by Laura Briggs
Flora's heart froze at these words. "Really?" she said. "What makes you certain?"
"Oh, nothing of any consequence," Mrs. Fitzwilliam answered. "Still, such an idea is intriguing, no? Who might he chose? For my money, I would easily claim Miss Harwick. For I heard her saying she expects great things from the Eastons' ball in a fortnight or so. And what else could she mean than securing the attentions of the young gentleman?"
Flora was unable to reply, unable to think. Was it possible ... no, it could not be herself he would admire. But was it possible Miss Harwick had gained an advantage without her observing? She endeavored to catch sight of them together, but Hetta was talking with Mrs. Miles near the fireplace.
She remained silent at dinner. The conversation was not lively this evening, for the guests were too worn out from their afternoon excursion. Even Roger seemed preoccupied; but she could not be certain if it was the fault of any young lady present.
In the drawing room afterwards, she wandered towards the fire, where Colonel Miles was attempting to persuade her father into a rubber of whist. They both welcomed her with a smile, but she felt that her presence was hardly wanted for the game.
"Miss Stuart." Behind her, Roger stood with his hands behind his back. "Are you engaged to join them at cards?" he asked.
She shook her head. "I am a terrible player," she answered. "For I spend almost as much time being curious about my neighbor's cards as my own." Although she attempted to sound light-hearted, her tone was far from it.
He stood there for a moment, awkwardly. "Then I suppose you would prefer to take a turn about the room. You often do, I have noticed."
He seemed so uncomfortable that she could not bear to prolong their conversation. No doubt he was afraid she had read too much into this afternoon's impromptu excursion.
Or was he afraid it was too little? The touch of their hands, the sound of his voice when he spoke her name. The very memory stirred her heart, despite her better judgment.
"I believe that this afternoon's walk was sufficient exercise," she answered. "But I thank you for your kindness."
"This afternoon," he began. "I thought perhaps ... perhaps you–" He trailed off for a moment.
"Have you something to say, Lord Easton?" she asked, in her most polite tones. Her heart quickened slightly, in anticipation of what would come next, be it a love confession or gentle warning.
"No," he answered, meeting her eyes with a half-smile. "Nothing at all." He bowed and walked away. The pang of disappointment was severe, but such pains would have to be suffered to ensure that she kept her head in these matters.
Rumors, rumors, rumors... shall we always subject ourselves to such gossip?
She sank down in the nearest chair, avoiding the opportunity to glance in Roger's direction. He stood a few feet away, his profile offering her a pleasant view of his face. Blushing, she scolded herself inwardly for even thinking of such a thing.
The company in general had gathered on the musical side of the drawing room. Seated at the pianoforte was Miss Harwick, the youngest Miss Phillips stationed at her elbow to turn the music when required.
Flora had never heard Hetta sing before. But when her rival struck the first few notes and opened her lips, she was almost as enchanted as the rest of the listeners.
It was "My Lagan Love", the soft Irish refrain chosen to entertain her fellow guests. Hetta's voice was clear and strong. What it might lack in beauty, it made up for in taste.
Each word rung out with perfect intonation. Her fingers moved delicately over the keys, drawing forth the most tender emotions from the melody.
A glance at Roger's face revealed a soft expression as he listened. His lips were parted, his eyes clouded with an emotion which Flora could not readily identify. Her heart, however, forced her to assume it was deep admiration. And perhaps something more, as Mrs. Fitzwilliam would claim.
When the song drew to a close, enthusiastic applause followed. Entreaties to play again were made, by both Colonel Miles and Flora's father. Despite the pleading, Miss Harwick shook her head demurely, protesting on behalf of her modest talents.
"Perhaps another young lady?" ventured Colonel Miles "Miss Stuart?" Flora shook her head in protest. The thought of her slight talent as a follow-up to Hetta's performance was rather horrifying.
"Miss Cora, then," he said. "Surely you can be persuaded to play us an air?" And the eldest Miss Phillips took her station at the keys.
