, the lovely beetle specimen you have mentioned before.