3. Florence
3
FLORENCE
BALMORAL CASTLE, 1875
APOPHYLLITE: Introspection, truth, recognition, universal love, attunes mind to spirit
D espite the temptation to return to the pages of Miss Bront?’s gothic narrative, Florence suffered the hours in pins and powders and having her corset tightened to breath-constricting proportions in preparation for the evening. The uncommon urge to present at her best was as perplexing as Villette’s plight navigating her independence on foreign soil. Anticipation of what-might-yet-unfold sparked inside Florence like an adventurer scaling a precipice.
The Ghillies Ball for the staff and villagers was an annual tradition at Balmoral , and while more sombre in the years since Prince Albert’s death, it remained one of the season’s most sought-after invitations. Florence’s preference ran to the outdoors rather than pompous formal events; however, Queen Victoria’s demands were sacrosanct. The news that Bertie had returned for the weekend had brightened Florence’s spirits. The pair shared a mutual appreciation for frank discussions about science and nature. She had not seen him for some time.
Louisa’s reaction was as predictable as her steadfast loyalty. ‘ I have no interest in partaking of supper with the villagers or cavorting in the ballroom like a heathen. I shall take my leave of you, dearest, if you don’t mind—’ The lines of her lips ceased to be visible.
Florence knew when not to push. While eminently comfortable chatting to the master of the hounds or assisting the housekeeper to arrange flowers for the hall, making small talk on equal footing with the groundsmen and servants did not come easily to her cousin.
‘ Though it would be intriguing to view the interaction between the Prince of Wales and his mother,’ Louisa continued, ‘given his interest in a certain actress?—’
‘ Who knows the truth of it?’ Florence tut-tutted and turned her back. Rumours of his trysts with Lillie Langtry , the toast of London , had reached Balmoral too. What a trial dear Bertie endured.
‘ Come . Let me fix your hair.’
Florence accepted the truce.
Louisa’s pinched face replaced the maid’s in the mirror as she shooed her away from the dressing table with a hand. The maid bobbed a curtsey and retreated, no doubt relieved to be dismissed with several ladies’ toilettes to attend to.
‘ There …the harebell brings out the colour of your eyes. Almost the exact shade.’ Louisa positioned a spray of lilac-blue in Florence’s tawny hair and secured it with the diamond-encrusted comb that had belonged to Florence’s mother.
‘ From a posy I picked earlier. You may look at my sketchbook if you like.’
Louisa crossed the room and flipped the pages. ‘ What have you written here?’ She screwed up her nose. ‘ Harebell summons fairies and enchantment…the moon and immortality . Good gracious, Florence ! I thought you far more sensible?—’
‘ Please don’t fuss, Louisa . I’m feeling quite light-spirited today with the scent of spring in the air?—’
‘ Then it may prove prudent to steer clear of those who suffer hay fever.’ Louisa sniffed with a pointed look. ‘ Nevertheless , you look quite well. As best one can, at our age.’
Florence’s retort was tempered by the calming scent of the sweet blooms. She needed no reminder that at the mature age of twenty-seven there was little expectation of her availing a suitor, particularly as she was without a sizeable dowry. Like Louisa , she was resigned to spinsterhood, for though her modest inheritance afforded her merely a modicum of independence, concessions while in the royal household meant her life was comfortable. She was indeed grateful for Her Majesty’s benevolence.
As Florence’s companion, Louisa would do well to remember it too.
Florence entered the ballroom, and the skirl of the bagpipes sent a thrill through her. Given Balmoral’s usual sobriety, it was a delight to see such a spectacle of dazzling colour. Bright tartan sashes were splashed across Sunday -best gowns while men sported kilts with sporrans of fur and hide, decorated with tassels. The smiling villagers were eager to give in to the merriment and presented a tableau streaming with life. Laughter and chatter tittered in the air. Only the dour-faced queen appeared unmoved. Seated and wearing the jet-black of her extended mourning, she was flanked by two ladies-in-waiting, patiently awaiting reprieve.