Hetta joined the company again, her seat near Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who whispered her compliments rather loudly, despite the opening strains of Miss Phillips's song. She was joined in them by Mrs. Miles, whose good nature would think anyone's talent equal to praise.
"There is something admirable about those who perform publicly," said Roger. "Is there not something especially beautiful in the courage, as well as the tune?" He was speaking to his neighbor, but his gaze regarded Flora as he spoke.
She blushed red, then paled in succession. Biting her lip, she looked away. If Lord Easton meant to send her a gentle hint, he could relieve himself of the trouble, since she possessed already a brother to perform that office.
"Do you play, Miss Eliza?" she asked the elder Miss Barton, who was absorbed in sewing a dull-looking stitchery.
"I have no talent for music," she answered. "My music master quite despaired of me, I'm afraid. He had much better success with Catherine a few years later, however. She, I believe, is our family's true proficient."
"Perhaps she shall play us something next," said Flora. "The Colonel shall be in want of performers, I fear; since so many of us are shy." She meant this for Roger's benefit, but he had already disappeared from view.
"You shy, Miss Stuart?" said Miss Catherine. "Such nerve as yours I rather envy. For who else would say such bold things in conversation as you do?"
Flora smiled wryly. "Boldness is not always the best means of drawing attention," she answered. "The quiet reserve of delicate, feminine charms is infinitely preferable to our society, you know." The Miss Bartons were pleased with this compliment, although they endeavored not to show it.
After a few minutes' conversation with them, Flora rose and made her way towards the stairs to ensure that Marianne was properly tucked in for the evening. Since there was no governess to look after her, she relied upon herself to look after her sister.
The hallway was empty; but she heard the sound of voices nearby since two people were speaking in private in the dimly lit entryway. She recognized the rose-colored gown as Hetta Harwick's, the gentleman standing with his back to Flora.
She stepped away with automatic reserve. Could she escape before they saw her and mistakened her approach? The distance back to the drawing room was too great. She slipped into a deep niche in the hallway where a tapestry was displayed.
"But how am I to know that it was you who dropped it, Lord Easton?" Hetta was saying. In her hand she held a scarlet hair ribbon, somewhat faded and creased with age. The sight of it left Flora breathless. For she recognized it almost immediately, although she had not seen it since the Christmas it was presented to her by her governess.
Her hair ribbon. From the Christmas Eve party. The one that Roger had told her was lost afterwards.
"I assure you that it is mine, Miss Harwick." She heard Roger's voice answer. "I used it as a mark in my book of Shakespeare that I carry in my pocket and it must have fallen when I was reading to Mrs. Phillips."
"Can you prove it?" Hetta asked. "I daresay it is Miss Easton's ... but I believe she is far too old for such childish ornaments. She wrapped the ribbon around her finger, slowly, studying it keenly.
"I suspect you carry this for other reasons," she concluded. Flora could read mischief in Hetta's glance as she met the gentleman's face.
"It was from a very long time ago. A childhood playmate of mine–a sweetheart, if you will–wore it in her hair. And I had an occasion to take it from her and keep it as a remembrance." He laughed. "So there you have it, Miss Harwick; and I defy
you to claim my story is made up, for I have not the cleverness of a novelist in telling tales."
Her smile curved wider as he spoke. "I believe you," she answered. She handed him the ribbon back. "It is a pretty tale indeed, sir. Do you tell it often?"
"Only as often as one such as yourself stumbles upon it." Roger had turned so that his smile was now visible to Flora from her hiding place. A dangerous light was visible in Hetta's eyes as she accepted his arm and allowed him to escort her towards the drawing room.
Once they were out of sight, Flora slipped from her hiding place and hurried upstairs. With each step pounding beneath her feet, she felt her heart sinking lower in shame and wounded pride.
How could she let herself hope–or imagine–that he might care about her as anything but a friend? Never had she felt more pain than the realization that she allowed herself to cross that barrier.
