by Dee, Bonnie
They smiled at one another. Then Arietta snapped, “So, you comin’ inside or not?”
“Not tonight, but I’ll see you again before your wedding so we can make sure the gown fits. Will that be all right?”
“Sure.” Arietta glanced at the door from behind which raucous laughter exploded. “Don’t blame ya. I wouldn’t go back in there if I didn’t ‘ave to. You done good to get away and make somethin’ of yerself. Don’t let any of ‘em tell ya otherwise.”
“Thank you. I guess you’ve done well for yourself too, finding a good man to care for you.” She hoped her words were true.
Rose watched Arietta disappear into the flat then walked down three flights of rickety stairs to the street. She hadn’t bid anyone farewell, but guilt no longer stalked her. Her family was a world apart from her new life. Only relief rode with her as she headed toward the home she had built for herself.
Rose entered her flat to find her distraught guest sleeping on a pallet of cushions and blankets on the floor. Candace’s expression smoothed in slumber made her appear much younger, merely a girl like Arietta. The obvious solution to Candace’s problem became instantly clear. The woman needed sanctuary and a way to earn money. Rose needed an assistant. The fit could not be better, if the genteel young lady were willing to work in a florist shop.
*
Will sat at his usual position at the family dining table on Mother’s left, across from Rupert and his wife Virginia. Penelope would normally sit beside Will, but his younger sister was off to the Alps with friends.
“Lady Smyth mentioned you haven’t responded to her invitation. Surely you must have received it by now,” Mother pressed.
“I have and will reply soon.” Will changed the subject, “Rupert, how is your new horse?”
“Fine, fine. His sire was Lord Codsworth’s Bright Legion, you know, and his dam a fine filly from Edgeworth stables. This foal should be a great jumper and fast as lightning. In fact, we’ve named him Lightning Bolt, haven’t we, Ginnie?”
Virginia whinnied with laughter. “Indeed. Finest horseflesh as I’ve ever seen. You must come out to the stables after dinner to see him, Willie. He’ll murder the steeplechase with that lineage.”
“I should like to see him.” It was easy to keep quiet after that and allow his brother and sister-in-law to fill the dinner conversation with talk of breeding stock. It seemed they took more interest in their racehorses than their children, Rupert Jr. and little Gerald.
The boys were, of course, up in the nursery. Will had spent the afternoon hour with them upon his arrival and found he enjoyed indulging their little whims. He joined in their game of soldiers, earning the title Uncle General from Rupert. It might be pleasant to have children one day, he had thought. Until Gerald hit Rupert in the head with a block, ending the session in howls and tears. Ginnie had separated them with aplomb and helped Nanny carry them off.
Will could not think of a better suited couple than his jovial brother and even-tempered sister-in-law. Like a perfectly matched pair of carriage horses, they moved in harmony, assured of their place on the earth and that paddocks filled with horses and a nursery filled with children were the epitome of happiness.
His gaze wandered to his father, who was silently consuming halibut. Will had inherited his quiet and solitary nature. Father ran the estate efficiently, steering it into the modern age with dexterity, and making certain all the tenants prospered. But when it came to managing the rest of his life, Mother was in charge, and he seemed happy to concede to her opinions. She might occasionally ask his opinion, then do precisely as she originally intended. But they seemed content in their symbiotic relationship.
Meanwhile, Penelope’s role in the family was to aggravate, spend money, and get into tight spots, but always come out smelling like a rose. His outgoing, independent sister dubbed herself a modern girl, yet Will glimpsed very traditional traits under her surface. Mother predicted Penelope would soon quit her high-stepping ways, marry, and become a bastion of the London social scene.
This was his family. And who was Will? The sibling who was never quite up to snuff, always lagging a bit. He refused to marry, procreate, or perform stunningly in some field. Politics, Mother had suggested, even though he had never shown any inclination in that direction. She told Will he behaved like a hermit and it was high time he emerged from his cave. He supposed she was right. She usually was.
