by Laura Briggs
She would change the subject now, Flora knew, as she reached for an ornate poetry book of Mrs. Miles's on the nearest table. Mrs. Fitzwilliam considered a marriage avowal the end-all of any conversation.
"But we cannot all be married well," said Miss Eliza Barton, looking up from her needle and thread. "Some of us must settle, I suppose."
"Better to settle than find no husband at all," answered Mrs. Phillips. "Imagine a lady earning her bread by common labor.
Flora had been turning the book's pages; but she looked up with interest as Mrs. Phillips spoke.
"I believe I should rather be poor than marry for money," she declared. "Is it not better to earn a modest sum by labor than spend a lifetime regretting one's choice?"
Her words had the magic effect of halting the debate on marriage wardrobes in favor of something more controversial.
Mrs. Phillips stared at her with amusement before speaking. "You speak as if marriage is a choice and not a privilege," she said. "Are there any honest means by which a lady can earn a living without disgracing herself and her family?"
"Many ways," argued Flora. "Perhaps as an instructor. Or even a writer."
"An authoress?" said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Oh, Flora, dear, surely not!"
"Ladies do write, you know," volunteered Miss Harwick. "Although I notice that most names of genteel lady authors are preceded by a Mrs."
"There is nothing dishonest in the trade," argued Flora. "In fact, I would suggest that it is the most ladylike trade that a single woman can pursue; for it offers her independence and discreet practice without the aid of a gentleman to assist her labors."
"Ah, but a gentleman must publish the books, Miss Stuart," said Mrs. Phillips. "That is when I woman cannot act alone in the trade. And as to the subject matter–why, a woman cannot write about the same things as a man."
"What things would those be?" asked Flora. "I believe a woman has all the cleverness and opinions of a man; she is merely not allowed to show them as readily."
She was interrupted as the door swung open to admit the gentlemen of the party, who had returned from a stroll around the grounds. Her breath caught at the sight of a young man's profile among them. Roger Easton's youthful countenance, beneath the tousled light hair.
"What do you think, gentlemen?" said Mrs. Fitzwilliam, addressing the crowd. "Miss Stuart has just declared that clever young ladies can write as well as men." She laughed, to prove the joke behind it.
Sir Edward's face turned scarlet, although he did not speak. Flora felt his discomfort keenly, knowing he half-feared that she would betray her secret in her bold opinions.
"It was merely a thought," she said, trying to soften her words. "That a woman with no other means might earn an income by a discreet means."
She avoided meeting Roger's eye as she spoke. Ashamed, suddenly, by the knowledge that her personal philosophy must be distasteful to someone whose fortune ensured his sister would never know hardship.
To her surprise, however, his lips formed a sympathetic smile. "I believe that any means of honest trade should never tarnish the reputation of gentlemen or ladies," he said. "Miss Stuart is right, I believe, that a suitable and discreet trade would never dishonor a lady."
"But if the lady is a writer," Miss Harwick replied. "Does that not change the scenario? A book of fiction is no different than a lie, is it? Besides, so many books are the subject of scandal."
"Then a lady would dishonor herself by writing anything she would be ashamed to call her own," said Roger, with a shrug of his shoulders.
Flora felt her cheeks burn. "But we must admit that even the most modern of ladies cannot call her name her own," she said. "It is still the property of her family; and even if she would wish to reveal herself, undoubtedly she would fear for their reputations."
Miss Harwick laughed. "You are quite prepared with your excuses, Miss Stuart. I believe that you plan to convince the company you are right as a plan to pen a little novel of your own."
"Miss Stuart is clever enough for a lady authoress," began Mrs. Fitzwilliam. Flora glanced in the direction of her father, whose expression was a mixture of despair and horror.
Roger moved as if to reply, but Sir Edward cleared his throat and steered the conversation away.
