by Laura Briggs
"How exciting this all is!" declared Miss Catherine Barton. "I did not sleep a wink last night for thinking of it."
Nor had Marianne, apparently, for she had appeared before breakfast, fully dressed and armed with her lopsided butterfly net. With a jar tucked beneath her arm, she had gravely inquired of her Uncle Miles if he had a strong objection to the presence of a few butterfly "specimens" being brought back from his fields. While the good man had no objection, his wife had several strong ones regarding the plan.
Marianne and her net were aboard Colonel Miles's carriage, along with his wife and the Miss Phillips. The rest of the party rode in a second carriage which the Colonel thoughtfully provided.
Except for Miss Harwick, that is, for Mrs. Fitzwilliam had offered her a seat in her carriage. Where the young lady was now pressed beside her hostess, endeavoring to avoid the gaze and conversation of the youngest Miss Barton.
"I find the scenes of the country are rather dull," Hetta replied to Miss Catherine. "I see nothing except the monotony of trees and livestock." Her tone was bored as she glanced out the window.
Perhaps things had not gone as well as Miss Harwick hoped last night? Flora had been rather curious about their conversation after her abrupt exit, but had resisted the temptation to press Mrs. Fitzwilliam on the subject, to avoid the exciting the lady's curiosity.
Colonel Miles had already instructed his servants to take the baskets of food and blankets to the site of the picnic. By the time the carriages arrived, their occupants were greeted with cloths spread upon the ground and hampers of food awaiting hungry picnickers. The groundskeeper and his men waved hello to the carriages as the party arrived.
"What a pretty sight," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam as she stepped out of the carriage. "I daresay, it's better than a dull afternoon spent in the morning room, eh?" She shook her skirts out and inspected the setup with a critical eye.
Flora turned in a slow circle, surveying the beauty around her. With a sigh of contentment, she wrapped her shawl closer and wandered across the grass. Marianne was already free from the carriage and struggling to unfurl her butterfly net.
"I shall be able to find ever so many!" she called to Flora. "Look at all the flowers that will draw them here!" She was already rushing towards a cluster of flocks blooming nearby.
Flora was tempted to follow her into the meadows, but hesitated, remembering her resolution. After Roger's cutting remarks, she was torn between her resentment and her resolve to help him. But was not a promise a promise? Even if she was fast losing heart for following her rival in such a setting.
She spotted Roger alongside her father, the two of them engaged in conversation. Just beyond the Miss Bartons and her hostess, she caught a glimpse of Hetta's gown in a crowd of the Miss Phillipses gathering flowers with their baskets.
"Join us for a walk, Miss Flora?" asked Colonel Miles. "Lord Easton has a free arm, I'll wager. And everyone is welcome to follow." He motioned in the direction where she knew the ruins of an old stone barn lay. Already, her father had offered his arm to Mrs. Miles.
She could join them. And her resolution to keep her friend from temptation should make her a willing party. But the beauty of the scenery was drawing her away from the crowd, towards the uncut field beyond. Wildflowers and grass fluttered in the breeze, sweeping against the hem of her skirt as she moved through them.
"Thank you, but I shall enjoy the scenes here, sir," she answered. As they made their way towards the fields beyond, she turned and walked in another direction.
After what transpired last night, she supposed there was nothing wrong with ignoring the plight of young Lord Easton for a little while. Or perhaps for the rest of this holiday entirely.
"Flora, where are you going?" asked Marianne. She was untying the piece of cloth around the top of her jar.
"I am going to have fun wherever I please," Flora answered. "Wherever there's a sunny patch of ground and a wild tangle of weeds."
"You could come and help me catch butterflies for my collection," said Marianne. "There are some splendid ones, all different."
"You cannot bring any of them home, Marianne," Flora called in reply. "Remember that when your crock is full." She moved towards the gradual incline of the neighboring hill.
This portion of the field had not been mown for some time, whether because of some wish of Colonel Miles or the nature of the hill itself. Either way, Flora waded through the tangle of dried weeds and wildflowers until she reached the top.
