Chapter 12 #2
Anne narrowed her eyes at her. “Am I telling it or aren’t I?
” She returned her attention to her audience.
Verbena was rapt, and so was Flora, her arm stiff in Verbena’s grip.
“Where was I? Right. As you may have noticed, I am the child of an Indian mother and a Scots father. I was sent to be raised by his family in Scotland, and the question of my future hung over my head like that sword. You know the one. And Bette here, she was up to her ears in suitors!”
“She’s being modest,” Bette said, also spinning around to walk in perfect tandem beside Anne. “She had dozens more than I did. There are at least three different sonnets devoted to her eyes alone.”
“Written by whom, I wonder?” Anne said with a coy glance at her companion.
“So you were both to be married?” Flora interrupted. “To the winning suitors, I mean.”
“Yes, it was all arranged. Mine was a doughy little man named Lord Gant. Bette’s was a viscount, I think?”
“Baron,” Bette said dryly.
“At any rate, we couldn’t countenance it.
We ran,” Anne said. “Snuck from our houses in the dead of night, aided by Penny. We dressed as boys and made our way to England. By the time our families found us in a boardinghouse in Cornwall, awaiting passage to the Continent, the story of our escape had become quite the talk of London.”
“Sonnets were written about that, too,” Bette put in.
Anne grinned widely. “It’s astonishing what can be done when the regent himself and half of Parliament think you a sort of folk hero.
A few generous donations and a high-placed barrister speaking to our parents on our behalf, and here we are, caretakers of what was once a derelict ruin, now a center of the arts. ”
The sea came into view now as the ladies found themselves at the edge of the grounds, where the earth gave way to the sandy beach below in a steep incline. The gray-blue waves stretched as far as the eye could see. They all paused there to take it in, along with the conclusion of the ladies’ story.
“What a marvelous tale!” Flora’s incandescent joy was a wonder to behold. Verbena watched her closely as her pinked cheeks turned ever more rosy. “And if you pardon my curiosity—your manner of dress. Was that adopted before coming here or…?”
It was unlike her to trail off like that. Verbena wondered why the women’s clothing had caused such a wild blush in her.
Bette glanced down at her own shirted torso, laughing. “I don’t recall when exactly we took on this affectation. Was it a decade or so ago, Anne?”
“Something like that, I think.”
“It’s exceedingly comfortable,” Bette said. “Much more conducive to the management of an artists’ residence than gowns.”
“I do wish I could dress that way,” Flora said with a mournful note in her voice. Verbena knew jealousy when she heard it.
“What’s stopping you?” Anne asked.
Bette gave her arm a gentle smack. “You know what,” she said. “It’s the same thing that’s keeping every woman from wearing trousers if they like, or refusing to take a husband. You forget, sometimes, the expectations that exist outside our corner of the world.”
“Oh, yes.” Anne’s nose crinkled with faint distaste. “Expectations.” Said with all the vitriol of a curse.
Verbena felt a frisson of displeasure, aware of how she must look standing beside these two eccentric women.
How perfect her posture was, how fashionable and flattering her mode of dress.
How she planned to marry and live, if not the expected, normal life, a perfectly acceptable facsimile.
Close enough that her acquaintances would never know the difference.
“Sometimes one must do what one is expected to do,” she said. “No shame in that, is there?”
Anne and Bette shared a look. If their hostesses were to argue, they were stopped by the sudden appearance of Miles and étienne, who rounded the greenhouse to join their group.
“Everything’s stowed,” Miles announced. “Thank you again, Aunt, for having us.”
“Anything for my favorite nephew. Well, my only nephew.” She patted him on his pale cheek. “When should we expect your other friend? What was his name…Forsyth?”
Verbena gave a jolt. “William Forsyth is coming here?” She barely registered étienne’s presence, his hand resting at the small of her back in a subtly possessive gesture.
“Oh yes,” Miles said vaguely. “Did I not mention? He wasn’t able to travel with us from London, some pressing piece of business, but he should arrive later today.”
This was certainly news to Verbena. She would have thought William Forsyth’s attendance warranted a passing mention on the long drive from London. Would he avoid her, she wondered, after the cutting remark she’d made last they met?
Verbena regarded Flora, who seemed intently interested in a nearby shrub. “Are you acquainted with the gentleman?” she asked.