After an hour of dancing with the grooms and several men in their dotages, Florence was satisfied she had done her duty and paid her respects, and retreated to the edge of the ballroom, close to where the banqueting table was set for refreshments.
‘ Florence , my dear.’ Bertie appeared at her elbow.
She sank into a deep curtsey. ‘ Your Highness . It is good to see you again, sir.’
Her interest strayed to the man at Bertie’s side.
The prince said, ‘ Allow me to introduce my dear friend, the heir of the Conte di Prato , Orlando Vincenzi .’
The men were of a similar age, but the friend in question was dashingly handsome with a thin moustache and glittering eyes. He smiled warmly and returned her gaze.
‘ Vincenzi — this is one of my favourite sparring partners,’ the prince chuckled, ‘ Miss Florence Trevelyan .’
The air squeezed from her lungs. The Italian was drinking her in like a desert flower starved of morning dew; his admiration swept her from head to toe. A hot blush flooded her cheeks.
‘ Florence , dear?’ Bertie interrupted. ‘ Are you quite well?’
Unsteady in her beaded evening slippers, she scrambled to recall the correct term of address for a foreign dignitary. ‘ Forgive me…s-sir,’ she stuttered, ‘how do you do?’
‘ I am delighted to make your acquaintance, Miss Trevelyan .’ Vincenzi pressed his lips to Florence’s gloved hand and held it a moment too long, long enough to extract a smirk from the prince.
‘ Orlando is a fellow Cantabrigian and here as part of an attaché from his province.’ He leant in and lowered his voice. ‘ I’ve enticed him to stay on, to help curb my dressing-down…’
The fact that the nobleman unnerved her was made more surprising by the heart-pounding realisation there was admiration in his stare. Never before had she felt such interest—or her own eagerness to increase his good opinion. The very thought was incongruous.
‘ Vincenzi — I must say, Florence can hold her own in a debate.’ Bertie nodded at Orlando . ‘ I greatly admire her candour. Rather unusual for a woman…’
Florence gave him the look she often did—one more eye roll than acquiescence. The kind of look ladies of his acquaintance were unlikely to offer the heir to the throne. Her ease with him came from the many summers spent in his company since childhood.
‘ Now , time for a tipple before I face dear Mama . Duty calls, my dear. I shall leave Vincenzi in your capable hands; promise me you won’t harangue him with too many of your highhanded opinions this evening, will you?’
Florence was at a loss for words. But Orlando , recognising her discomfort, immediately filled the void. ‘ I hear you are a great admirer of botany and the natural landscape, Miss Trevelyan . It is beautiful here in Scotland , with the mountains and the moors…good hunting too.’
His voice was melodic, with the merest hint of his homeland hidden in the rounded vowels of Cantabrigian enunciation.
‘ I confess, I am not one for the pursuit of defenceless animals. I prefer them to enjoy the freedom of their creation.’
‘ Ahhh .’ He stepped back and tilted his head. ‘ I see you have the heart of a true naturalist. An admirable trait. A lover of beauty and the arts too, I believe. Bertie mentioned your family association with the more radical class of artists. Perhaps you are something of a budding revolutionary, Miss Trevelyan ?’
Florence held back a laugh. ‘ If you speak of the Pre - Raphaelites , then yes indeed, I am a devotee. My late aunt was a great patron of the Brotherhood and introduced me to their work.’
Florence spoke of growing up a mere eight miles from where her father was born at Wallington Hall , now the seat of her uncle, Sir Walter Calverley Trevelyan . Her aunt, Lady Pauline , opened the home to painters and artists during her lifetime, and surrounded herself with progressive people and those who inspired her.
