Chapter 9 #3
Flora brightened. She’d known Miles was the correct person to confide in.
He had, she suspected, a poet’s soul. “Exactly right. Once I became more comfortable with my dual nature, I was soothed. I cannot tell you how stark the difference has been. It is like breathing for the first time, having never gulped a mouthful of sweet air.”
“You have rescued yourself from a terrible suffocation,” Miles observed. “And become quite the successful poetess, to boot. Even a country squire like me has heard of Flora Witcombe, and I almost never venture outside of the papers’ sporting news in terms of reading material.”
Flora felt her face warm. She never knew how to respond to such praise. “Whatever small achievements I have made have been born of pure luck, I assure you.”
“Miss Witcombe,” said Miles, leaning across the arm of the divan to hold her slim hand in his.
His eyes were kind as he looked upon her.
“Given the extraordinary circumstances of your birth, bursting forth fully formed like Athena, I wager the odds were against you. Take your laurels when they’re offered, would you? Lord knows a man would.”
A gentle smile crossed Flora’s lips. She squeezed her friend’s palm in hers.
“Thank you, Mr. McDonald. Never mind what those boors say; you’re a true gentleman.
” Then, remembering the source of her earlier despair, she sighed and dropped his hand.
“Now that you understand my situation, you see my dilemma. I am stupidly, wretchedly enchanted with Miss Montrose. While she seems to hold Flora Witcombe in some sort of esteem, she did not seem at all charmed by William Forsyth, who is the only one of us allowed to actually woo her. What am I to do?”
The stresses of the day, combined with the whisky and the late hour, took their toll. Flora put her head in her hands and cried, allowing her tears to wash down her cheeks and patter in her skirted lap.
“Oh, dear lord. Oh, she’s crying. Oh, erm, come now.” Miles moved to stand beside her chair, his hand landing atop her shoulder to rub lightly. “There, there,” he said. “There, there.”
“Is that all you can say?” Flora said between sobs. “ ‘There, there’?”
“Believe me, I am grasping for something better. Give me a moment.” His hand rubbed harder.
“Well, look, she’s only just met William today, yes?
So she didn’t cleave to him as quickly as she did Flora!
That’s not so strange; you are, in a sense, different people.
Perhaps she needs time to get to know him. See all his fine qualities.”
Flora picked up her head to stare at him, a tear dripping from her chin. “Do you really think so?”
“I do. Knowing you for even this short time, I can definitively say your other half is a good man, just as you’re a fine lady. Anyone with sense in her head will agree, eventually.”
“I suppose,” Flora said, dashing away her tears.
“And what’s more,” Miles said, “I pledge to you any assistance I might offer. Simply say the word and I will sing your praises, or deliver your letters, or contrive a meeting, or—” He stopped, his eyes taking on that glassy, faraway look of a man who’s just had a reckless thought enter his mind.
“What is it?” said Flora, feeling reckless herself.
“I don’t know why this didn’t occur to me earlier. It’s so obvious.” Miles grinned down at her. “I shall invite William, along with étienne and Verbena, to Plas Tan manor.”
“Plas Tan…?” Flora realized her mouth was hanging open. She shut it with a click, her thoughts racing.
“Lovely spot on the Welsh coast,” Miles said.
“I know it. I could hardly be ignorant of the most famous artists’ residence in the kingdom.”
The members of her club often spoke of Plas Tan, where a pair of older women, having scandalously escaped their betrotheds in Scotland, lived and wrote and painted and collected art in perfect solitude.
Having no husbands and no income from their families, the ladies hit upon an excellent scheme: they opened their home to fellow writers and artists in exchange for some small recompense.
The visitors could stay a week or a month, ostensibly to work on their art, though the papers reported that the social aspect of the place was far more enticing.
It was a sought-after invitation, as only the most accomplished artists were chosen to occupy the dozen or so guest rooms. Lord Byron himself had boasted about his last visit to the ladies of Plas Tan to anyone at the Calliope who would listen.
“But how in the world would you ever manage a visit to Plas Tan?” she asked Miles. She did not mean to be insulting, but her new friend had shown no great artistic inclination nor connections to the sort of people who could rate such an invitation.
Miles made a frivolous gesture with one hand. “One of the ladies is my maiden aunt.”
“This is a jest, surely.”
“I swear to you, it’s not. Aunt Bette and her lifelong companion, Anne, have often said their home is always open to me and my friends.
I could write to them tomorrow and arrange the whole thing.
” He clapped a hand to Flora’s arm. “Think of it: it’s a very pretty spot, far from this filthy, rigid city.
There are woods for long, contemplative walks, and the sea for bathing, and all sorts of leisure in between.
William and Verbena could become very close, indeed, in such ideal environs. ”
Flora narrowed her eyes at him. “As might you and étienne.”
Miles merely shrugged. “I don’t deny how appealing that would be, should it happen.” His eyes sparkled with boyish devilry.
Flora chewed her lip. “I am certain they plan to marry in name only, but does that mean we should endeavor to ruin their imminent engagement? Even a couple that isn’t suited has a right to be wrong, don’t they?”
“Miss Witcombe, I think if all it takes to halt a courtship is putting yourself in the line of sight, then that’s fair play.” Miles nodded to himself. “If we two should offer them a more palatable option, then that is their choice. We’d actually be doing them a favor, if you think about it.”
“I fear we are being very selfish,” Flora said. A sullen malaise threatened to overtake her. Who was she—who was William—to interfere with a woman’s prospects?
“Surely when you published your first folio, you had your detractors,” Miles said. “Did they not call you selfish and a fool for sharing your talent with the world? Did you listen to them then?” He scoffed. “God forbid a woman—or a sometimes woman—do anything that might bring her happiness!”
His words hit Flora like an arrow to the heart. Perhaps she was only hearing what she wished, but there was some sense in it. Verbena might be her life’s great love. If there was a chance to win her, Flora had to try. She would forever wonder what might have been if she didn’t.
“All right,” she heard herself say, flush with drink and determination. “To Wales, then.” She would need to pack a trunk. Only William’s best clothes, of course. “Verbena will be so thrilled. She was just telling me how dearly she wanted more time to work on her poetry.”