Lady Flora's Fantasy

by Shirley Kennedy

  "He made it clear he'd lead his life and I could lead my life as I chose, long as I was discreet." Amy's tears increased as she cried, "But a baby is not discreet. I cannot fool him, he'll know. At the least, he'll divorce me. I'll be disgraced forever and so will the family."

  Flora leaped to her feet and hastened around the table to put her arms around her sister. "Was it that poet? The one who's a third son and poor?"

  "Yes, Edward." Breaking into sobs, Amy buried her head on Flora's shoulder. "I loved him, I couldn't help myself."

  "Well, I can certainly understand that," said Flora, gently patting Amy's arm. "What do you plan to do?"

  "What can I do, other than throw myself into the Thames?"

  "You mustn't even think it."

  "What choice do I have?"

  "What of your poet?"

  "Edward? When I told him he was thrilled. He thinks I should leave the Duke and run off with him to America."

  "America?" Flora was taken aback. "You wouldn't consider such a thing, would you?"

  "Of course not. How could I leave my friends and family and everything I ever knew behind? And besides—"despite her tears Amy managed a faint smile "—Mama would definitely not approve."

  Flora returned her smile. "I rather think not." But what to do? she wondered grimly. She couldn't bear to see her beloved sister in such a state of despondency without doing something. But what? After she pondered a moment, one answer came to mind—not her own idea but a solution she'd heard more than one lady of rank had utilized. "How many months along are you?"

  Amy sniffed and wiped her eyes. "Two and a half, perhaps three."

  "Good. Then there's time to make our plans. We shall slip off to Italy. There you'll have the baby and no one the wiser."

  "No," Amy protested. "I cannot allow it. How could you possibly get away? You have Lord Dinsmore to consider now."

  "It's useless to argue." With a fine show of enthusiasm, Flora launched into her plan. "It's all so simple. I'm the grieving widow, remember? What I need is a change of scene. For the sake of my health, which has suddenly turned quite fragile, I must escape this cold and snow and set sail for a warmer clime. Like Italy. You see how it all fits together? Naturally, I must have my sister along for companionship. That would be you. And it would take...let's see, six more months at the very least before my full recovery."

  The look of desperation eased in Amy's eyes. "You really think it would work?"

  "The Duke will never know, nor Mama and Papa. Nobody need know except us and, of course, Richard. I shall be obliged to confide in him. I'll need his help."

  "Then..." Amy's tears had ceased. Her face flooded with relief. "We could stay at some remote village in the Italian countryside. When the baby is born...oh, dear." She looked as if she was about to cry again.

  "You'll have to give it up," Flora said gently. "There's no other choice."

  Amy lifted her chin bravely. "I know. It'll be hard, but I'll do it. We'll find a good home for the child, then return to England, no one the wiser."

  "Exactly," Flora answered, pleased she'd found the answer to Amy's dilemma. "We'll take Baker along."

  Amy sighed. "Baker's dull as dishwasher."

  "True, but she's trustworthy." Flora smiled wryly. "She also knows how to keep her mouth shut."

  After a much-needed laugh, Amy asked, "But what about Lord Dinsmore? Won't he object to your being gone so long?"

  "Don't worry, I'm sure he'll be most helpful and understanding once I explain." Flora did not doubt her words for a moment. "I'll tell him tomorrow. He's coming down from London, driving that fancy new coach he just purchased. I'm returning with him. I want to visit Mama and Papa, and Richard plans to take me to the Royal Italian Opera House. Will you come back with us? While there, I'll make arrangements for our journey to Italy."

  "I'll send my coach back today," Amy replied and ruefully added, "I'm so sorry I've spoiled your plans."

  "Don't be silly," Flora assured her. "I know I shall love sunny Italy. And what difference will it make? Richard and I can't be married for several months yet. It'll all work out for the best."

  * * * *

  Later, when Flora was alone, she reflected upon how truly she'd spoken when she told Amy she was happy. Richard had indeed been wonderful. In the weeks since he proposed, she had grown increasingly eager for the day when they could announce their wedding plans.

