by Laura Briggs
Perhaps she would begin sketching ideas for a novel, too. A book of travel in the English countryside, with no romance or matchmaking within its pages.
Mrs. Fitzwilliam's manservant opened the door for them as his mistress bustled in with her latest purchases. Flora offered him an apologetic smile as her aunt's hatbox inadvertently struck him in the midst of the excitement.
"There is a lady waiting for you in the parlor, Ma'am," he began. But Mrs. Fitzwilliam had other things in mind.
"I must speak to Richards in the kitchen about the mutton," she said, "and must have my silk attended to promptly this afternoon. Flora, dear, go in and greet them for me, please."
Flora dutifully moved from the entrance to the door as her aunt disappeared towards her cook's station. She entered the dimly lit room, its light concentrated in a patch of windows veiled by thin drapes.
In the glow of this square stood Mrs. Fitzwilliam's guest. The slim, elegant figure of Hetta Harwick. Flora paused in mid-step at the sight of her rival waiting there.
Miss Harwick turned from the window to face her, a slow smile appearing on her lips.
"Miss Stuart," she said. "I was hoping to see you. Your housekeeper told me you would be here when I applied at your home."
"I see," said Flora. She did not move to sit down, for no seat could make an interview with the young lady in question comfortable for herself.
Hetta spoke again. "I came to congratulate you," she said. The look in her eyes was serious, otherwise, Flora might have believed her to be in jest. Congratulate her for what? For her recent failures, for the misfortune of losing her journal page? She could not fathom the reply, unless it be a mocking one of triumph.
The young lady moved further away from the windows. "I will be away to Germany in a few days, as I have no doubt you've heard. So this will be my last opportunity of surrendering my campaign to your victory."
"I do not understand," Flora answered, hesitating slightly in her confusion. Her companion's speech made no sense to her since it was Hetta who had triumphed in the end. Perhaps she meant to gloat at the expense of her former rival; to make her squirm over her defeat.
"It is not for besting me at the ball, I assure you," said Hetta. "I am speaking of your hold over Roger Easton's heart, of course."
The world seemed to be turning upside-down to Flora, as she heard these words.
"What?" she answered. She clutched the back of the chair before her with one hand to steady herself, hearing a note of shock in her voice. There must be some mistake, surely Hetta was not serious.
Her confusion amused Hetta, her smile curving with disdain as she watched Flora’s face.
"Surely you realize that he is in love with you?" she said. "He has loved you for years, I think. And all this time, you were content to think of him as a friend." A soft laugh escaped her lips. "I suspected it from the moment I saw the ribbon fall from his pocket. He carries it with him always, apparently. Something only a sweetheart does, I assure you."
Flora shook her head slowly. "It cannot be true," she whispered. "You are mistaken."
"I had hoped I might change his mind when I showed him that little slip of paper in your hand," Hetta answered. "It was my last opportunity to persuade him, perhaps. But I could see it was no use. It was you he would have and no other."
It was all too impossible. Flora wanted to sit down, yet she had no power over her trembling knees. Like castles built from sand, her preconceptions about Roger’s heart and actions seemed to crumble.
But what of her comparative poverty? What of her writing? Was it possible he could love her with all of these obstacles before him?
Hetta hesitated before she spoke again. "I suppose in a way I am sorry I gave him your paper," she said. "I have no doubt he was already aware of the rumors regarding my character. If not, he would be soon afterwards. My chance was small at best."
In silence, Flora absorbed all of this. Hetta drew closer, leaning forward to whisper in her ear.
"Take the advice of a heart that had loved–and lost, Flora. Do not lose such an opportunity if it comes your way again."
She drew back, a bitter glance visible in her eyes for a moment despite her smile. Brushing past Flora, she swept out of the room in a trail of rustling silk.
Flora heard the door close in the entrance hall. As she stood alone in the drawing room, with only the memory of Hetta’s final warning.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
There is very little in life that depresses a young heart quite as much as lost love. Mrs. Fitzwilliam had told her niece so time and again; given her current circumstances, Flora had no choice but to believe that her aunt’s words were true.
Roger Easton had loved her. He had loved her despite their difference in fortune and status; he had loved her despite the presence of a girl equally as clever and infinitely more beautiful.
All these weeks in his presence, she had never realized it. Now he was gone and she would not even have the comfort of a message in Lucy's letters to cheer her.
Flora lay in bed, staring at the morning rain pattering against the window. It was past her hour for rising, but she felt no inclination to dress and make her way downstairs to breakfast. It would take all her faith to face today with a sense of anything but despair.
With a sigh, she sat up and gazed through the open curtains at the wet ledge just beyond the window frame. Where was Hetta Harwick today, she wondered– the lovely, clever, and bitterly broken Miss Harwick. Perhaps by now she was en route to Germany with her family, escaping the dwindling sum of their fortunes.
Was she thinking of the handsome young shepherd when she whispered her advice? No one would ever know, for she possessed a heart adept at keeping secrets.