With Rupert and Virginia running full bore about Lightning Bolt’s future prospects at Aintree, it was easy to sit meditatively chewing fish. Will exchanged a look with Father, who winked at him.
Abruptly Mother interrupted the horseflesh tutorial. “Speaking of bloodlines, William, I highly hope you will make yourself amenable to the young ladies at Lady Smyth’s party.”
“Mother, I have heard your wishes on the subject several times. Let us speak instead of the conservatory. The repairs are finished and I have hired a horticulturalist to advise me on the plantings.”
“I’m so pleased to hear it, although you might have consulted with me. How many happy memories I have of that room. Now that you appear to have developed a fondness for plants, perhaps you might like to tour my gardens after supper.”
“Certainly, so long as there is no further talk of Lady Smyth’s party.”
His mother held up her hand. “I promise. I am not one to belabor a point, you know.”
With dinner finally finished, Rupert and Virginia walked to the stables with Father, while Mother took Will’s arm to stroll through the brightly blooming rose garden. How his Rose would love her namesakes here, Will thought as he inhaled the sweet aroma.
Mother pointed out each variety, calling them by name. Then she abruptly stopped walking and her gaze remained fixed on a drooping cluster of pink Damasks. “Son, I would venture to bring up a delicate subject with you. I am loath to broach it, but—” she took a breath— “I feel it is time.”
Will braced for a barrage about the many reasons to marry and sire children. “Mother, there is no need. I will attend the gala if it is that important to you. I will be nice to the young ladies and dance with them despite my two left feet.”
She clicked her tongue impatiently. “Please, allow me to speak. This is not easy. What I wish to say is that I—your father and I— understand you may remain a confirmed bachelor all your life.” She exhaled with a whoosh as if letting go of something she had held in for a long time.
“Yes, I am a bachelor and likely to remain so.” He thought again of pretty Rose, who was not interested in him, and knew he spoke the truth.
“You mistake my meaning. I am talking about a specific sort of bachelor. Someone like your Uncle Leopold, if you take my meaning. If such is the case, I will stop driving you toward marital prospects and we will speak no more of the matter ever.”
Will took a moment to for the gears to whirr and her meaning to click into place. His great uncle had a private secretary, a very nice chap who had served Leopold for many years. It was understood by the family, and probably most of society, that this companion was something more than an employee. The longevity of their bond suggested something much deeper.
“No! That is to say I am not that sort of confirmed bachelor.” Will wanted to laugh and to cry at the touching thought that his parents had not only discussed his sexual preference, but also decided to accept him if he were of the queer bent.
“No, Mother,” he continued more calmly. “I admire ladies quite a lot actually. I simply don’t present myself well to them. We have little in common, the ones you introduce me to at any rate. If I were to choose a woman to wed merely to have a wife, it would not be fair to either of us. I long for someone with whom I might exchange ideas and conversation and laughter. When the right woman comes along, I will know it.”
Rose could be all of those things, his heart chimed in.
His mother regarded him curiously. “You’re holding out for some fairytale version of love.”
For the first time, he won
dered if the judgment he’d always felt implied in her tone had perhaps been in his own mind. “I suppose you could say so, but I don’t see it that way.”
“Very well, then.” She nodded in a decided manner Will knew all too well. She’d worn the same look when commandeering Rupert and Virginia’s wedding or when convincing the church congregation to donate more generously toward building repairs. This was his mother’s expression when she got things accomplished.
“I shall continue to present potential candidates, while attempting not to be too overbearing,” she promised. “I know of a bookish, very sweet spinster who has been on the shelf for a number of years. Perhaps she might suit.”
“Perhaps.” Will pulled her into a brief, fierce embrace. “Do you know you truly are a remarkable woman and mother?”
“I do. Your father often tells me so.”
When his familial duties were finally over and he’d driven back to London, Will flopped onto his well-worn leather chair in his library haven.