"Let us have no more discussion of such serious matters," he said. "Didn't we come here to enjoy our host's country splendors before the height of the season carries him to London? Miles, what do you say to a hand of cassino to wile away the hours before dinner?"
"Splendid idea, sir," answered Colonel Miles. "Will you join us, Mr. Harwick? For I have heard you are a great hand at cards."
Others joined their host at the table, except Miss Harwick, who drifted in the direction of the fireplace, where Roger was seated with a volume of Shakespeare. Flora withdrew to another part of the sofa with her poetry book, her heart beating quickly.
What would he say if he knew the truth? He had defended, nay, almost excused the reasons behind a woman's need to earn her own way. But would he think differently, to know that such a young lady was present among his friends?
She did not wish to think about it. She did not wish to know what his opinion would be of the clever Miss Stuart whose pen was her only relief from future poverty.
Chapter Sixteen
The hem of Flora's gown brushed against the carpeted floor of her bedroom as she tugged the bodice around her waist. She had only had time to sew a new purchase of lace to trim it in hopes of making it more fashionable and hiding its age.
Her hair was wound in a becoming new style of small ringlets pinned in a close crown around her head. To one side, she tucked a small silk butterfly affixed to a pin.
The details are almost as important as the fabric and style of the gown, she reminded herself. Releasing a long sigh that was meant to dispel her nerves in place of confidence.
"You look quite pretty, Flora," Marianne observed from the doorway. "You have never taken so long to dress before. Did you break a thread?" Her own white frock was clean and neat–meaning she had only had it on a few minutes, her sister estimated.
"I merely wanted to look nice at dinner," she said. "We are among company and since I am Colonel Miles's niece, I felt I should make the effort." She pulled her shawl from her chair and wound it around her shoulders.
Downstairs, the guests were assembled and waiting for dinner. She spotted Roger engaged in conversation with Miss Harwick, whose plum-colored gown was styled with a flattering skirt that Flora had seen in a sketch of a French diplomat's wife at the Royal Academy's Art Exhibit.
"I was telling Lord Easton about the balls in Paris," said Hetta, as Flora joined them. "I confess that I cannot believe he never attended any social occasions while in France." She smiled her most flattering smile for Roger's benefit.
"I had little time for society when my father's business was at hand," he answered. "My friends in France were sympathetic; therefore, they emphasized quiet dinners over dancing."
"Your friends were many in France?" Flora enquired. "I'm sure they were, for here, I believe, you were counted among the best of friends by your youthful playmates. Remember young Ben Boyd, son of the local baker?"
"Young Boyd, who helped us hide the bag of rotten apples?" said Roger, with amazement. "Indeed I do! How many happy hours we spent, smashing those apples against the side of the old stone house in the grove! I believe he is grown and a clergyman now, according to his father."
She could see Hetta was rapidly seeking an opening to seize the conversation again, so Flora held tightly to the topic.
"I have wondered all these years what became of our young friend," she said. "We valued his company highly, did we not? As we did the other children whom Colonel Miles so generously allowed to roam his estate."
"I would not have thought your tastes in company so...common, Miss Stuart," said Hetta, with a laugh. "But I suppose each has their own inclination for friends, have we not?"
Her eyes were merry as she met Roger'
s. But his expression was thoughtful, far from amusement.
"I believe that if anyone was deserving of friendship, it was young Boyd," he answered. "For I cannot say that I saw any difference between those country playmates of my youth and the companions I knew at school."
There was a brief moment of awkward silence on Miss Harwick's part. With a tender but grave tone, he added. "Friendship, Miss Harwick, as I'm sure you know, is quite a different matter than mere society."
Hetta's lips parted, but no words came. Her complexion grew red, then paled, as if waves of anger washed through her frame. Before anyone could speak, Mrs. Miles had joined their circle.
"There you are, Lord Easton," she said. "You are to take Miss Stuart into dinner, if you please."
