Chapter 10 #2
Verbena resigned herself to her mother’s company as she undressed, starting with the many buttons on her calfskin boots.
She was used to her parents reading the letters that came addressed to her; there was no expectation of privacy for her in the household and never had been.
She hoped the letter was from Flora yet also wished it wasn’t—not that Flora had ever written anything scandalous in their correspondence, but Verbena liked to pretend the words were for her only. Something intimate and sacred.
Mrs. Montrose scanned the letter with a bemused scoff. “Who on earth is Miles McDonald?” she asked. “Is he a better prospect than the Frenchman?”
Verbena calmly removed her delicate necklace and placed it on the vanity. “He has no money,” she said.
“Pity.” Her mother finally held the letter out for her. “He’s invited you to some artistic—something. Why does he seem to think you write poetry? You’ve never written a line, have you?”
“He must be mistaken.” Verbena took the letter and scanned it.
My dear Miss Montrose—
I wish to extend an invitation to you to my maiden aunt’s home in Wales, where she is known to entertain the artistically inclined.
A party composed of myself and some close friends will be accommodated at their house in Plas Tan.
I have no doubt you will find the setting an excellent place to write your poetry.
We will likely stay for a fortnight, if that is convenient for you.
Please say you’ll come; the retreat will be poorer without your company.
Of course I have also invited Monsieur Charbonneau.
As he is French, I suspect he has at least one artistic bone in his body.
At any rate, I eagerly await your reply.
Yours, etc.—Mr. Miles McDonald
So Mr. McDonald had also learned about Verbena’s supposed poetic soul somehow. This ruse of hers was becoming ungainly.
“Well?” her mother prompted, pulling her from her thoughts. “How shall you reply?”
Verbena stared down at the note. “I should love to attend,” she said.
“Monsieur Charbonneau will be there, apparently.” Perhaps there they could more firmly cement their romantic lie; étienne’s flamboyant nature would surely raise no eyebrows if the gathering was composed of more eccentric souls than he.
“And how shall you travel?” Her mother snatched the note from her hands. “An unmarried woman, alone! With two men!”
“Naturally I will have a chaperone,” Verbena said.
“Oh?” Mrs. Montrose asked. “Who?”
Verbena opened her mouth, then closed it.
Her mother knew very well that Betsy, when she had been employed as Verbena’s maid, was her usual companion for such situations.
The thought of asking her waspish mother to accompany her on the journey turned her stomach.
Not that her mother would ever deign to leave London; she detested the countryside.
“Perhaps you could spare Helen,” Verbena said, naming her mother’s own maid, a white-haired crone who had been with them for ages. She was harmless enough. And she dozed soundly during carriage rides.
Mrs. Montrose regarded Verbena with outright contempt. “Ridiculous. I have a life of my own, you know. I can’t possibly do without Helen for an entire fortnight.”
“It would be a great help to me,” Verbena said, pushing down the rage she felt at Mrs. Montrose for denying her this one simple thing.
“If all goes well on this excursion, perhaps Monsieur Charbonneau will propose.” Their plan called for the announcement at a much later date, but never mind that.
“Do you not think that a bird in hand is worth two in the bush? Once we are wed, my future will be secure. You and Father needn’t worry about yourselves.
Monsieur Charbonneau will provide for us. ”
Her mother’s expression soured, her lips thin and unpleasant as she considered Verbena’s words. Yet before she could answer, the sound of the front door knocker came once again. This time, it was a genteel tapping of metal against wood, almost musical.
“Oh, what now?” Mrs. Montrose charged from the room, only to be met in the hall by the butler.
“Miss Flora Witcombe to see Miss Montrose, Mrs. Montrose,” he informed her.
Verbena’s middle went tight and warm. “Tell her I’ll be down momentarily, Stevens,” she called. And she shut her bedroom door in her mother’s face before she could protest.
It took much longer to change into a fresh gown—a pale mint with seed pearls along the neckline—without Betsy’s help, but Verbena managed.
She was eager not only to see her good friend but, as her thoughts marched into neat rows while she was occupied with rearranging her hair, to find a solution to her problems.
By the time she was dressed and rushing down the stairs, her cheeks were flushed with the excitement of yet another excellent plan forming in her mind.
Flora had been shown to the sitting room to wait. She was perched on the peach-colored divan, staring at the peachy wallpaper. At Verbena’s entrance, she stood, a smile on her lips.
“I hope I’m not keeping you from some appointment—” Flora began.
Verbena shushed her, catching her in an embrace. Flora’s dress was soft against her cheek where she laid it upon her shoulder. “You could not have come at a better time,” she murmured.
“Oh, good.” Flora gave her one excellent squeeze about her middle before pulling back to hold Verbena at arm’s length. “How was the archery party?”
“Forget the archery party. Strike it from your mind,” Verbena said. “Do you have any plans for the next fortnight?”
“Erm—I don’t think so,” Flora said, puzzled. “Why?”