  But Amy's mention of Lord Lynd had been most disquieting. Lately, whenever Flora imagined Richard and herself finally married, gloriously happy, at long last sharing a bed chamber, her fantasy quickly faded. Each time she was in the midst of a passionate kiss with Richard, she found herself kissing Lord Lynd. His intrusion was most dismaying. Worse, hard though she tried, she could not switch her thoughts back to Richard but instead fell into the tingling remembrance of how Lynd's mouth came down hard and masterful on hers that day in the drawing room when he'd been so angry; how she, helpless to resist, had melted into his arms after fighting him off for an embarrassingly short time—in truth, not more than a moment. She kept telling herself she should be ashamed for thinking such wanton thoughts, but instead, something wild smoldered within her whenever she thought of those breathless moments. Insane though it was, she found herself yearning to see Lynd again. She was determined to forget him, though. And well she should, she sternly reminded herself. Lynd had made no attempt to see her since that day he'd coldly stated his reasons why she wouldn't be seeing him again.

  And besides, wasn't she going to marry Richard, the man of her dreams? Had they not recaptured their true bond of love? How could she not feel the same way she'd felt on that glorious night in Vauxhall Gardens?

  What's wrong with me? she wondered.

  * * * *

  Richard arrived from London the next day. Ordinarily he drove his curricle, but on this occasion, when he planned to take Flora, Amy, and Baker back to London, he personally drove his newly purchased coach, constructed of ash and mahogany, painted a dark green and primrose with the Dinsmore crest grandly displayed on either side.

  Flora heard the coach jangling up the driveway and reached the portico in time to see Richard in the box, gripping the ribbons in fine style, looking dashing atop the box in a many-caped coat and tall beaver hat.

  Anxious to speak to him alone, she ushered him into the study shortly after his arrival. "I have something to discuss with you concerning Amy," she said as she firmly closed the double mahogany doors and turned to explain.

  "...and so you see," she finished minutes later, "I must accompany Amy to Italy. I hate to be away from you so long, darling, but—" she spread her palms "—this is for dear Amy. In all conscience I cannot do less."

  A long silence passed in which Richard, who had remained blank-faced during Flora's recitation, seemed to draw himself up. "Absolutely not," he finally said.

  Flora was taken aback. "Absolutely not?" she repeated. "What are you saying?"

  Richard's ordinarily friendly blue eyes now seemed full of remoteness. "Have you gone daft?"

  "Well, no, I'm not—"

  "How could you even consider such a ridiculous scheme?"

  "I love her. She's my sister."

  "She's a harlot," Richard's curt voice lashed at her. "Has she not cuckolded the Duke of Armond? And you defend her? I am astonished."

  Flora felt herself grow crimson. Not in her wildest imagination had she expected a hostile response from Richard. "You don't understand how the Duke has treated her. You don't see—"

  "Silence," he commanded in a strident voice she'd never heard before. "No wife, or any future wife of mine will ever go traipsing off to Italy in such a fashion. Is that understood? I forbid it."

  His mention of 'forbid' hit her hard. Since she'd married Lord Dinsmore, she hadn't had to contend with the word. "Your cousin—"

  "My cousin was a fool, but even he wouldn't have countenanced such a scheme. So Amy wants to hide her disgrace in Italy? Fine. Let her go. Send Baker with her, but you
, my dear, are staying home."

  Flora could hardly breathe, let alone think logically under Richard's wrathful scrutiny. "And if I don't?"

  "Then the marriage is off."

  Flora stared dumbfounded at her future husband. Where was the merriment in his eyes? His charming smile? This couldn't be happening, but stunned and sickened, she knew it was. Her entire future revolved around this man. She couldn't give him up. But when she thought about poor, desperate Amy, she knew she could give but one answer. "Much as I love you, my obligation to my sister comes first. Under no circumstances would I desert her."

  Richard's eyebrows shot up in amazement. He looked positively stunned. "You...you would give me up for that hoyden?"

  "Don't you call her names. Yes, I would."

  "Well...well, damnation." Richard ran his hand nervously through his hair. He pondered a moment before he continued in a quiet, more reasonable voice, "Can't you see this is all a misunderstanding? Perhaps I should have told you, but lately I've been thinking we should throw caution to winds—not wait all those months to be married. Tongues would wag, but what of it?" He gave her a look of heart-rendering tenderness. "Can't you see how desperately I want you? I don't want you going off to Italy, I want you here, as my wife."