Sir Edward claimed Hetta's arm and they fell into line behind Roger and Flora. A sullen cloud had settled over Hetta's features, while Flora endeavored to prevent the smile fluttering around her own lips. Her eyes swept towards Roger's with a soft look as he gave her arm a gentle squeeze.
Rule number six: A brief glance or lingering look in a gentleman's direction may attract his notice and inspire thoughts of a young lady long after her eyes are engaged elsewhere.
His touch was a brotherly gesture, she knew, but she could not help the brief tingle which passed through her frame. No doubt the presence of any eligible and attractive young gentleman would have the same effect.
Dinner was a lively discussion about politics, which Flora wisely avoided to save her father from further grief. As it was, she could not help her constant wandering, both in gaze and thought, in the general direction of Roger's face.
Was he watching Miss Harwick? Did he notice the attentions the young lady paid to him? She held her breath as she observed Hetta raise her lashes to study Roger's face with a soft smile.
If he could not see the hardened expression in their depths, then Flora despaired of her plans to protect his heart. The surface appearance of Hetta Harwick suggested perfection, the kind of beauty which undoubtedly broke many hearts in the ballrooms of Paris.
When Roger turned toward her, Flora turned her attention to her plate. To be caught engaged in the same activities as Hetta Harwick would only damage her chances of attracting his favorable notice. Protect your genteel reputation by refraining always from open rivalries with another young lady. Especially whenever others can observe you.
"I believe," Colonel Miles declared, "that this fine weather we're having calls for a picnic. What does the company present–and the young people in particular–say to such a plan?"
"A picnic," breathed Miss Catherine. "Oh, sir, what a pleasure it would be! You know, all my life I've longed for a country picnic!" This she related in particular to her neighbor, Mrs. Fitzwilliam.
"Then I do not see why we shouldn't have one," the lady declared. "Let us consider it a settled matter, my dear brother. For I see happiness in more than one face present at the thought of a tete-a-tete in the outdoors." With a large wink in the direction of Miss Harwick, who looked away.
Flora's face lighted with pleasure. The memory of sunny fields and blue skies swept across her like a pleasant breeze. To be a little girl again ... but that was impossible, for a girl of one and twenty.
"I shall bring my butterfly net!" Marianne said. Forgetting all rules of etiquette as usual, but this time it only earned her the jovial laughter of Colonel Miles.
*****
A young lady must always use her eyes to her advantage. A properly-applied glance may repel a gentleman with its coldness; or beckon him with its soft warmth.
When she had penned those words, Flora was recalling the balls of her childhood. Sweeping lashes, folded fans, and a hint of fire in their glance. She, of course, knew nothing of it firsthand. But it was now or never if she wanted to test her powers on an amiable young man.
She rose from her after-dinner seat on the drawing room sofa and strolled towards the ancestral tapestry hanging on the wall. Turning her head towards Roger, she met his eyes with a long, gentle glance. Breaking away, she turned towards the wall again as if admiring the tapestry's subject.
He was conversing with Miss Harwick and Mrs. Miles. But to her surprise, he moved away and joined her with a short bow.
"The picnic must be an equally exciting plan for you, Miss Stuart," he said, "for I believe you have not been in this part of England for many years."
She had returned his greeting demurely and was doing her best to mask her face with an inscrutable smile. "It was a pleasant surprise indeed," she answered.
He lowered his gaze for a moment, his fingers toying with a button on his coat. "I hope one day to return to these parts, when I no longer have the cares of my father's estate being settled on me," he continued. "My mother and sister prefer the busy scenes of London. But for myself, I like nothing better than fields and flocks and the branches of my own orchard beckoning me."
"We sneaked many an apple from its branches as I recall, sir," she laughed, forgetting herself and all her intentions for a moment. "I believe your father's groundskeeper once chased us away from a tree of choice plums which the cook desired for the house's jellies."
He smiled. "I remember. What young rascals we were!" He followed this with a sigh; for whom or what, Flora was not certain.
