Daisies and Devotion

by Josi S. Kilpack

  “Who have you invited to tea this week, Martha?” Lady Dominique asked, drawing the hostess’s attention.

  “The Middletons will be coming again. I find them so very intriguing.”

  And rich, Maryann noted. Old money was Mrs. Blomquist’s most respected virtue, and the Middletons were as old money as old money could be.

  “And then there is a lovely girl just down from Nottingham this last week. Nineteen years old and being sponsored by her aunt, Mrs. Wallace. She had her coming out in her own village.”

  Mrs. Blomquist frowned at that. It was her opinion that all young women should have their coming out balls in London. She did not understand that not everyone could afford the expense of renting a hall and hosting two hundred people. To say nothing of how nice it was to come out among people you had known all your life. Maryann had never regretted having come out in Somerset, though it had been years ago. She wisely kept her thoughts to herself in this respect.

  “No mother to attend her?” Lady Dominique asked.

  “There is a mother, but five or seven or twelve other children as well. Mrs. Shaw will join the party a fortnight from now but cannot stay away from home for long due to her responsibilities there.”

  Lady Dominique took in all the information, catching the details in the steel trap of her mind. The woman was as brilliant as any man. Alas, her skills were relegated to parlors and assembly halls while men far less capable than her strutted about in Parliament.

  Mrs. Blomquist continued. “Her father is only a physician, but he is also the grandson of the former Earl of Wooston, so his connections are good. Apparently, all the children are lovely and well-mannered; the boys are sent to Harrow and then Cambridge, though only one son is of age at the moment. The girls are educated in Brighton at a highly reputable school there.”

  “Why is she coming to London so late in her season, then?” Lady Dominique asked.

  “She is the eldest, and her parents maintain that a girl ought to be closer to twenty before she finds a husband. Something of her father believing that too young a wife leads to too young a mother which brings with it . . . ahem . . . complications.” She shook her head. “I don’t feel the same, of course. I think youth is preferable for marriage and children. A woman adapts better to her role when she is young.”

  “Still, she will come to London very late in the season,” Lady Dominique commented. Maryann did not nod, but she agreed. It was the end of May and Parliament would only sit another six weeks, unless they filed for an extension as they often did. Several engagements had already taken place between couples who had made their match in town and attendance to the ton events was getting thinner by the week.

  Mrs. Blomquist nodded. “Apparently, the aunt suggested she come for the last portion so that Miss Shaw might have a better feel for London when she attends the whole of the season next year. Not necessarily a poor choice, but I must tell you that I have seen this girl, and I would not be the least bit surprised if she didn’t make a match before this season ends. She is as lovely as a lily.”

  Maryann lowered her gaze to the tablecloth to hide the scowl she was unable to prevent. It was no wonder that men only cared about a woman’s looks because it seemed that was all women cared about as well. Not all men were like that, however. Colonel Berkins, for instance, seemed to be looking for more than just a pretty face.

  Maryann took a breath and then raised her head, composed once more. “What of her temperament and character?” she asked, which was not really her place. She was here to keep the tea from feeling like an interview, not take the lead of the conversation.

  “I’m sure her temperament and character are as lovely as she is,” Mrs. Blomquist said, smiling indulgently at Maryann. She turned back to Lady Dominique. “And she is very musical; she plays both the pianoforte and flute. And she paints. Let me show you what she sent with her acceptance of our invitation.” She lifted the bell she kept to the right of her place at the table and gave it a jingle. A footman appeared before the bell had been returned to the tabletop. “Please fetch me the miniature on my dressing table, beside my hairbrush.”

  The man nodded and disappeared.

  Mrs. Blomquist turned to look at Maryann. “I understand you have been helping introduce some of these new girls at different events.” She took a sip of her tea.

  “It is the least I can do after everyone has been so welcoming to me.” She’d intended to only make introductions to Timothy, but once she knew his level of interest—or disinterest—in a girl, she had begun introducing them to some of the other men of town. Time would tell if any of her introductions played out, but she hoped some of them would. The desperation to make a good match was increasing as the season marched forward, and she wished everyone relief.