  Relief flooded through her. So that's why he'd been so angry. "Then you do understand?"

  He spread his arms expansively. "Come, let me hug you. This must never happen again." When she was in his embrace, he continued, "Do you know we've had our first quarrel? Of course, go to Italy. I won't like it, but I shall wait—forever if I must."

  What a relief to be in Richard's arms again. Flora decided she would forget this little scene ever happened. He had been upset, that was all, and with good reason. She'd experienced a dreadful moment when she thought she was seeing the real Richard for the first time, a selfish, shallow Richard.

  Thank goodness, she'd been wrong.

  * * * *

  Next morning, a flurry of snow flakes brushed Flora's face as she stepped out on the portico along with Amy and Baker. Richard's coach awaited, their luggage already strapped on top. Richard, bundled in a greatcoat, beaver hat and a warm scarf that covered much of his face, already sat in the box atop.

  Concerned about the several inches of snow on the ground, Flora called to him, "Are you sure we should go?"

  He called down, "Why not?"

  "The snow—we don't want to get stuck."

  "Nonsense. The roads are perfectly safe. A bit of snow won't hurt us. Don't be so hen-hearted. Get in."

  Against her better judgement, Flora climbed into the coach, trying to reassure herself that if Richard said the roads were safe, then they were safe, and she shouldn't worry. Easier said than done. The north-east wind seemed to be veering around to every point of the compass. Snow was falling heavier by the minute.

  She decided to say nothing more, fearing she might offend Richard again, and that was the last thing she wanted after their quarrel last night. Besides, she knew she must show her trust in her future husband. He was the man of the family now. She must respect his judgement.

  They started out, and hadn't gotten a mile before Flora started worrying in earnest. It was freezing cold, the wind sharper than ever. The snow, falling heavier now, was slanting sideways, almost horizontal. "Lord Dinsmore must be miserable up there," she remarked as she drew her cloak closer.

  Huddled in blankets, Baker dourly remarked, "Why he does it as a hobby is beyond me. I've heard tell of coachmen freezing to death in the box, as well as guards and outside passengers."

  "But I'm sure that doesn't happen often," said Amy.

  "Amateurs," scoffed Baker. "These noblemen who think they know four-in-hand, bah! If you ask me—"

  "No one's asking you, Baker," said Flora. "Lord Dinsmore knows what he's doing. We'll be fine."

  The coach kept going slower and slower, through ever-higher drifts until it barely moved. Finally it stopped completely. In another moment, the door flung open and a shivering Lord Dinsmore climbed in. "My God but it's cold as death out there." He stripped off his gloves and vigorously rubbed his hands. "Can't see two feet in front of me. There's ice beneath the snow. Horses slipping all over the place. Won't worry about them running off, they're good as stuck."

  Flora asked, "Do you think we should return to Pemberly Manor? We haven't gone all that far, have we? Or, for that matter, Vernon Hill is ahead. Perhaps we could take shelter there until the storm—"

  "Certainly not." His male pride obviously wounded, Richard threw her a look of scorn. "There's no need to ask for help. I said I'd get us through and so I shall."

  "I have every confidence you will." Flora knew better than to argue. Perhaps he could use some help, though. She had no desire to leave the relative warmth of the coach but felt she should volunteer. "Let me help. You know your cousin taught me four-in-hand, and if I could be of assistance—"

  "You?" Richard's voice was scathing. "You're only a woman." He looked amazed. "Dinsmore might have taught you a bit of four-in-hand, but don't think for a moment you know enough to drive this coach."

  Wishing she hadn't asked, she said no more. Richard lingered a few more minutes, warming himself. At last he announced he was ready, exited the coach and disappeared atop. Flora heard him yell a curse, along with, "All right, now! Off you go." She heard a repeated cracking of the whip. At last the coach started to move. It was going at a reasonable pace again when suddenly she felt it skid sideways. She held her breath as it came to a sudden stop, then tilted, as if it had gone into a ditch. At that same moment, Flora heard a desperate cry. In horror she watched as Richard fell past her window and landed on his side in the snow.

  "Everyone stay here," Flora yelled and swung open the door. Snow stung her face. A biting wind cut through her as she hugged her cloak closer about her and stepped into a snow drift.

