Chapter 11
“I still do not understand,” said étienne. “Can you explain it again?”
Verbena huffed, swaying side to side as their carriage trundled over the London cobblestones.
They were traveling that morning to Flora’s home in Covent Garden and then, she presumed, to wherever Mr. McDonald was lodging so that they might all begin their journey to Wales.
Verbena had lied to her mother before leaving, saying that étienne’s waiting carriage was empty.
It afforded her some time to speak with her future husband in private, time that was not unlimited.
It frustrated her to waste it by repeating herself.
“It’s perfectly simple,” she said. “I must find a husband for Flora so that she might enjoy the same sort of arrangement you and I will have. A man like yourself would be ideal, don’t you agree?”
étienne sat primly on the carriage seat opposite her, his legs crossed at the knee.
He wore an impeccable forest green greatcoat and a slight frown.
“But what need does Miss Witcombe have for a husband? She is already a successful poetess, as you tell it. Didn’t you say she keeps rooms of her own?
A woman like that would not need a man.”
“Not for money, no,” Verbena said, “but as a shield against rumors of impropriety. After all, I anticipate she and I will be spending most of our time together after I am married. At least, that is my hope.” Verbena stared dreamily out the open carriage window as she considered all its benefits.
Long, leisurely mornings spent in each other’s company, followed by long, leisurely afternoons.
Flora could write her poems while Verbena tended to her correspondence; they could exchange the latest gossip, go on long walks together.
Married life would be more than tolerable with her beloved friend Flora by her side.
étienne made a considering noise. “My dear, there is no need to prevaricate around me. I do not mind if you plan to take her as your lover.”
“What!” She whipped her head about to face him once more. “Why would you say that?”
“Oh, my mistake. You have already?”
“No!” Verbena slammed the carriage window shut once more lest any passersby overhear.
He frowned. “Well, why not?”
“Why—? For one thing, étienne, we have agreed not to conduct any affairs before we are safely married,” she said in a low whisper, tick-tocking a finger between them. “And for another, there isn’t—That is, I’m not—”
“Like me?” étienne gazed at her tenderly.
All the air seemed to dissipate. The carriage rocked them in the ensuing silence.
“Please understand,” Verbena said once her breath had returned, “I do not think it such a terrible thing to be. But, as you likely are not aware, women are different. It is not unusual in the least for a lady to develop certain strong feelings for another lady. We are creatures of the heart, you see, and men are not an appropriate object for the more delicate emotions. It doesn’t signify anything out of the ordinary! ”
“I agree that it is somewhat common, what you describe,” said étienne, “but, my dear—you are aware that there are many women in the world who do love men? Who want to be in their arms and in their beds? You have heard more gossip than I; you must know that such things happen.”
“I suppose, but—”
“And you must know,” he continued, “that there are ladies who develop, as you say, strong feelings for other ladies. And these feelings can lead, again, into their arms and their beds?”
“Yes, I know, but I’m not—”
“And do you not think”—étienne’s voice rose over hers—“that you could be one of these ladies? You are already so exceptional, my dear. Why can you not admit what to me is so obvious?”
“And what is that?” Verbena said waspishly.
“That you want Miss Witcombe as a man might want a woman. That you want her the way I have wanted men.” étienne sat back in his seat, his hands held out palm up. “None of this is shameful. You said so yourself.”
“It’s not.” That much, Verbena could say, and quickly.
The rest? “For other people. As for myself, I…” She sealed her lips and looked out the window.
Carts full of fruits and vegetables passed them by; soon they would be at Flora’s address.
“I suppose I have never had cause to consider it with any real seriousness,” she said.
“What would be the point when I am meant to make a tactically beneficial match? When the option is so outlandishly unavailable, why would one waste time thinking on it?”
“Ah.” étienne held up one finger. “But now the option is yours, should you desire it. When I am your husband, I will not stop you from pursuing any lover. Do you want Miss Witcombe in that role? Or do you plan to dance around it until Judgment Day?”
Verbena considered the London streets as they passed them by, the crowds that filled the air with their voices, their bodies.
A teeming cauldron of hardship and song and smells.
She had never considered there to be room in such a world for the thing étienne described.
Oh, Verbena was no innocent; she had heard every sort of rumor under the sun.
Yet while there were words aplenty for men like étienne—none of them flattering—she knew none for women who conducted affairs with other women.
They had to exist, but Verbena could not name a single one.
Even the famous ladies of Plas Tan, who were to be their hostesses—though they lived together without husbands, Verbena understood their devotion to be entirely chaste.
They were the most famous virgins in the isles, reportedly without an ounce of passion in their souls.
She supposed that was the sort of arrangement she had expected in her own future with Flora, though she had not grasped why until étienne questioned it.
What did Verbena want, in the end? To be with Flora, of course.
But how? Was the intimacy of close friendship not enough to sustain her?
Wasn’t Verbena’s desire to bury her face in those soft chestnut curls a mere girlish whim?
Had there not been consequences, dire ones, for pressing one’s lips to those of a woman many years ago… ?
And could she not mitigate those dangers, now that she had secured her good fortune?
“You truly would not care?” she asked étienne in a quiet whisper. “You would not think me foolish or—indecent?”
étienne grinned. “Having been foolish and indecent for my entire life, I could not possibly care,” he said. Then, more soberly, “I am sorry, truly, if I spoke out of turn. If I am wrong about the shape of your friendship with Miss Witcombe—”
“I do not think you are,” Verbena said. She surprised herself with her own honesty.
To want Flora as a man might want a woman…
if she had to name these feelings roiling in her breast, she supposed that might be near enough.
Her face and fingertips tingled as she allowed her thoughts to dwell on that name.