  “Isn’t that lovely,” Mrs. Blomquist said, cocking her head to the side and smiling as though the compliment had been chiefly pointed in her direction. “So very kind of you.”

  The footman returned and handed a small card to the hostess. She sighed, placing a hand to her chest as she looked it over. “In all my years, no one has ever responded with such a gift as this. I find it very thoughtful indeed.” Mrs. Blomquist passed the card to Lady Dominique, who put on her spectacles.

  “Oh, this is very well done,” Lady Dominique said. “Such detail on a tiny canvas.”

  “I know.” Mrs. Blomquist nodded, her jowls jiggling slightly. Maryann feared her own plump cheeks would one day sag like Mrs. Blomquist’s. What a horror that would be. “It is real talent that can produce such a work as that and then send it along as a gift to the hostess as though the artist can produce a dozen more when needed.”

  Lady Dominique passed the card to Maryann, who took it with every intention of having an opinion different than the matrons. Was it not rather cheeky to send a piece of your own creation as a gift? Instead, however, Maryann was shocked by the detail of the tiny seascape. She held it closer to her eyes and then further away. The trees stood out above white cliffs and the blue-green waves of the southern sea. The setting was similar to Maryann’s beloved Somerset, despite the artist being from Nottingham. She felt she could see which direction the wind was blowing. And all on a two-inch square of paper.

  “Is this watercolor?” The image was so crisp, not like other watercolors that had looser lines.

  “I believe it is,” Mrs. Blomquist said. “A very good one.”

  “Indeed,” Maryann said, staring at the card a few more seconds before passing it back to Mrs. Blomquist. This girl from Nottingham was musical, from a large family, nineteen years old, and a talented watercolorist. And what was it Mrs. Blomquist had said—that she was as lovely as a lily? Lilies were light-colored, fair. Was this girl a blonde?

  Maryann was about to ask for these details when she heard footfalls in the hall leading to the garden room where they were seated. Three of the walls were glass overlooking Mrs. Blomquist’s lovely gardens.

  The butler filled the doorway and announced, “Mrs. Wallace and her niece, Miss Rachel Shaw.”

  He stepped aside to reveal Mrs. Wallace, a woman in her middling years, her brown hair streaked with silver. Beside her stood a young woman, nearly Maryann’s height but with porcelain skin, golden-blonde hair that hung in curls over her slender shoulders, and eyes the color of the jade pendant she wore at her graceful throat. Her long-tapered fingers held a folder that likely contained some pianoforte music; Mrs. Blomquist was always keen to have the new girls perform so that she could be the first to praise their skill around the city.

  There were still some details Maryann needed to confirm, such as foreign language proficiency, a hearty appetite—Miss Shaw certainly wasn’t plump—and whether or not this young woman liked babies. But assuming those pieces were in place, Maryann feared that she was looking at Timothy Mayfield’s perfect woman.

  Gracious.

  Maryann hadn’t seen Colonel Berk
ins arrive at the Carstons’ dinner party Saturday—and then suddenly he was standing beside her. She started, then laughed at her own reaction, but forgot to cover her mouth. Several heads turned her direction, and she felt her cheeks flush. Colonel Berkins, however, did not seem bothered by her “donkey bray.”

  He leaned into her and placed his hand at the small of her back. “Ignore them,” he whispered before he straightened and spoke in normal tones to the women Maryann had been conversing with. “Good evening, ladies, I hope I did not interrupt.”

  “Of course not,” Miss Callifour said with a smile, then lifted one eyebrow in Maryann’s direction when Colonel Berkins wasn’t looking. Miss Callifour was the only friend to whom Maryann had confided her feelings. Over the last few days, Maryann and the colonel had gone out walking twice, attended a play, and corresponded with letters nearly every day.