There was a clattering noise downstairs as someone dropped a piece of crockery, interrupting Flora's gloomy reflections. She reached for her dressing robe, making her way slowly towards the stairs as she unwound her hair from its braid.
From the landing, she could hear the sound of Marianne's voice downstairs at breakfast. She was perusing the latest notes for Flora's book, sharing the details aloud with her family at breakfast.
"Do you think it's so terrible to climb trees, Papa?" she complained. "I don't see why it's so unladylike to play outside, since gentlemen do. But Flora writes there shall be a whole chapter on not playing like boys."
"For the one thousandth time, Marianne; I am pleading with you to give up this discussion," answered Sir Edward. "Please attend to your breakfast for once, instead of nonsense."
"I heartily agree with you on the trees, Marianne," said Giles. He was breakfasting with their father this morning. "But I confess, I wish Flora would give up this project and find another hobby to occupy her time."
Flora grimaced at this remark, her hand resting upon the rail. Before she could go down, the front bell sounded. She ducked out of sight as Madge hurried to answer it, not wishing to be seen in her dressing gown.
A moment later, she heard the housekeeper address Sir Edward.
"Lord Easton, sir." Roger followed her through the entryway, in a cloak and hat damp with rain.
Flora started at the sight. Roger? Here in England?
"Well, sir," said Sir Edward, his face etched with concern. "I thought you had already set off this day past for France. Is all well?"
The young man nodded, although his features looked tired and drawn. "There is nothing the matter, sir. I merely wished to take leave of your family before I go; I must leave instructions with my solicitor at his home nearby."
He took a slip of paper from his pocket. "Will you give this to Miss Stuart for me?" he asked. "It contains a few lines I thought might be of interest to her." He bowed and turned to go.
Crouched behind the rails, she listened until the door closed. Then turned and hurried down the stairs, pulling her robe around her.
“I’m here, Papa! Give it to me, please,” she said, taking the note from her father’s fingers. She dreaded what must lay insi
de, almost as much as she burned to know the answer.
"Flora, what is this about?" asked her father. “Surely this note is from Miss Easton and not her brother?” He surveyed Flora’s attitude with a stern glance, to which she paid no heed.
She unfolded the note, revealing a few lines scrawled in Roger's handwriting.
Dear Miss Stuart: I cannot take my leave without saying farewell to you. After all we have been to each other in the past, it is impossible for me to leave things as they were last time we met. Although I do not fully understand the reasons behind what you have done, it does not change the way I feel, although I wish it could.
For I have found my heart occupied by you, Flora. Have loved you and heartily regretted that you could not return those feelings. I had a glimpse of hope, I believed, in those moments we shared in Donnelly Hall. And your words at the ball gave me encouragement I had scarce dreamed of, given your seeming coolness in my presence until recently.
To know that it was only because you feared I would devote my attentions to Miss Harwick–a stranger to me until this year–was indeed painful. Perhaps you intended the act of discouraging me from her better acquaintance as a gesture of friendship. I know well that there are stories of her character, accounts of her unkindness towards Lord Nighton, that would give any friend concern.
But for me, the pain lies in your manner of doing it. The carefree emotions behind your own actions cut me deeply, how little affected you seemed by the whole project. The clever Miss Stuart, whose heart was so untouchable, conquered another's without caring.
I wish it had not been a game for you. But I will remain your friend so long as I am alive, for I cannot help my heart. I wish you well in all your endeavors. Your sincere friend, Roger Easton.
She drew breath sharply as she read his words. Clutching the piece of paper between her fingers, she clung to its words as her mind raced in a thousand directions.
"Are you all right?" asked Sir Edward. He was staring at her with evident concern. She shook her head wildly.
"No," she answered. "No, I am not–he has already gone. How can I–how can this be?" Pressing her hand to her mouth, she paced frantically in the entryway.
"Flora, what is the matter?" Her brother Giles appeared at the door, with Marianne behind him.
"What did the note say?" Sir Edward demanded. "Is there some tragedy–some impropriety in that letter? You look positively ill."
Was this her chance for happiness, delivered to her in answer to prayer? The memory of Hetta Harwick's words returned to her: "Do not lose such an opportunity if it comes your way again."
"I cannot let this be," she gasped. "I have to find him–I have to speak to him one more time." She hurried towards the stairs, brushing past her father as she ran.
"Flora, are you mad?" her father demanded. “Where on earth are you going?”
"I can't explain," she called, pushing open the door to her room. She hastened to dress slipping on the dress left draped over her chair, fumbling with the buttons to fasten it until she gave up halfway. Sliding her feet into a pair of shoes, she twisted her hair into a quick knot at the same time.
Strands of hair pulled free as she hurried downstairs to the entryway again. Which street did Roger’s solicitor live on? At this distance, would she have time to find him before his carriage departed for the port?
Her brother grabbed her arm as she reached for her cloak. "You can't go out there half-dressed," Giles argued. "This reaction is ludicrous, whatever the note said–"
“It is too late to dissuade me, Giles,” she answered, pulling away as she opened the door and escaped.