‘ I regret that few women have the same freedom of expression as my aunt. She was indeed a woman ahead of her time and encouraged me to form my own opinions of the world. I dearly miss her?—’
Orlando cupped a hand under his chin. Florence noticed his unusual eyes, virescent hazel, flecked with amber. The spark of heat in her chest was most unsettling.
‘ And my uncle supported my love of art, science and literature too. I am ever grateful for the access I was granted to Wallington’s extensive library collection.’
‘ Tell me more about your Pre - Raphaelites ,’ he urged. ‘ I have seen none of their work exhibited in our galleries.’
‘ At Wallington Hall there are murals that line the central hall and were commissioned to reflect Northumbrian history and its prominence in industry and commerce. As a child, I watched the series progress.’ Florence flicked open her fan and took a breath. ‘ My aunt was an accomplished artist herself. More than once, I arrived to find her busily painting the pilasters to assist.’
‘ Those Pre - Raphaelite radicals dared to snub the Royal Academy ,’ Bertie interrupted with a chuckle as he re-joined them. ‘ And don’t start me on the Impressionists !’
‘ The Brotherhood challenged the academy in order to portray the common man realistically?—’
It was exhilarating to speak of one of her passions with an intelligent conversationalist.
Orlando’s smile was enchanting. ‘ The artists, they were inspired by classical legends, si ? Please continue, Miss Trevelyan .’
Florence glanced at Bertie for approval before she resumed. But the prince’s interest had roamed. The pretty young villagers were dancing a reel, and the ladies’ swift footwork revealed several slender stockinged ankles.
‘ Indeed . They portray common people, truth embodied in symbolism and myth—’ Florence’s face flushed, ‘although the founder Rossetti was inspired by Malory’s Morte d’Arthur and was fascinated by the love triangle between King Arthur , Guinevere and Sir Lancelot —’ She hesitated, reminded to moderate her opinions and contain her exuberance. ‘ However , I most admire the Pre - Raphaelites for their insistence in not adhering to formulaic conventions. And for standing firm in their ideals to expose the truth.’
‘ Your artists have much in common with our General Garibaldi , the hero of Risorgimento and La Spedizione dei mille. Not only did he unify our country by defeating the troops of the Kingdom of Two Sicilies , the general is currently engaged in a rebellious battle with parliament to save our people from the spread of malaria.’ His eyes caught the light as he spoke and appeared to have a life of their own.
‘ Indeed . How so?’ Florence knew a little about Garibaldi’s military career but was curious to learn more about the man. Or was it the man before her who sparked her interest?
‘ He seeks to divert the Tiber from Rome in order to restore public health. There is much to do—better working conditions, for example—’ Orlando waved his hands for emphasis. ‘ Likewise , education. I believe the right to read and write belongs to everyone—including our women and girls.’
The numbers in the ballroom swelled, and the guests’ high spirits created a delightful ambience. But Florence remained on the perimeter, captivated by the conversation—and the company.
Coming from a family of noted historians and academics, she was grateful her education had not been neglected. However , it frustrated her that, given the British Empire was ruled by a woman, choices for those of the feminine persuasion remained as limited as were those of the lower classes. Sometimes , more so.
The musicians took a short break and Florence caught the queen’s cool stare across the ballroom, her summons indicated by the wave of a lace fan. ‘ If you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I am required by Her Majesty . Good evening.’
Dare she note regret in his expression?
Before Florence retired for the evening, it was her role to take the queen’s border collies out for a run. After losing her beloved husband, Queen Victoria’s preference ran to canines as companions ahead of all others. Florence loved Noble and Sharp dearly, as dearly as the queen herself. Having lived a relatively isolated childhood, she well understood the love of a faithful dog was a blessing when you were lonely.
Shrugging a cloak over her gown, Florence called the dogs to her. She ran her hands over the collies’ black and tan coats and ruffled them under their chins before leading them outside. And as the events of the evening replayed in her head, she looked to the stars with a smile that shone just as bright.