“Hm?” Flora lifted her head, her face a drawn blank. “Oh, yes, Forsyth,” she said, nodding. “I know him in passing. He frequents my club. Why?”
“No reason,” Verbena said quickly. Their visit to Plas Tan was to be a carefully orchestrated one—certainly there was too much work to be done to be distracted by anything, even the mysterious, handsome writer of gothic novels.
Oh, what did Verbena care for his handsomeness when she had just made peace with her desires for Flora?
Surely she was the worst kind of wretch; she’d fallen once, and so perhaps would now fall for every breathing person who came into view!
“Is that Miss Witcombe I see?” came a booming voice. “And the rest of the party from London?”
Or perhaps not.
Verbena turned to find Lord Byron approaching with a slight limp, hair windblown in that fashionable way of the Romantics.
He wore a Turkish robe tied loosely about his waist, which gaped at the chest in the most daring way.
Verbena averted her eyes; someone had to maintain a sense of propriety, and it certainly was not going to be His Lordship.
“Ah, George, come and meet our new guests,” said Bette. Her arm extended toward the eminent poet, ready to make introductions.
“George was one of our very first patrons here at Plas Tan,” said Anne. “Our little enterprise would not be the success it is today if not for him.”
By this time, Byron had moved into their circle.
“The ladies and I are already acquainted, my dear Anne. We poets all know one another.” He extended a hand to shake that of Miles, then étienne, as Bette introduced them.
Verbena noted how Byron eyed both men with the sort of look that might begin a journey of lifelong depravity.
Then he turned to Flora and scooped up her hands, pressing a kiss to her knuckles.
“Miss Witcombe! How fortuitous. It is because of you that I find myself here in Plas Tan.”
“You have read my latest?” said Flora, not appearing at all apologetic about the thing.
“Every word,” said Byron. “I had hoped for your pen to stay still until I’d returned to Europe, but I suppose it all worked out in the end. I so enjoy visiting this place; escaping the scrutiny of the London crowds merely provided a fine excuse.”
Flora smiled. “I am glad you’re not too enraged with me.”
“Not at all. Ah, before I forget!” Byron produced a packet from his robe’s pocket and pressed it into Anne’s hands. The thing jingled as it went. “A little something for my deserving hostesses,” he said.
“George, honestly!” Anne huffed. Verbena wondered if there was another person on earth who referred to His Lordship by his Christian name.
“There’s no need. You’ve already given us so much.
” She tried to hand the packet of coins back to him, but Byron shot his hands into the air and refused to touch it.
“As long as I have a guinea to my name, it belongs to you ladies,” he said. “I only wish I had as fine a head for finances as I do for verse. Then I could keep you in the lap of luxury, as you deserve.”
Bette put a hand on Anne’s arm with a sigh. “It does no good to argue with him, you know.” Anne demurred, but with a fond glare in Byron’s direction.
“Excellent! Now.” Byron lowered his hands in a happy clap. “Would anyone care to join me in bathing?” He fiddled with the tie of his robe.
Miles and étienne both raised their brows in perfect tandem.
Verbena saw an exit and took it, along with Flora’s arm. “We will leave you gentlemen to enjoy the sea. Perhaps we could be shown to our rooms?”
Their hostesses ushered Verbena and Flora into the manor, which proved to be eccentrically appointed as well.
The walls were lined with tapestries and artwork, and every alcove and shelf was bursting with sculpture.
Verbena and Flora were installed in their respective rooms and told not to rush in their ablutions.
“Dinner is whenever Penny decrees it to be,” Bette said over her shoulder as she followed Anne down the stairs. “No formality here!”
Verbena’s assigned bedroom was small and cheerful, with a narrow bed under a stained-glass window.
Flora’s was much the same. Their rooms were right next to each other and connected through the wall via a door, which Verbena assumed was originally meant for servants shuffling from task to task.
Flora expressed her delight with the connection by giving a happy cry and flinging the door wide open.
“How wonderful,” she said. “If any ghosts or ghouls come upon us in the night, we can simply run to each other for safety.”
Verbena laughed as she unlatched her traveling case to retrieve her many vials of tonics. “I’m not sure how much safety I could provide. Not that I believe in such fancies, but if I was ever confronted with a ghost, I would likely do nothing more than tremble to pieces.”
“Your trembling itself would be a balm to me.” Flora smiled at her, then dropped her gaze to the pretty, if threadbare, carpet.