  Richard lay moaning. Thank God he wasn't dead, she thought as she knelt beside him. "Are you all right?"

  "Couldn't hold on when the coach tipped," he gasped, obviously in pain. "Fell. God, my shoulder!"

  "You can't stay out here. Come, you must get inside or you'll freeze."

  Both Amy and Baker joined her. Between the three of them they managed to lift Richard back into the coach. "Watch my shoulder," he kept calling. He lay back against the squabs, gripping his shoulder, obviously in great pain. "I know it's broken," he said.

  Flora solicitously hovered over him. "We'll get you to a doctor soon as we can."

  "We'll stay here until help arrives," he said with another moan. "I cannot go atop again."

  Baker protested, "But, your lordship, what if no one comes along? If we stay we'll freeze."

  "Can't help it...can't drive." Richard seemed on the verge of fainting.

  Baker was right, Flora thought with a sinking feeling. The undeniable and dreadful facts were clear: the temperature was dropping; if they stayed here they would indeed freeze. But Richard was helpless. In a moment of fearful clarity she realized there was only one solution. "I shall get us out of here," she quietly announced.

  "Impossible," replied Richard, wincing in pain. "We're in a ditch...horses floundering...can't be done."

  "Oh, yes it can," Flora firmly replied. "Do you think I'd just sit here and let everyone freeze? No, I've got to try."

  Over Richard's weak objections, Flora collected blankets and took his scarf to wrap around her face. She said to Baker and Amy, "Come help me. We'll see if we can free the wheels. Then you get back inside."

  Bracing themselves, the three stepped from the coach and circled around it, fighting constantly against the biting wind and stinging snow. At first, the situation looked hopeless. The coach had indeed slipped off the road and tipped partway into a ditch. The team of four horses was foundering in the snow. "But look, Amy," Flora called. "The horses aren't quite in the ditch. If we can shovel the snow away from the wheels they'll be able to pull the coach out."

  Taking turns with the one shovel from the coach, t
hey soon cleared a path for the wheels. "Now get back in, Amy and Baker," Flora called over the howl of the wind. "I'll do the rest."

  Clutching her cloak and blankets around her, the scarf covering her face from chin to nose, Flora climbed to the box and took up the ice-covered ribbons in her right hand, the whip in her left. Could she do this? How different this was from those sunny afternoons when she and Charles had gone four-in-handing. You can't, you can't, cried the little voice.

  But I can because I must.

  "All right. Wo-ho! So-ho then!" she called, cracked the whip over the heads of the horses and snapped the reins. At first the coach refused to move. She tried again, calling louder, cracking the whip with increased vigor. At last the coach began to move and they were out of the ditch, back on the road.

  Remembering the lessons Dinsmore and Lord Lynd had taught her, she firmly grasped the ribbons and drove the coach straight ahead to the first shelter she could think of, Vernon Hill. Snow blinded her eyes so that she could barely see. The cruel wind bit straight through blankets, scarf, and cloak, benumbing her with cold. Ah, to feel the warmth of the coach again! But she would not give up. She would freeze to death right there in the box before she would surrender to the cold.

  With the snow almost totally obscuring the landscape, she nearly missed the entrance that led to Vernon Hill. At the last moment, she spotted it and turned up the driveway. With the last of her strength, she halted the horses at the front entryway and climbed down, almost losing her balance in a drift of snow.

  Shaking with cold, she staggered to the door and pounded with her fists with all her might. Finally it opened and there stood a startled butler. Snow fell from her cloak as she stepped inside and saw Lord Lynd approaching. "Oh, it's so good to see you, Lord Lynd," she called as she fell into his arms, wet, cold, shivering, happy they were all still alive.

  * * * *

  The next few hours were a blur. She remembered Lord Lynd summoning his footmen to carry Richard to bed, ordering housekeeper and maids to see to Amy and Baker. She especially remembered how he personally carried her to an upstairs bed chamber, slipped off her shoes, waited outside while the housekeeper helped her remove her wet clothes. When she was safe under warm blankets, Lynd returned, frowning with concern. She especially remembered his reaction when she, through chattering teeth, poured out the story of how she'd managed to free the coach from the ditch and drive it to Vernon Hill.