The rain poured steadily as she stepped into the street, tugging her cloak around her shoulders. Hoping that she was not too late to catch him, desperate to figure out what to say when she did. If she failed, however–but she could not bear to think about it.
"Flora, come back here!" Sir Edward demanded. But his voice was lost in the noise of the city as his daughter vanished around the corner.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
The crowd of London pedestrians pummeled Flora almost as much as the cold rain. She darted between bodies, weaving her way in an unladylike manner. Her swift pace carried her towards Roger’s last stop before leaving England and disappearing from her life once again.
Her cloak whipped around her heels, the hem of her gown soaked with muddy water from the filth and puddles. Her shoes were soaking wet, but she didn't notice as she hurried past clerks and businessmen, servants on errands and children playing in the streets.
He must not be gone yet. Surely he must not be gone yet. She prayed under her breath that she would make it to his solicitor's house before the meeting was over. Before he was on board a ship bound for his affairs abroad.
When she found him, she had no idea what to say, no idea what explanation to give him. All that mattered was that she would see him again and tell him how she truly felt.
The pins holding her hair pulled free and a train of red hair streamed down her back as she ran. Her appearance was drawing stares from some passers-by, whispers from others. She paid no heed as she crossed the street between carriages and carts rolling by.
Ahead was Roger's carriage, waiting for him outside the solicitor's home. He emerged from the office with his hat in hand, ignoring the rain as he strode towards his carriage.
"Roger!" She paused in the middle of the street. "Roger, wait!"
He turned towards the sound of her voice. A look of astonishment crossed his face at the sight of her standing there, disheveled and soaking wet.
"Miss Stuart," he said. He stared at her with shock.
She took a step towards him. "I could not let you leave," she sobbed. "Not without seeing you again..."
"You are soaked through," he said, moving towards her swiftly. Pulling his cloak from his shoulders, he wound it around her trembling figure. His glance moved over her wet hair and streaming face.
"Please," she whispered. "I could not have you go without speaking to you. To have you think that I did not love you. For it isn't true, Roger. I love you–I have been in love with you since the moment I saw you again."
She could not help the tears spilling over her cheeks. "I know that you cannot believe me," she sobbed. "But when I wrote those words, I thought I could be close to you without falling in love. But I was wrong, horribly mistaken."
"Why didn't you give me a sign?" He reached up and brushed his fingers against her cheek, wiping away her tears. "I wanted anything, Flora. Anything to be sure you cared."
She looked away, ashamed to meet his eyes. "Because I have no fortune. Because society would scorn you for choosing someone below you ..." She broke off, before speaking again. "I knew you should not lower yourself to marry someone with no advantages. I did my best to remain only your friend, but I could not help my feelings."
His hands were upon her shoulders, holding the cloak around her. In all her misery, she could not help but feel his closeness, since it might be the last time they were face to face in such a manner.
"It wasn't just Miss Harwick I was trying to save you from," she whispered. "It was myself."
He said nothing for a moment, as she waited in silence. He reached into his pocket and removed a small bundle which unraveled in his hand. A trail of faded scarlet ribbon descended from his fingers, its waves fluttering in the breeze.
"I believe," he said, softly, "that you were just as poor when I took this all those years ago." He laid the ribbon across her palm. "I've carried it in my pocket since. And not a day has gone by that I have not thought of you."
Now free of the ribbon, his fingers wound a lock of her long red hair around them, caressing its strands.
"Do you mean it?" Her voice trembled when she spoke.
"I do," he whispered. Cupping her face, he pressed his lips against hers in a tender kiss.
Forgetting the stares of bystanders and propriety, she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer. Returning his kiss w
ith equal tenderness, she let the red ribbon flutter freely in her hand like a banner of triumph.
*****
In the final weeks of London’s busy season, a wedding was held in the parish church in the village close by Donnelly Hall. Much of society was present to comment upon the couple’s happiness, alongside the local attendees who were invited to witness the ceremony.
The bride’s gown was much discussed later; as was the carriage of the groom, the general appearance of the wedding party, and the marked difference of fortune between the two young lovers.
But the subject which drew the most interest from the village was the newest resident, the master of Donnelly Hall. Although this time it welcomed a new mistress to preside over its rooms. Visitors to the estate would often find her enjoying its grounds, seated on a lawn blanket with her stitchery or journal. Which was where her younger sister found her during the most beautiful autumn afternoons.
"Miss Marianne, keep away from that lawn! You'll stain your dress with grass!" The young, harassed governess lifted her own skirts primly as she followed her charge, who raced towards the figures seated beneath the shade trees of Donnelly Hall.
"Listen to Miss Momphrey, Marianne," Flora scolded, as her sister plopped down beside her. Her fingers were occupied with an embroidery hoop for delicacy‘s sake, although the faint trace of dirt beneath her nails suggested she had not long ago visited the kitchen garden beside the house. Even a few traces were visible on the splendid wedding ring on her finger.
"Can I not at least play cricket for a half hour?" Marianne asked. "Only a half hour, and then I promise I will study my French and know it by heart."
