Chapter 5 #3
But that was not the detail that arrested her companion’s imagination. “You keep rooms?” Miss Montrose asked. The suspicious tone in her voice faded away. “Of your own?”
“Well—yes,” Flora said. “They’re nothing grand, but…
” She trailed off, knowing that any further discussion of her domicile in Covent Garden might invite further questions.
It was already exceedingly strange for an unattached woman to secure lodgings without the aid of a male relative.
She could not explain how she’d managed it without touching on intimate details—and Flora could not share those with anyone, no matter how beautiful they were.
“I’m very impressed. I cannot even imagine having such a luxury,” said Miss Montrose, her soft voice suffused with wistfulness. She seemed genuinely in awe of Flora for her accomplishment of renting two rooms with their winter drafts and summer vermin.
Flora forced herself to exhale. As a child, she had once seen a traveling acrobat performing on a tightrope high above the heads of an awestruck crowd.
She was poised on such a rope now, knowing that any misstep might send her tumbling to her doom.
The only reason she could fathom for the abrupt shift in Miss Montrose’s attitude was a desire for something that could not be won with anger.
She’d already secured Flora’s promise to print a more sensational poem; perhaps she now wanted guidance in her own poetry.
It was not too unusual for other poetesses to seek Flora out for such purposes.
“My rooms are small and dreary, to be honest, which is why I joined this club.” She kept her words steady and measured, like that funambulist’s footsteps.
“It provides a much more comfortable place to work and socialize. Perhaps you could bring your poetry here sometime? I would like to read it, if you would permit me.” She watched Miss Montrose closely, and therefore detected in the downturn of her mouth some distress.
Flora immediately reversed course, flailing on her high line. “But if you’d rather not—”
Miss Montrose spoke at the same time. “I’m afraid my poetry is still in its early stages,” she said.
“It would be such an embarrassment to show it to anyone. I must hone my craft further before inflicting it on some poor soul.” She looked away from Flora, as if the corner of the room was the most interesting spot she’d ever encountered.
Flora attempted to overcome the awkwardness with a smile. “I understand, Miss Montrose. Forgive me. One’s work is such a private thing in its early stages.”
“Please,” Miss Montrose said, “call me Verbena. Everyone does. At least, those with whom I am on intimate terms.” Her eyes flashed as they met Flora’s.
Flora found herself filled with such an incandescent joy that she could rival the fire in the Green Room’s grate. “Verbena.” She cradled the word in her mouth like a precious morsel. “In that case, I insist you call me by my given name as well.”
“It would be my pleasure, Flora,” said Verbena, and the confluence of their two names, twined together in the warm air of the cozy room, made Flora’s head spin.
“My name sounds so much like music when you say it,” she murmured. She did not intend to speak the thought aloud, but she did all the same.
There was, for a moment, naught but silence.
Verbena stood abruptly. “I—I should be going.”
Flora stood as well, flustered and unable to conceal it. The pamphlet she still held in her hand fluttered as she worried it. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like to stay for a glass of sherry?”
“I must return home.” Verbena clutched her reticule. “Perhaps we can continue our conversation some other time, though. Might you like to visit me in Mayfair?” Her gaze took on an earnest cast.
Flora could scarcely believe it. How great a change a mere half hour could witness! From near murder to issuing invitations—Verbena certainly was a marvel. “I would like that very much,” she said.
Verbena smiled and removed a card from her reticule. “My address. Visiting hours are open to you, should you want to make use of them.”
Flora stared at the dainty typeface on the card, the silvered ink shining in the candlelight. “I will,” she promised.
“Well.” Verbena nodded primly. “I will say good-bye, then.” With a smile, she swept out of the Green Room.
Flora waited until the door shut behind her, then turned and pitched the creased pamphlet into the grate, where it bloomed into a curl of ash. What had possessed her to write such a poem, anyway? Whatever crass amusement it had inspired in her before now made her feel sour with shame.
Though she could not hate herself too much; if she hadn’t written the damn thing, she might have never met Miss Montrose—Verbena—at all.
Flora wrung her sore hands—the writer’s affliction—as she thought.
Verbena Montrose was an unforeseen complication in an already complicated life.
But who could have envisioned that Flora’s idle curiosity about the lives of the monied and infamous would produce such results?
She had only collected what clues were available and pieced them together to form a picture, same as she always had as she searched for inspiration for her poetry.
Flora wondered at the strangeness of the world. That she should be placed in the same orbit as that angry, lovely woman! And that she should find in her such a kindred spirit…
The odds seemed impossible, and yet, here they were.
Tomorrow she would pay a social call to the Montrose house, she decided. If for no other reason than to be once more in Verbena’s fascinating company.