Verbena cupped her palms under Flora’s elbows. “I’d like you to come to Wales with me.”
It was as if she’d requested Flora accompany her to the stars, so great was the effect on her dear friend. Flora’s eyes went wide and her face paled. “Wales?” she said faintly.
“Yes, you’ve heard of it, surely? It’s over on the right, if you’re facing the Channel.
An acquaintance of mine, Mr. McDonald, is taking a party to visit his maiden aunt.
There is to be an artistic retreat, lasting a fortnight or so.
Won’t that be lovely? étienne will be there, too.
You could take the time to work on your poetry—we both could.
” The lie was quite easy by now. “Besides, getting away from London at the hottest part of summer is always an excellent proposition.” She searched Flora’s visage for the excitement she was hoping the invitation would bring, yet she only saw despair.
“Flora? Whatever is the matter? Doesn’t this appeal? ”
“I—well, I would love to go with you, of course—” She appeared truly distraught, her brow furrowed deep as carriage ruts.
Verbena caught up Flora’s hands in hers.
“Then say you will. Please. I’m…a bit desperate, actually.
” She soothed her thumbs into the tense skin of Flora’s hands, massaging away the aches that she knew must come with hours spent writing.
“I need to be away from here.” She lifted her gaze to the ceiling.
In the ensuing quiet, the sound of her father stomping his way across the floor above was readily apparent, though blessedly his curses were muffled.
“Has there been some trouble?” Flora asked in a horrified whisper.
Verbena sighed. “Only the usual sort.” She leaned in closer, dropping her voice to nearly nothing. “My parents think me foolish for entertaining étienne’s suit. They want me to marry someone from a known family instead.”
Flora’s whole face pinched. “I—that’s, that’s terrible.”
“Even more terrible, my parents have dismissed my maid. I am quite alone.” Verbena worried at her lower lip with her teeth. “Sometimes I think they must want me to fail, if only to have yet another reason to castigate me.”
Flora shook her head. “You must go to Wales, then. Anything to get you out of this house, even if it is only for a fortnight.”
“Yet without a chaperone, I won’t be permitted to go.” Verbena held Flora’s hands tightly. “Please, can’t you help me? I need you.”
Flora blinked rapidly. “Of course I would help you in any way I can.”
“So you’ll come?” Verbena felt her cheeks heat. “You and I and Miles and étienne—all of us will go together?”
There was a flicker of determination in Flora’s eyes. “Of course, if it will help you improve your circumstances. A marriage to an upstanding gentleman would be the solution to all your woes. That is perfectly clear.” She stood straighter. “When do we leave?”
A happy yelp bubbled up from Verbena’s throat.
She threw her arms around Flora, squeezing her tight.
“I will write to Mr. McDonald at once. We will have such fun together, I know it! Ah, I’ll need to pack my own trunk, won’t I?
” She would include William Forsyth’s novel in her luggage, she decided; she’d started reading it as she’d threatened at the archery party.
It was too intriguing to leave behind for a fortnight.
“Oh, yes, packing,” Flora murmured. Her eyes were fastened on the carpet, where the toes of their slippers nearly touched. “I have…so much to pack.”
“You should get started right away,” Verbena urged. “I will send word as soon as I know the shape of our plans. We can take étienne’s new carriage. It’s quite comfortable.” Verbena escorted Flora to the door, still holding her hands.
Flora released their joined hold to let herself out the door, not bothering to wait for Stevens. Before she left, she gave Verbena a long, lingering look.
“I hope you know what you’re doing,” she said. “I hope we all do.”
“How odd you are!” Verbena placed a friendly kiss on Flora’s cheek. She smelled of sweetness. “Take care getting home.”
“Take care,” Flora returned, and left.
Verbena stood on the doorstep and waved farewell, calling out last-minute advice to pack for seaside weather. She watched as Flora’s beautiful bonnet disappeared into the thick London crowds, a perfect gemstone lost among pebbles.
Verbena stood there a moment with her arms wrapped about her middle, lost in thought.
Some women, upon entering a marriage, neglected their old friends, too busy managing a household and—Verbena shivered a little—preparing for children.
But Verbena did not plan to be such a woman, not at all.
She hoped her friendship with Flora would be allowed to flourish, and that Flora did not feel abandoned by the changes in Verbena’s life.
What Flora really needed, Verbena thought, was a husband of her own.
Not a real one, mind—a false one, like étienne.
Someone who could provide for her all the comforts and security of a marriage without the usual obligations.
Then the two of them could do exactly as they pleased.
Their friendship could continue as it was, which was an exceedingly normal thing to desire.
(Verbena had never had a true bosom friend before, so she assumed this was the case with all women who had them.)
Yes, she realized with a jolt. Why couldn’t she procure a suitable husband for Flora? She’d already done it for herself; how difficult could it be? Perhaps étienne could recommend one.
Or perhaps this trip to Wales might unearth the man they needed.
Verbena smiled to herself, watching the tide of London rush by her front door. It was all falling into place.