She had ample evidence that his attraction to Hetta Harwick was growing stronger. The girl she so foolishly believed she could prevent from forming designs on him could obviously charm any answer from him with a glance from her eyes. Flora could not say which was more painful to her, the realization that she was falling into hopeless love or her failure to prevent him from liking Hetta.
What an utter disaster this whole experiment was! Succeeding in nothing but jeopardizing her own heart and witnessing Hetta's prospects advance.
Entering Marianne's darkened bedchamber, she closed the door behind her. In the shadows, she could compose herself again. The sound of Marianne's soft breathing filled the stillness, along with the soft rustle of a book among her bedsheets. Flora reached out to stroke her sister's hair tenderly, tucking the covers closely around her.
How long before Marianne's feelings would be wounded like hers? For small dowries and the necessity of having an authoress for a sister would do nothing to improve her charms. It was inevitable that more than one young gentleman would turn up his nose at such prospects.
She sighed as she drew their mother's prayer book from its hiding place in the sheets and closed it. If only it were possible for Marianne to remain a freckled, sunburned tomboy chasing butterflies through fields and playing cricket alone in their garden.
Perhaps it would have been best if she had remained one, too.
Chapter Twenty-One
The strings of the harp vibrated a light Irish melody beneath Flora's fingers, one of Irwin's harp medleys. The lively tune kept pace with the thoughts racing through her mind, ignoring the occasional mistakes or missing notes.
What she heard in her mind was not Irwin's; but rather, the sound of Hetta's pianoforte performance from two weeks ago. Her voice singing to the tune of Roger's admiration as Flora sat mildly by and watched.
Suddenly, her fingers raked across the strings in discord. "Stupid, foolish girl!" she scolded. "What happened is entirely your fault!" She shoved her harp into an upright position.
"What on earth is the matter, Flora?" Mrs. Fitzwilliam called from the other room. Until a moment ago, she had been engrossed in teaching Marianne a lace pattern, less than delightful for the tomboyish girl. But the sound of Flora's outburst had produced a startling interruption.
"It is nothing," Flora answered. She buried her face in her hands, her voice muffled slightly. "Merely a sudden temper over a mistake."
Rule number four: Never appear childish or unladylike in the presence of a gentleman, lest he perceive you as too immature to be taken seriously.
Rule number eight: Always possess at least one talent with which to charm others in public display–modestly, but skillfully, that is.
How many more of her own rules had she broken? The whole list crowded her mind like a series of chattering voices offering advice all at once. Her hand raked through her hair with frustration.
Had she really thought so little of her friendship with Roger, to let him get close to such danger? It was true that his careless remarks had offended her more than once since their re-acquaintance. But had he not also shown her the warmth of close friendship when they escaped the picnic party together? Had he not joined her in defending the necessity of income that forced ladies to become authors?
The memory of their impromptu dance might pain her heart, but that was not his fault. She had rebuffed his friendship out of pride, in the awkward aftermath. She had saved herself and let her friend fall into the snares of a fortune hunter.
"But it is not too late," she whispered to herself. "It cannot be too late." Hetta had implied her moment of triumph would be the Eastons' ball, where she undoubtedly planned to make a striking appearance. If so, then there was still time. Weeks, in fact, in which one could prepare to counter her move.
"You are talking nonsense!" Mrs. Fitzwilliam scolded from the doorway, her words suggesting she monitored Flora's thoughts instead of her talent. "Your performance was rather good for someone who allows their instrument to collect dust instead of performances."
She had not realized her aunt was present. Raising her head, she attempted to compose herself. "It isn't my lack of practice, I assure you."
"What is it?" Marianne had joined her aunt. "Is something exciting about to happen?"
"Not the sort of excitement you would like, dearest," Flora answered, standing up. She smoothed her skirts and offered her aunt a conspiratorial smile. "What do you say to a visit to Bond Street, Aunt Charlotte? I find I have an urge to see the latest fabrics for evening gowns."
