Chapter 6
The following afternoon was bright and clear, the rain having abated for once.
Verbena picked at her embroidery hoop in the front sitting room of the house on Barrett Street where she had lived with her mother and father all her life.
The bay window afforded an excellent view of the street, and it was through this that Verbena spied Flora Witcombe turning off the pavement to glide up the house’s front steps.
At the soft tap of the door knocker, Verbena bent back over her embroidery and smiled.
She had been hoping Flora would visit soon.
Verbena stabbed her embroidery needle through her work—a complicated piece depicting a sprawling tangle of flowers and birds that Verbena had been stitching away at for months—and tossed the hoop into a wicker basket at her feet.
She could hear Stevens, the butler, opening the door to Flora’s soft greeting.
Verbena stood, taking stock of the sitting room.
The space where the now-sold pianoforte once sat was still empty and made the whole room look terribly lopsided; she should have asked the staff to rearrange the furniture to better hide the loss.
Everything else, though, was cheery and clean, a light repast of cake arranged on the serving cart along with tea.
Verbena had no idea why she was so nervous; she’d had many lady friends call in her time.
Perhaps it was the novelty of a new acquaintance, and one with whom she fervently wished to make a good impression, that set her nerves jangling.
For she did want to impress Flora Witcombe.
The woman had proven to be not only reasonable in the face of Verbena’s demands, but intelligent as well.
When one was surrounded by dull people as Verbena was, meeting someone with a swift mind was a balm.
And while she didn’t want anyone to know the truth of her relationship with étienne, Verbena was glad the person who’d deduced it was Flora and not a more sinister individual.
Stevens announced the visitor, then Flora swept into the room. Her brown eyes lit up when she saw Verbena, her entire visage softening wonderfully. Stevens, as was his purview, melted away.
Verbena could not help herself; she rushed forward and clasped Flora’s hands in hers like they were old friends. “So good of you to come,” she said, casting an eye over Flora’s form. “And in such an exquisite gown!”
Flora blushed at the compliment, but it was no less than her raiment deserved.
High-necked and lusciously decorated with frogging and braids, the lavender visiting dress tastefully set off her slim figure.
She was a tall woman, Verbena thought, for Verbena was herself quite tall, and she needed to tilt her head back a bit to meet Flora’s shy gaze.
This was such a novelty with women that Verbena noted it giddily.
“Thank you, I confess it is a favorite of mine,” Flora said. She nodded at Verbena’s white muslin day gown with its tiered lace hem. “Though yours is far more fashionable and becomes you perfectly.”
Verbena squeezed their hands together and smiled. “Let us agree that we both make very pretty pictures. Please, sit, be comfortable!”
A maid scuttled by to pour the tea and scuttled back out again. The two ladies were left, at last, wonderfully alone. They sat side-by-side on the divan, nibbling at the repast and sipping their tea.
“What a lovely home,” said Flora. Her gaze floated over the sitting room, coming to rest, Verbena noticed, on the empty space where the piano had once stood.
Verbena braced herself for the question—Whatever is missing from here?
—but Flora merely held her tongue and stirred more milk into her cup.
“Please tell Mrs. Montrose I find her tastes very refined.”
Verbena allowed herself to breathe. Clever, but also kind. Flora was proving herself to be a rare sort, indeed.
“I will let my mother know you said so. I’m sure that will please her.
” She toyed with the handle of her teacup.
In truth, Verbena had been the one who’d picked out all the furnishings several years ago.
And anyway, Mrs. Montrose was never pleased by anything, but there was no need to burden Flora with that fact.
She was only being polite. “Miss Witcombe—Flora,” she corrected herself, “I have heard from others how you came to be a successful poetess, but as we both know, others are often incorrect.” She lifted a teasing brow.
Flora laughed brightly, hiding her mouth behind a delicate hand. “As I am justifiably counted amongst that number, yes, what you say has merit.”
Verbena smiled, happy that her jest had been taken in the intended spirit. “So tell me yourself: How did you manage such a thing? I’ve never heard of a lady making a life for herself with a pen.” She sipped at her black tea.