R ising early the next morning, and armed with her sketchbook, Florence walked the moors with Noble and Sharp at her heels while the queen rested. Louisa would join the ladies gossiping in the sitting room over their teacups. Florence resisted the baseless conversations about new gowns and flirtations. She was more likely to be found striding the highlands in sturdy boots with a bonnet fastened beneath her chin to protect her from the elements rather than to enhance the colour of her eyes. But she greatly looked forward to encountering Signor Vincenzi again.
As though summoned, the man in her thoughts appeared, stepping out from a row of pine trees. Orlando Vincenzi welcomed her with a pearly-white smile. A shock of heat jolted through her body.
‘ Good morning, Miss Trevelyan . And who do we have here?’ He leant down to pat Noble , the younger of the two dogs, who eagerly licked the proffered hand and held up a dusty paw.
‘ You have made quite a friend here.’ Florence lowered her gaze, hoping he didn’t mistake her reply as double entendre.
‘ I hope that is so…’
She stilled for a moment, tongue-tied, and then motioned to the collies to walk on.
‘ Do you mind if I join you? I’d like to hear more about your homeland. Tell me, is the Northumbrian landscape as beautiful as this?’
The golden flecks in his irises were most unusual. Whatever was wrong with her?
The moors around Balmoral were beyond compare at this time of year, awash with untouched beauty. Nearby , late summer heather waved from bell-like, rose-lilac spikes and a herbaceous aroma lingered in the breeze. The windswept landscape was conversely wild and tranquil.
‘ The demesne woodlands near Hallington Hall , my home, are quite different…’
Florence described the evergreen canopy of autumnal larch and blue-green pines and the rich and diverse birdlife. She spoke of birdwatching by Whittle Dene watercourse—home to several varieties of wildfowl even during the colder months, and of an aqueduct built in Roman times where the water still flowed efficiently.
They reached the castle’s kitchen garden. Florence stopped. ‘ When I was a child, the queen understood how I missed the extensive gardens of both my home and Wallington Hall . She instructed the gardener to find a plot for me to tend here, within this walled garden, to make me feel at home.’
‘ You have attended the queen for some years, si ?’ he asked. ‘ Since …your parents?’
‘ Yes . They passed some years ago.’
She neglected to add that her father, the sixth son of a baronet, had taken his own life. Or that shamed by the tragic act, her young mother had never recovered. Despairing for her future, she assigned Florence’s care to a succession of nannies and relatives until the queen took her under her imperial wing.
‘ I’m grateful for Queen Victoria’s benevolence. She has been good to me. Now if you’ll excuse me, I must return to her now. Good day, sir.’
Over the course of the weekend, Florence was at pains to avoid the softness of a gaze that trailed her whenever she entered a room. She focused instead on the lines of prose in her novel, and strained to concentrate, while patting the dogs curled languidly at her feet.
Though she tried valiantly to resist, Orlando chipped away at her reserve until conversation flowed as fluidly as the river Dee . Florence capitulated—no longer able to deny her attraction or the delight when she heard the men had extended their stay.
One afternoon, the trio took shade in the gardens and discussed the marvellous botanical species recently discovered in the tropics. Later , Bertie pondered the writings of the naturalist, Mr Darwin , who professed it possible for certain species to retain inherited instincts. Florence was fascinated by the notion that characteristics could be passed from one to another through a process of gradual evolution. She questioned whether such transferrable tendencies supported Plato’s belief that the immortal soul lived on after death: was it possible to be reborn?
Sharing such radical views was frowned upon. When the ladies pursed their lips, or Louisa paled and looked fit to faint, Orlando intervened and charmed those around him, offering a subtlety of discourse that emulated Florence’s opinions. He listened attentively, complimenting her on her choice of subject with such polite interest that it incited further discussion.
And so it was he slipped into her heart with the ease and charm of a litter of downy pups—until in a matter of weeks Orlando Vincenzi was entirely under her skin.