  Maryann returned her friend’s smile and was glad her cheeks were already hot so no one would notice how they burned now. Colonel Berkins had not removed his hand from her back, but she was standing near enough to the corner that no one could know but her. She was fairly on fire with the invigoration of his touch, but it had only been a week ago that she had assured her family, and Timothy, that she would not allow public liberties. If anyone noticed this display . . .

  She saw Miss Shaw enter the drawing room, her green eyes wide as she looked over the crowd of strangers.

  “Excuse me,” Maryann said to the group, giving Colonel Berkins a smile all his own as she slipped away from the circle. She crossed to Miss Shaw and put out her hands in greeting. Miss Shaw visibly relaxed at seeing a familiar face, and upon reaching her, Maryann took both of her hands, leaning in for a faux kiss on the cheek—a greeting Lady Dominique would have approved of. “I am so glad you came,” Maryann said as she pulled back. She looked past Miss Shaw to welcome her aunt, Mrs. Wallace.

  “You are very kind to have gained us an invitation,” Mrs. Wallace said.

  “That honor belongs to Lady Dominique,” Maryann said. She turned and put herself between the two women, looping her arms through theirs. “It is far better to meet the members of the ton in pieces. A small party like this is the perfect venue to start.”

  Small was a bit of an understatement, there were already at least fifty guests and the hostess, Mrs. Carston, expected another dozen more before dinner. One of those dozen would be Timothy, running late as usual. Each time Maryann thought of the impending introduction between him and Miss Shaw, she winced inside. But it had to be done. It should be done.

  I will be happy for them both. And maybe they would not suit.

  What if they did not?

  What if they did?

  She glanced toward where she’d abandoned Colonel Berkins. She hadn’t explained why she’d left him so suddenly and gave him an apologetic smile. He raised his glass to her, which she took as forgiveness. Easy as that. Thank goodness. She was feeling enough anxiety as it was and would hate to be out of sorts with the man she was coming to like very much.

  She began introductions with the hostess, Mrs. Carston, and her daughter, Mrs. Hiller. After a few minutes, she excused them and steered Miss Shaw and her aunt to the next group, which included Mr. and Mrs. Snow, important people to know and good friends of Lucas and Deborah. The Snows had brought Maryann tonight as Deborah was indisposed again. The two Mrs. Websters—sisters-in-laws, both without husbands in attendance tonight—were also in that group and hailed from Nottingham, which was a nice comfort for Miss Shaw.

  Maryann was half way around the room with her charges when she caught sight of Timothy talking to Colonel Berkins. Timothy’s golden hair gleamed beneath the light of the gas chandelier, not that she cared, and he’d worn his evening blacks with the red waistcoat—two solids, as she’d advised. Part of her was glad that she’d been right about how nice the combination would look, the other part hated that he looked more handsome than ever. Dinner would be served soon, which meant she needed to hurry this introduction so that Timothy and Miss Shaw would have the chance to converse following the meal.

  I am doing the right thing for everyone, she reminded herself, hating that she even had to debate this within her head. It should be easy now that she had Colonel Berkins’s attention. She tried to remember the sensation of his hand at her back to spur her confidence.

  She waited for the aunt to become engaged with Mrs. Blomquist, who had crossed to them, then politely extracted Miss Shaw. “There is one other introduction I would like to make before dinner is called,” she said, leaning toward her new friend.

  They reached Timothy, but his back was to them as he spoke with Colonel Berkins.

  Colonel Berkins cued him, and Timothy turned, with bright eyes and a smile that moved through Maryann like a breeze on a summer’s day.

  “Good evening, Mr. Mayfield,” Maryann said. “I would like to introduce you to my new friend, Miss Rachel Shaw. She is recently to London from Nottingham and shares your love of art.”

  She looked at Miss Shaw as she explained the last and saw how the girl’s smile turned from polite to quite natural. Maryann then looked at Timothy, who was staring as though every other guest had faded from his view. She swallowed a lump of regret.