"You are well in town, I hope?" he asked. "You and your family? My sister always told me of your doings in her letters. Such things you would say and stories you would tell. I feared that she would have an impression of me as a freckled little boy running through a farmyard instead of a gentleman."
"Anyone who sees you would believe you nothing less than a gentleman," Flora answered. Her eyes were lowered again, with a sense of shame this time. Would he believe her compliments to him were born out of an interest in his title and fortune? An unbearable thought, given their past.
"If one were not sure, they might suspect you were plying the charms recommended in Advice for Young Ladies, Miss Stuart." Mrs. Phillip's voice held a note of teasing as she approached them. "Such a private tete-a-tete will never do!"
"I believe I should be able to detect if Miss Stuart were engaged in such charms, for I am quite well versed in the subject of them, thanks to my sister," Roger chuckled. "Such designs, I would venture to say, are foreign to Miss Stuart's nature as a general rule."
His words were a shock to Flora, who could not speak for a moment. The thought that he considered her incapable of flirtation–her, the author of the very little book whose arts he protested!
"I think you dismiss the advice of the little book too easily, Easton," ventured Mr. Harwick. "For what has been said of it leads me to believe that no young man is capable of resisting its powers, once they are used." His statements were followed by laughter by several of the party.
"People always say so of this kind of nonsense," scolded Mrs. Phillips. "Such fashions always vanish, in particular these little books which people seize upon with romantic ideas."
"Agreed, Mrs. Phillips," said Roger, indulging in another hearty laugh.
It was too much to be endured. The debate on the subject of her little book was salt to the wound, after Roger insulted her so openly. She felt the sting of tears gathering in her eyes.
"What say you on the subject of nonsense, Miss Stuart?" asked Roger.
"You must excuse me, sir." Her response was cold. With a short bow, she made her way from the room. Sensing, rather than seeing Hetta's smile of pleasure as she moved to take her place.
*****
How dare he! To say such a thing before Mrs. Phillips–to imply that I am incapable of being as charming as this season's great beauty, Miss Harwick! ME, the very person who is moving heaven and earth to prevent him from wasting his fortune and his heart on a girl who feels no interest in the latter!
I believed him capable of seeing me only as the grubby little girl who climbed apple trees. But I never believed he would be so deliberately cruel as to admit it before others. As if my chances of securing a proposal are so little, i
t doesn't matter what is said of me. If these are his feelings, then it is indeed a good thing that he feels no contempt for female authors–since that is apparently all I am fit for in his eyes.
Her pencil flew angrily over the pages, despite the hot tears which escaped her eyes. She reproached herself inwardly for letting her emotions get the better of her, but she could not help it. For she had always hoped that she had a true friend in Roger Easton.
Pushing aside her journal, she wiped her eyes. There was no use in crying. For there was no reason to be surprised that a gentleman of means would think such a thing of a girl with no fortune.
Chapter Seventeen
There are times when I must confess I have grown tired of all the discussions surrounding this book of mine. Its constant debate leaves me torn between the pleasure of being its author and the pain of being its defender. What a tiresome chore it is! I believe it was much easier to write the advice than to listen to it being discussed day after day after day...
She tucked her pencil into her journal and closed the volume. The seam which bound its pages together was splitting apart from too much use. She supposed the only volume she had seen lately to rival its wear and tear was Miss Catherine Barton's copy of Advice for Young Ladies.
Across from her, Eliza Barton was clutching a basket of fancy work on her lap, doing her best to avoid jostling Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who had fallen asleep beside her. Each time the carriage rolled over a particularly bumpy spot in the road, the lady awoke and complained loudly that the coachman must be laboring to find every hole between here and Five Acre field, the intended site of the picnic.
Flora smiled. "The field is not so far, Aunt," she answered. "It has a lovely view on the hill, which I suppose only Colonel Miles's sheep enjoyed in the past."