"For the ball, you mean?" asked her aunt. "What a splendid idea; I shall send for the carriage directly." She hurried away, leaving Flora restless with energy and resolution in the drawing room.
"But what will Papa say?" Marianne whispered. She followed Flora, whose skirts rustled energetically as she climbed the stairs.
"What is the pleasure in being the author of a popular little book if you cannot spend a little of its earnings on something nice?" Flora replied. "Besides, it will save him the expense of a new gown for me anyway, since my blue one will hardly be serviceable after this season."
The wheels of her mind were turning rapidly. Suppose all of the rules combined were enough to counter Hetta's beauty–enough to surpass her, even. A final challenge met with all the charms and arts offered by feminine persuasion!
She entered her bedroom. "Fetch your cloak, Marianne," she called. She reached for her purse on the dresser, which contained the pocket money she had saved–all of which would now be spent, no doubt. On impulse, she grabbed the little black volume which lay beside it.
Even its authoress might need to refresh herself on its rules.
*****
Rule number thirteen: Never rely upon gossip about romance when determining the true nature of another's attachment. Flora tapped her fingers lightly against the little volume in her purse as the busy streets of London paraded by Mrs. Fitzwilliam's carriage windows
"I feel Smith's is the best warehouse, but Mrs. Phillips always relies upon a little shop with more exclusive taste in satins." Mrs. Fitzwilliam led the way in conversation and direction as they made their way on foot through Bond Street. "I'll wager her daughters have gowns made from the very best on its shelves."
"The Miss Phillips are always stylish," Flora replied. She shepherded Marianne along behind her aunt, her younger sister's eyes wandering from their destination to the colorful wares of the marketplace around them.
Smith was most obliging in the display of cloths, since Mrs. Fitzwilliam was one of his most frequent customers. Elegant fabrics spread themselves for display, many for prices that Flora would never dream of paying.
"I have heard that Lady Easton may send out invitations as soon as today, since she is quite set on having it in two weeks' time," said her aunt, feeling the texture of a bolt of lawn between her fingers. "Is this not somewhat coarse for your tastes, Flora? I suspect that its weave is inferior."
"I wonder who is invited," Flora responded to the first half of her aunt's remarks. Instead of the lawn, she was stroking layers of a white silk.
&nb
sp; "Your family and myself, of course. Rumor has it that the Russells will be invited–now that Miss Russell is out–and the Harwicks, apparently." She motioned for Smith to unfold a jade green fabric for her inspection. "I have no doubts Miss Harwick was eager to secure the invitations; the Harwicks are thinking of purchasing a barouche, you know."
"Really?" Flora murmured. She wondered what style of dress Hetta would choose. Something from her Paris fashions? Or would she have something newly-tailored for herself?
"This green is quite pretty, Flora," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "Would it not better suit your hair?"
"I think I shall wear the white," her niece replied. It was a brave decision, given the expense; but she was determined that this gown should be the very word in elegance. A picture of perfection when she entered the ballroom.
When she pictured the moment, however, she was careful to omit Roger. Such thoughts were too dangerous for cool reason to prevail.
"Then you must have it fitted up properly," Mrs. Fitzwilliam argued. "We shall call on my gown maker, I think; he is far better than the tailor your poor mother employed for her gowns. I shall pay for the tailoring myself as a present to you," she declared. "And they are discriminating in their choice of customers, so it shall be finished in only a week."
"Oh, but you mustn't; I have the money, Aunt," Flora protested. But her aunt would hear none of it she turned away to prevent Marianne from wrapping herself in a flowing piece of baize fabric.
"Marianne! Are you a Bedouin in need of a veil? If not, then come away from that fabric this instant!" she commanded.
"But it would make such a lovely costume," Marianne said. "Could I not buy a little piece with my pocket money?"
"Young ladies have no need of fine fabrics until they are of age," her aunt answered. "A young lady of your age prefers sweets instead of silks." She took Marianne's arm as they departed the shop.