Sprawled on the grass in the sunshine, she drew her journal from beneath her shawl and opened it. Her fingers flew over the paper, a page fluttering loose as its threads broke free of the spine. Another followed, but she chose not chase them for the moment.
Selecting a blank page, she placed the pencil against it and began a quick sketch of the scene below. A grassy hill, a field marked by a stone, a house visible in the distance behind a row of trees.
It was a pretty scene, to which she could have done justice if only her drawing instructor had lasted longer than a few weeks. But Flora's fingers were adept at making the most of a few small details to capture the feel of the scene. It would be all she would have to remember it by, when London's dreary skies surrounded her the rest of the year and for many years to come.
Would it not be her luck to have someone stumble upon her at this moment, lying on the grass in an unladylike pose? Her pencil carefully formed the shape of the clouds. Beyond them, the stick shape and branches of the poplar grove which blocked all but the roof and chimneys of the manor behind them.
She paused, in the midst of shading the house's walls. Her eyes sank closed in the pleasant warmth of the sunlight. For a moment, she imagined she was a little girl again, lying in the sunshine with a crown of flowers around her hair and telling stories to others.
"Once upon a time," she would begin, "there was a lovely stone castle on the hill. And in that castle lived a little girl. Only she wasn't really a little girl, she was a princess turned into one by a sorceress."
"Was she pretty?" Lucy asked. "The princess, I mean." She lay with her head on Flora's lap.
Flora lay on her back in the meadow, staring up at the clouds. "Of course she was pretty," she answered. "All princesses are pretty." She reached up to adjust the crown of wildflowers around her head, woven from heather and daisies.
"No she wasn't. She was ugly," Roger interrupted. "Like a big hairy troll."
"She was not!" Flora scolded. "I'm telling this story so I know. She was pretty, although some people couldn't tell." She stuck out her tongue at Roger, for there was no grown-up present.
"One day, on the doorstep of her castle, a servant found a great big basket. And what was inside? It was a talking fish! Only he was inside a bucket of water to keep him from getting all dry. He told the servant–"
"There aren't any talking fish," Roger scoffed. He climbed to his feet and brushed the grass from his trousers. "Now you're just being stupid."
"I am NOT stupid!" Flora shouted. She scrambled to her feet, letting Lucy's head tumble to the ground. Despite Lucy's wail, she faced him, her cheeks hot with rage.
"They're always about lovely ladies and princes falling in love," he said. "Who wants to hear about that, even if there are pirates involved."
"Because that's how the story is supposed to turn out," she replied. "The two of them fall in love and live happily ever after. If you don't like it, than you can go away."
"Fine," said Roger. He turned and ran down the hill, disappearing into the tall grass below.
Grown-up Flora opened her eyes. The loose pages of her journal were scattered across the grass. She reached over to snatch them as they fled in the breeze. Cramming them inside, she closed its cover to hold them there.
The grass rustled behind her as someone approached. Marianne, no doubt coming to persuade her again to help with the butterfly hunt.
"Unless you have come to bask in the sunlight with me, the answer is still no," she said, without turning around.
/> "I have yet to ask the question," said a male voice. Flora whirled around.
It was not Marianne standing behind her. It was Roger.
Chapter Eighteen
"I have come to apologize, Miss Stuart," Roger said. "I believe my words the other night gave you the impression that I ..." he trailed off for a moment, "that I did not regard you as highly as I do."
Flora scrambled to her feet, aware that grass was clinging to her gown and possibly even her hair. "You are forgiven, sir," she answered, stuffing her journal into the hidden pocket of her gown. Why wasn't it Marianne who interrupted her? Her fingers attempted to brush the debris from her dress.
"Then I am relieved," he smiled. "I feared that even if I begged forgiveness, you might say no."
"Last night, we talked only of nonsense," she said. "Why should I not forgive nonsense?" She preferred not to repeat any of his words last night. Especially not while her appearance was that of a tomboy.