Florence could no longer deny the attraction. From the moment she awoke to when she closed her eyes at night, a shiver of excitement quivered through her body. Never before had she received the interest of an admirer so intent on wooing her. For the first time in her life, Florence had fallen in love.
One evening, she watched the clock with impatience until it chimed the hour. ‘ I’m taking the dogs for a run, Louisa . Will you walk with me? The fresh air will do you good.’
She crossed her fingers and hoped her cousin would refuse. It was churlish of course, but the supposedly unplanned nightly strolls with Orlando had become a habit she would prefer not to share.
‘ I must finish this letter to Mama . She asked after your health, and hinted she expected me at Henbury in time for Cousin Bee’s wedding. Naturally , I told her I will return as soon as you can spare me.’
‘ As you wish.’ Florence breathed a sigh of relief. She enjoyed Louisa’s company and was used to her changing moods. But clandestine arrangements were best executed without a chaperone.
‘ I do hope the prince is leaving for Sandringham soon, dearest. He and the continental fellow have remained here for some time…’ Louisa held her pen aloft and waited.
Florence noted her tone and disapproval with a shrug. While Orlando’s business with the queen was resolved, he had not mentioned his departure. The Royal Warrant he sought had been granted—the right to advertise the company’s superiority of position as premier supplier of silk brocade and damask to Queen Victoria —and would elevate his company’s reputation in trade circles. Bertie’s movements were, as always, his alone.
‘ Do be careful, cousin,’ Louisa warned. ‘ Especially after the prince’s recent indiscretion. It would be a grave mistake to hitch your wagon to his.’
Florence pressed her lips tight. She had no intention of correcting the assumption. It was well known the Prince of Wales enjoyed the company of a beautiful woman to warm his bed when it pleased him. He had a particular penchant for those of the theatrical persuasion, visions of loveliness who charmed and revelled in the excesses of life and were well versed in duplicitous flattery. His pretty young wife, Alix , the Princess Alexandra , had learnt to ignore his indiscretions while tending to her growing brood. Though Florence counted the Prince of Wales as a friend, as a woman, she couldn’t abide the double standards. Imagine the scandal if the princess took a lover!
No . Florence certainly wasn’t Bertie’s type. He found her wit and intelligence far more refreshing than her appearance. She may have lacked the grace and beauty of the typical English rose, but her diminutive stature belied a strength of character that more closely resembled her ancestors’—capable women who vigorously marched windswept cliffs and managed tenants and estates as efficiently as the men.
A half-hour later, all was forgotten when a warm hand clasped hers in the shadows of the porte cochère and drew her against the stark granite walls. Orlando’s male scent sharpened in the cool evening, and Florence met the passion of his kiss with an unquavering desire that defied any thought of resistance. Encircled in his arms, she willingly pressed her body to his, savouring the velvet-soft lips that caressed her skin and nibbled her earlobes; the feather soft whiskers nuzzled into the hollow of her neck while a deft touch released her fastenings. The heat of Orlando’s kisses trailed to the silky white flesh of her breasts, sparking a fire that spiralled through her body and into the depths of her most feminine parts.
Noble and Sharp scampered back to the kennels alone.
A full moon rose like a halo above a blanket of midnight blue sky, and the courtyard paths and castle walls shone with a heavenly glow. Florence’s life was forever changed. For all his worldliness, it was she Orlando sought in private.
The couple stole along dimly lit hallways at night, treading on floorboards that had silently witnessed centuries of castle secrets and squeaked from years of use by those searching for love in the darkness. Florence came to him shamelessly, loving with abandon.
Some might call it unbecoming for a lady of her station, but while Orlando filled her days with intelligent tête-à-tête, her nights were satiated by a passion she had never believed possible. The pair played a game far riskier than cards.
Late that summer, Florence blossomed. Every cell in her body came alive. She dared not believe her good fortune. For the first time in her life, she was truly loved, mind, body and soul.