“I’ve been exceedingly lucky,” Flora said, selecting a seedcake. “When I published my first poems, it was as a lark. Or rather, something I felt compelled to try. I had no idea people would want to read them.” She looked down at her lap demurely, her dark lashes making fans against her cheeks.
Verbena leaned in closer. “But what did you do before you wrote poems? Where did you come from? Who is your family?”
“So many questions!” A red flush overtook Flora’s pale face. “You cannot possibly find me so interesting.”
Verbena saw no reason not to be forthright. “I do not believe there is another alive who is as interesting to me as you.”
Flora inhaled sharply and regarded Verbena with a pleased look. “Well—” she said, but was interrupted by the entrance of Verbena’s mother.
Verbena had it on good authority that Mrs. Montrose had once been a very pretty girl, with the same looks and coloring as Verbena herself.
Even now in her middle age, Mrs. Montrose was still a great beauty.
Yet the severity of her bearing and her tendency to scowl at anything that moved had turned her into something wholly unlovely.
At the moment Mrs. Montrose was squinting—in the direction of Flora, at the small selection of cakes, at Verbena’s dress, and then back again at Flora.
“You are entertaining?” she said to Verbena, sounding accusatory.
“Yes, Mother.” Verbena stood and gestured at Flora, who stood as well, still clutching her teacup. “Mother, this is Miss Flora Witcombe, a poetess of great success and notable wit. We chanced to meet yesterday and I invited her to visit.”
“A pleasure, Mrs. Montrose,” said Flora, giving a sort of abbreviated curtsy. “You have a beautifully appointed home.”
Mrs. Montrose did not budge from her place in the doorway, nor did she react to Flora’s introduction. “Verbena,” she said, crooking her finger. “A word.”
Verbena cast an apologetic look at Flora before going to meet her mother. Mrs. Montrose turned and moved several paces down the hall, out of sight of the sitting room. Having no choice, Verbena followed, coming to a stop where her mother stopped at the foot of the back stair.
“A poetess,” Mrs. Montrose intoned. She said no more, only gazed at Verbena with the most hateful fire in her eyes.
She didn’t need to speak; after a lifetime of living under her mother’s thumb, Verbena could intuit the source of her ire.
It wasn’t difficult when everything Verbena did in some way provoked it.
Being brought up in such a situation was humbling to the spirit, but Verbena had made the decision around the time of her debut that she would not—could not—allow her mother’s foul moods to affect her future.
She had worked hard to cultivate a bearing that would not wilt in the face of a sneer, that could stand up to the vicious opinions of anyone in the ton, her mother included.
There was no alternative, not if she wanted to escape.
Her father was no help at all. He was more like a ghost than a parent to her, flitting only at the edges of her vision.
When he did deign to include himself in family dealings, it was to mete out withering pronouncements that inevitably made Verbena’s life at home even more hellish.
“Miss Witcombe is well-connected,” Verbena said, aiming for an air of unconcern.
“To whom? Other poets?” Mrs. Montrose heaved a sigh and looked heavenwards. “Really, Verbena, at this critical juncture, I expected a little more seriousness from you.”
Verbena plastered her best smile onto her face. “I assure you, Mother, I am quite serious.”
“How serious can you be, whiling away your hours in the company of—of artistic women?” Mrs. Montrose said, filling the word with derision.
“Did you not pay a visit to Mrs. Chesterfield very recently as well? What you need is a husband. Nothing miraculous—at this late date, any passable man with breath in his body would do. But instead of focusing on such a simple task, you waste your time socializing with ladies and filling your empty head with romantic notions!”
Verbena winced at her mother’s increased volume. She spared a glance behind her, but the hall was empty. “Mother, please,” she whispered, “if you must excoriate me, do it quietly.”
That made Mrs. Montrose turn red. “Do not tell me how to speak to my own daughter!” Then, dropping her voice into a hiss anyway: “If you are not married soon, we will be ruined. Has that fact failed to penetrate your dull mind?”
Such unfounded jabs at Verbena’s intelligence were so common that she had ceased to argue the point. Her mother believed what she believed, and nothing would ever change that.
“I am well aware,” Verbena said. “And though it may not appear so at this minute, as I cannot be engaged in the process of husband hunting every waking moment, I promise you that I am making excellent connections and should have certain news for you shortly.”