His fingers reached over and took her own gently in hand. "Then I pledge that we shall talk no more nonsense of courtship and volumes of ladies' charms. If that is agreeable to you."
Her own hand trembled for a moment, before growing steady. "Agreed," she answered. She withdrew it after a moment, although the warmth of his touch still clung to it.
"Allow me," he said, retrieving her shawl and shaking it out. "I'm sorry if I interrupted something–"
"It was nothing," she answered. Although she tried to take back her shawl, he placed it around her shoulders himself.
"Do you admire the view?" he asked. He gestured towards the house. "Donnelly Hall is the poorer for its family's absence, I fear."
"I think it is still a beautiful place," she answered. "It shall always be, no matter the empty rooms." She turned towards it, taking in its stately form, the stone walls just visible above the line of poplars.
"It has been a very long time since I was inside its walls," she murmured. "How much it has changed, I am sure."
"Shall we go down now?" he asked. "I believe there is an inviting collection of wildflowers in the fields below which no young lady's fingers could resist."
She turned towards him, surprised. "Should we not rejoin the party?" she asked. "They will miss us if we stay away–"
"What does it matter?" he asked. "Let us be spontaneous again, as we were in the past." He nodded towards the slope. "The first one to the bottom wins, Miss Stuart."
With that, he took off down the hillside, into the fields below. Dropping her shawl onto the grass, Flora raced after him through the long grass of the field left uncut.
He glanced over his shoulder to see if she was following. She closed the gap as she gathered up her skirts. He kept in a straight line towards the rock protruding from the field, his hand reaching for it as if to grasp victory.
With a shriek of laughter she passed him; he grabbed for her hand, but in vain. Now that she was ahead, he pushed himself harder, but her feet were faster and lighter, darting ahead of his own in their heavy boots. When she reached the rock, she slapped her hands against it, then whirled around to face him.
"I have won," she gasped. "Although you shall not let me enjoy my victory, sir. For you would claim you could run twice as far if you wished."
He laughed, despite being out of breath. "I deny it," he replied. "I remember ... when we were children, it was always you who won. Although I suspect yours was the advantage of knowing Colonel Miles's property best."
She drew a deep breath, forcing her lungs to expand. Roger leaned against the rock beside her, staring at the clouds overhead.
"Do you suppose the rest of the party will come this way?" he asked, after a moment to slow his breathing. "I suppose the wild and tangled walk is too much for fashionable ladies. Although it can be managed by a long skirt," he added, "judging by your own."
"I think you will find young ladies are capable of a great deal more than mincing about and fluttering their fans at balls," she answered.
"True," he laughed. He pushed himself away from the rock, staring in the direction of the trees. She knew he was looking in vain through their thickness for the windows of his home. The chimneys of the great house were visible just above the tree tops, a glimpse of aged brick.
"Let us visit it, Flora," he said suddenly. He turned towards her. "Come with me to see Donnelly Hall."
She stared at him, her skin tingling at the pleasant sound of her name from his lips. "But it is closed," she replied. "Surely you have not the key with you?" Had he been planning all along to break away from the party to visit its grounds alone?
"What does it matter?" he said. "Let us at least go a little ways. It has been too long since I have been home. Too long since you have seen the place yourself. It will take but a few minutes perhaps."
The idea of seeing Donnelly Hall up close again was too tempting. The memory of playing in its hedges and picking flowers in its gardens seemed as vivid as when she was engaged in it full-time during the autumn months. She felt there could be no possible harm in enjoying its sights for a few moments.
"Lead the way," she answered after a moment, permitting a smile to appear on her lips.
Without asking, he took her hand impulsively and pulled her after him. She was surprised by the touch, the strength in the hand that held hers so securely. She ran to keep up with him through the grassy field, until it vanished in the grove of poplars and hardwood trees which surrounded the stately manor house.