“In fact, I think you might be entirely correct.”
“Bien! And so?” étienne leaned forward, a hand on her knee. “Do you believe Miss Witcombe feels similarly?”
“Quite possibly.” Although she had no real experience in such matters, she had to believe the connection between them was a mutual affection. There would be time to persuade Flora into her bed; first, she needed to find her friend a false husband. Protection before pleasure.
Yes, best to sequester these new, tumultuous desires as best she could for the moment. There would be time to explore them later, if Verbena succeeded in her aims.
The carriage arrived in Maiden Lane well within the appointed time.
Flora was already standing on the stoop, her violet pelisse whipping about her legs in the breeze.
At her feet were three large trunks, one stacked atop another.
The bottommost one was of a gargantuan size, nearly an armoire in its own right.
“Bonjour, monsieur!” Flora called to étienne. “I am sorry about all this.” She indicated the trunks with a bob of her bonneted head. “Believe me, I wish I could contain my raiment to a single trunk, but…”
Verbena opened the carriage door and hung halfway over the pavement.
“How on earth did you get those downstairs alone?” she asked in lieu of a greeting.
It was all she could do not to explode into sparks at the sight of Flora.
She was lovely as always, but now that the veil was somewhat lifted from Verbena’s eyes, she could allow herself to appreciate her friend as more than a friend.
“I was not alone, thankfully,” Flora said. “And only two belong to me.”
Before Verbena could ask what she meant, the door at the top of the stoop was flung open and Miles McDonald appeared lugging a lap desk. His cravat was coming loose from its knot and there was sweat upon his brow.
When he looked up and saw the carriage, he beamed. “I think that’s the last of it,” he said, his brogue more pronounced than usual as he panted for air. “Shall we?”
That was unexpected. As the driver and étienne alighted to secure the luggage to the roof of the carriage, Verbena ventured forth. She met Flora on the pavement and kissed her cheek in greeting, one eye still warily on Mr. McDonald.
“I know I’m bringing much too much for a couple of weeks in the country,” Flora began apologetically, “but luckily Mr. McDonald was kind enough to carry it down for me.”
“Then you two know each other?” Verbena asked without a care for decorum.
“How do you two know each other?” She whirled toward the carriage to await Mr. McDonald’s response.
Her instincts told her that he was not as quick-witted as Flora and would give Verbena an idea of what was really going on here.
Flora was an unmarried woman living alone, after all, and for Mr. McDonald to call upon her like this was highly suspect.
“Oh! Erm.” Mr. McDonald paused in fastening the leather straps that held the luggage, looking to Flora with wide eyes.
Flora merely smiled and patted Mr. McDonald on his shoulder. “Miles and I are good friends,” she said. “We share a mutual acquaintance, you see.”
Mutual acquaintance? Verbena could scratch out the eyes of this mutual acquaintance, if indeed one existed at all.
As if men and women could ever be friends!
Verbena was, of course, forgetting her own friendship with étienne at that moment, and Lord Eden before him, not to mention Mr. Chesterfield and a host of other perfectly acceptable gentlemen—but when one is in the throes of rage, little things like facts do not signify.
“Well,” she managed to say through gritted teeth, raking her eyes over Miles. Christian names all around, she felt. What’s good for the goose, et cetera. “Isn’t that wonderful.”
étienne spoke a few words to their driver, then leapt down to the ground, dusting off his hands. “Is everyone ready to depart?”
Miles, Verbena noticed, was quick to offer Flora a hand in ascending into the carriage.
An innocent gesture, and fairly unremarkable, but Verbena knew that innocent gestures could belie prurient aims. The grateful smile Flora aimed in his direction was too familiar.
Verbena stood seething on the pavement as she watched the two of them share a laugh over something Miles said.
They had private jokes? Unacceptable.
“My dear?”
Verbena nearly jumped out of her skin at étienne’s whisper. A glance at Miles and Flora proved they were still laughing and arranging themselves, not paying any attention to the world outside the carriage.
“Yes?” Verbena whispered back. She feigned securing the button at the wrist of her glove.
étienne lifted his brows. “If Flora needs a husband, perhaps—”
“No,” she said.
“No?”
“Absolutely not.”
“He might be amenable.”
“Yet I am not.” Verbena leaned in closer to speak into étienne’s ear. “I need you to be a distraction to Miles whilst we are in Wales. Corner him in conversation. Invite him on excursions. Whatever it takes to keep him apart from Flora.”
étienne looked wildly pleased at this request. “As my dearest wishes,” he said, bowing to her.
Soon they were all seated, with the driver and his horses taking them out of London.
Verbena sat next to étienne, sullenly watching Miles and Flora’s lively conversation—apparently Miles wanted to show off the new coat étienne had made for the occasion.
Flora cooed as she felt the soft fabric of his sleeve, complimenting étienne on his skill.
Verbena’s eyes narrowed at the picture the two made.
They were sitting, in her opinion, much too close—never mind that the confines of the coach’s interior did not allow for anything else.
Miles McDonald, Verbena surmised, was not a good candidate for Flora’s future husband.
While he possessed certain qualities that Verbena sought in a match for her friend—respectable, but not overly powerful; easygoing enough to be persuaded into a sham marriage; the ability to be molded for Verbena’s purposes—Miles would not do.
He was too attached to Flora already, and a marriage could not be false in the face of such affection.
Verbena’s resolve strengthened. There was much to do in Plas Tan: establish her courtship with étienne for whatever audience awaited them; keep Miles at bay from the woman she wanted; gently coax Flora into wanting her in return; and, most importantly, find another gentleman who would suit her beloved—and her own needs.