  “Miss Shaw,” Timothy said, bowing over her hand. “What a pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

  He straightened but did not release her hand as he continued to gaze at her. Maryann remembered how Timothy had told her that he felt sure he would recognize the woman who was perfect for him.

  “I am sure the pleasure is all mine, sir.”

  He laughed, and Maryann’s stomach tightened.

  “You enjoy art?” Timothy said. “May I show you a particularly lovely piece in the hallway?” He nodded toward the double doors left open to increase the size of the room. “I would love your thoughts before we are called into dinner.”

  Miss Shaw agreed and slipped her delicate hand around Timothy’s elbow. Her manners were excellent, and her carriage straight and proper. They looked like a work of art themselves as they walked toward the hallway.

  Maryann felt Colonel Berkins come up beside her.

  “What on earth just happened?” he asked in a low voice.

  Maryann took a breath to ensure her tone would be level when she spoke, but even so, her words were barely a whisper. “Destiny, I think.”

  Maryann was seated between two older men at dinner and kept them entertained as was her responsibility. Colonel Berkins was seated across the table and to her right, close enough that she had been able to exchange a few smiles with him throughout the meal. Timothy had somehow managed to sit next to Miss Shaw. But then, if she was his foreordained destiny, why was Maryann surprised? The couple was not in Maryann’s view, but she was so attuned to Timothy’s voice and his laugh that she could tell he was quite engaged. Miss Shaw’s tinkling laugh seemed to bubble up from her bow-shaped lips and float in the air above the two of them. Miss Shaw was everything Maryann was not. She was Timothy’s list personified.

  I am happy for them, she told herself and asked for a refill of her wine.

  Miss Shaw had performed at the tea, so Maryann was prepared for the level of her skill in the drawing room after dinner. Miss Shaw performed Mozart on the pianoforte, then sang an Italian piece a cappella. The applause that followed was not a polite smattering that manners required, but a true show of gratitude from those lucky enough to have been in attendance for such a display of talent. Timothy stood to applaud her singing, and Maryann looked away, only to catch Colonel Berkins watching her with a concerned expression.

  She shook her head, but then he nodded toward the open doors that led to the garden. Another couple had left before Miss Shaw’s performance and no one had raised an eyebrow, so it must not be out of the ordinary for the evening. The room was stifling, and she told herself she would go only to get some air, not so that she would have distance from whate
ver was developing between Timothy and Miss Shaw.

  Timothy was calling for an encore as she slipped past Colonel Berkins, who then followed at her heels. Once in the garden, she wished she could leave her heavy mood as easily as she had left the room. She had given up on securing Timothy’s affection long ago, and Timothy had introduced her to Colonel Berkins, who was wonderful. So why was she not happy?

  Maryann took Colonel Berkins’s arm, and they began a slow walk through Lady Merrimew’s rose garden. She could hear at least one other hushed and giggly conversation somewhere to her right, which made her feel better about being here. It could not be so scandalous if she and the colonel were not the only ones who had extended the party into the gardens. There were even torches lit every so often beside the path.

  “Are you all right, Miss Morrington?” Colonel Berkins asked once they had moved a fair distance from the drawing room and away from the giggling voices.

  “I am. Forgive me for giving you cause to worry. I think the season is simply wearing me down.”

  “If I might be so bold, I think it is not the season that affects you this evening.”

  She looked at him, and he cocked his head to the side. “Mayfield told me he is a friend of your family, but I feel that perhaps there is a bit more between the two of you than that.”

  She felt her face flush in embarrassment. She could say any manner of things to explain away the reaction, but she didn’t. Because if this man was her destiny the same way Miss Shaw was likely Timothy’s, what was the purpose of secrets between them?

  “There was a time I felt affection for him, but that is not the case any longer.” So much for being honest. Apparently, she’d chosen to share only what she wished she felt.

  “But he is still the cause of your current mood.”

  She was tired of keeping so much to herself, and so she took a breath and told him about the list. “I suppose it vexes me that he is right, that the perfect woman for him was out there all the time.”