The course bracken had grown beneath them, the hedges around the house protruding with limbs of untamed holly as they made their way forward. Her skirt snagged on a branch, forcing her to pull her hand free and untangle it; his own was occupied in bending back limbs which threatened to strike their faces.
"Have you no gardener?" she laughed, as he pushed a way through the green. "It seems that he has done a poor job of maintaining your grounds."
"The groundskeeper grew ill a year ago," Roger answered. "I had not the heart to release him; and until he is better, there is no one to tend them."
He took her hand again as he helped her through the opening. On the other side lay a garden grown wild with gorse and heather. The remains of hollyhock stems and dried foxgloves were evident, along with tangled rose vines climbing the statues and stone walls of the manor.
She wandered towards an old swing, tangled beneath a hickory tree which shaded the grounds. Unwinding its ropes, she tested its strength. A few sharp tugs and it held. Seating herself between the ropes, she swayed back and forth. The limb overhead creaked as she tilted back and stared at the leaves and sky.
She felt Roger push her lightly and lifted her feet from the ground, letting herself soar upwards.
"Do you feel as if you are eight years old again?" he laughed.
"I have felt that way all this afternoon," she replied, feeling the earth vanish beneath her feet. All that was above was sky and clouds. The same ones, she thought, that she had gazed at long ago in search of elephants and chariots in their shapes.
"How high you used to swing," she called. "I feared you would fall sometimes."
"I wanted to swing up to the moon," he answered. "I rather imagine it could be done, if one knew the way."
"Have you a great inclination to visit there?" she asked. "You, who are always abroad as it is?"
"The moon is not the same as being abroad, Miss Stuart," he argued. "And as I have no wish to be abroad again, then the answer is no." Her swing slowed as he ceased to push her, until it was close to the ground again.
"I have no wish to be anywhere but here at the moment," he said, softly. "This is what I have dreamed of every day since I went away to school and every day afterwards, when I took up my father's title and his affairs."
"Is it a lonely life, then?" she ventured. "To be Lord Easton of manor and fortune?"
He smiled, with a touch of sadness in his face. "More than you realize."
Sympathy filled her gaze as their eyes met. They did not speak for a moment, no movem
ent except the ropes of the swing twisting beneath her hands. The silence around them was filled with calling birds and rustling leaves.
“Silence was never one of my gifts, was it?” She smiled, apologetically, to cover the blush she knew was creeping across her face.
“I seem to recall most of my youth was spent much bolder than I would care to admit today. Too many trees were climbed, too many lesson books ruined with silly nonsense scribbled over the pages,” she continued.
“Take comfort, Miss Stuart, that you have hardly grown up the worse for those times,” he answered. “In fact, you have turned out admirably. A credit to your mother and to your own character; any young woman would do well to take you as her model." His lips twisted into a wry smile. "I would endeavor to say that even my sister would do well to learn from you."
It was a great compliment; too great for her to accept without feeling uncomfortable. "I think Miss Lucy's greatest credit is her brother," she answered. "For he fills both the role of companion and father."
The swing's ropes twisted further, spinning her in slow half-circles. Roger wrapped his hands around them, slowing the movement until they were almost face to face.
"How long since you lost your freckles, Miss Stuart?" he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. "Your face was so changed. When I saw you again, I thought I should not have know you. Little Miss Stuart of the red braids was gone and instead ..." He did not finish, turning his eyes away from hers for a moment.
"Instead was a grown-up," she ventured to answer. "I fear we have both changed a great deal since those long ago days." Her voice trembled slightly.
Letting go of the swing, she stood and walked a few steps away. Her arms hugged herself, believing her shiver must be from a cool breeze drifting through the garden.
"Come this way," he called. "We shall go closer to the house, if you want." He moved towards the front of the manor house. He pushed through the overgrown lane that led out of the garden, clearing a path for them to follow.
She hesitated, despite her curiosity to see the once-grand lawns of Donnelly Hall. But what was the harm in visiting the place? Was it not proper to follow one's host if he wished you to admire his house? Gathering her skirts, she followed him up the remains of the path.