He thought about Mother’s amazing pronouncement, and he thought about his recent attachment that might have headed slowly toward the altar if it were given a chance to grow. The only woman who had ever claimed his interest upon first sight, making his soul cry Her! was Miss Rose Gardener. The trouble was he could not pursue her against her wishes. It would be tantamount to forcing himself upon her.
Yet shouldn’t a man try to demonstrate his determined affections so a lady understood his commitment? There was no equation for this unsolvable math problem. He must simply live with it until the solution became apparent.
Chapter Nine
Rose stood in the center of Mr. Carmody’s conservatory and took a slow turn. She had planned the appropriate measurements for the beds and plantings, but now wondered how her vision could fit in this modest space. At the end of her turn, her gaze came to rest on the room’s owner.
Today, Carmody wore a shirt with sleeves rolled up, and no vest or jacket. In his casual attire and with his hair carelessly tousled, he seemed more boyish and approachable, not the grandly attired host from the other evening. She liked the suspenders striping his chest. An unaccountable urge to pull them out and let them snap back made her grin.
Carmody returned her smile, sunlight glinting off his glasses. Deep creases bracketed his mouth, drawing attention to nicely shaped lips. The man was breath-stealing when he smiled!
Her stomach did a little swirling dance like a chicken feather floating to land softly on the ground. Rose dropped her gaze to the copy of the blueprint in her hand.
Carmody moved close to study the plan over her shoulder. His body radiated heat that made her sweat—or perhaps that was due to the sun lancing through the glass panes. She thought she felt his breath caress her temple, although he was not standing that near. Prickling urges squiggled up and down her skin like ants, except not at all unpleasant.
She completely lost her train of thought as she attempted to point out features on the blueprint. “So you see…” She went mute, staring at the paper and trying to suppress her new feelings for Mr. Carmody.
Or were they new? They had begun to stir the night of the dinner party when his height, which at first she had likened to Frankenstein’s monster, no longer seemed alarming but alluring. Rose had noticed the difference in his posture that night, no longer stooping but with an erect bearing that commanded attention. She liked this confident version of Carmody, who did not mumble or stammer when he spoke.
“I see what you’ve done here. Yes. The varying heights will make a stunning display, and a few large rocks placed among the ferns will give a natural effect.” He reached around her to point out several spots as he spoke. A whiff of his scent, shaving cream and sweat, excited her senses. “I had not thought of a koi pond.”
“I-I—” Now Rose stammered like a child who had not memorized her lessons. “I am glad you are able to overlook the crudeness of my sketching.”
“You’re a blue-ribbon artist compared with me.” His low chuckle sent another army of ants scurrying up her spine. She should find a better comparison, for the sensation was more akin to flesh gliding against flesh. What would it feel like for his finger to trace a pattern on her back? For his wide palms to span her waist? For his lips to cover hers?
Rose coughed to cover her small whimper. “Have you a glass of water? It seems rather hot in here even though the windows are cranked open.”
“Perhaps we did not choose the best day to meet. It may be the hottest day of the summer yet. I shall ask Reardon to bring iced lemonade.”
Carmody stepped away from her and she felt the temperature recede. Rose followed him, trying not to study his rear as he led her from the conservatory into the library annex.
“Please sit. I am sorry I allowed you to become overheated without offering refreshments.” He removed a pile of books from a chair facing a larger leather chair grooved by the shape of his body. Then he went to the electronic bell push to summon the butler.
Sitting stiffly on the edge of her seat, Rose imagined Carmody lounging in his throne of a chair, king of a bookish empire. Her gaze wandered across the books lining shelves, stacked on a table and even in piles on the floor. She read the titles of several near her: The Philosophy of Money. The Case of Mr. George Edalji by an author she recognized, Arthur Conan Doyle. Enlightenment for a New Moral Age. Out-of-place in this illustrious collection was a children’s book: Ozma of Oz by Frank Baum.
Rose picked up the book and leafed through it, smiling in delight at the illustrations of Mr. Baum’s magical world.
Carmody dropped into his chair. “You’ve discovered my secret weakness for children’s fantasy stories. Some late nights when tomes on weighty topics are too dark, there is comfort in retreating into lighter fare. Carroll’s Alice was a favorite in my youth. Recently, there has been a surge in children’s literature, including works by Baum, E. Nesbit, Hodgson Burnett and the satirical Cautionary Tales for Children by Hilaire Belloc—definitely not intended for the very young.”
Rose closed the book on a beautiful illustration of the fairy ruler of Oz and stroked the embossed cover. “How I would have enjoyed reading such fantasies as a child. I possessed only one dull moral epistle distributed by church missionaries, all about Pious Penelope and Naughty Nancy. Still, I read it until the binding fell apart. I coveted more interesting tales from the bookseller’s cart but could not afford to buy anything, so I would hover nearby and when the vendor was busy, I’d read whatever I could get my hands on as quickly as I could. Eventually, he would notice me, slap my hands, and tell me to move on.”
“Unforgiveable! No child should be denied books. I support an organization that distributes free reading materials to the needy, and children most especially. The plan is to someday establish lending libraries around the city in poorer neighborhoods.”
“What a worthwhile endeavor,” Rose exclaimed. Yet more layers to this kind man who gave his time to tutor students and his money to make certain everyone had books to read. His generosity warmed her.
“Please, feel free to borrow anything you like from my collection. Why don’t you peruse the shelves now?”
Rose did not need more prompting to browse the library shelves. The books, both ancient and freshly printed, exhaled a delicious papery odor with every page she turned. She could have explored for days, reading snippets of this volume or that in Mr. Carmody’s extensive library.
After Reardon arrived with their lemonade, she resumed her seat.
“What are you currently reading?” she asked, before sipping the tangy, iced drink.
“The horticulture book and an anthology of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle’s mysteries. The latest is a case of a damsel in distress—aren’t they always?—who beseeches Holmes to find her missing guardian whom she believes has absconded with her fortune.”
Rose thought of Candace, except in her case it was the damsel who had disappeared—and without her fortune. Her guardian must have police searching for her by now. Wo
uld Merker eventually track her down and force her to return home?
“Mr. Carmody, could you recommend someone who might provide legal advice about inheritance and the age of majority?” Rose interrupted.
If he was startled at the abrupt question, he was too polite to show it. “No doubt my solicitor, Mr. Jennings, has knowledge of such matters.”
“I’m asking for a friend, so I may not share details before consulting her,” Rose explained. “With her permission, perhaps your solicitor might help with a very delicate situation.”
“I should be happy to retain him on her behalf.”
“Thank you. I would greatly appreciate it.” She wanted to share her burdens with him, to confide about Miss Sweet, and also her worries about Arietta’s future. Mr. Carmody was such a sympathetic listener. But neither topic was appropriate for discussion.
He had gathered a stack of children’s books for her to take home, and now she studied the cover of a green volume with a gold embossed figure playing a flute. “Peter Pan in Kensington Gardens,” she read aloud. “Is this based on Mr. Barrie’s play?”
“The opposite. The Pan character first appeared in Barrie’s book The Little White Bird, then the stage play, and last year the author published this volume with charming illustrations by Arthur Rackham.”
Rose leafed through the pages, examining the mischievous, magical illustrations. She had not been to the theater, but one couldn’t live in London without having heard of this play written especially for children. “Would you read a chapter aloud, Mr. Carmody?” she asked impulsively.
“If you wish?” He took the book from her, opened the volume, and began to read, “All children, except one, grow up…”
Rose settled in her chair, took another sip of her beverage, and fell in love. The story of the boy who never grew up was poignant, but it was the reader who brought the tale to vivid life. With a book in his hands, any stiltedness disappeared. William Carmody portrayed the characters, his voice lightening to a tenor for Peter’s and Wendy’s voices, and dropping into his natural bass timbre as the narrator.
