Chapter 12 #3
Verbena licked her dry lips. Perhaps now was the time to tell her friend about the notion she’d had, to convince Flora to marry a husband of convenience so that they could—do as they pleased. Whatever form of pleasure that might take.
Yet before she could broach the subject, Flora was at her side, peering down into Verbena’s trunk. “You have the loveliest gowns,” she said, reaching toward the ruffled hem of the topmost. “I envy your taste in dress. I can never seem to—”
“Don’t!” Before Flora’s finely tapered fingers could even brush the fabric, Verbena had arrested them. Images of ripped seams and slashed muslin whirled through her mind’s eye. She clutched Flora’s hand in hers, a vise tightening.
Flora’s eyes went wide and her whole body still.
Verbena, ashamed at her sudden outburst, softened her tone for her next words. “I wish you wouldn’t—Oh, it’s very silly but I can’t bear anyone touching my things.”
“I had no idea,” Flora said. Her voice matched Verbena’s now-quiet one. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s no fault of yours.” She was still holding on to Flora’s hand, crushing her fingers in her grip. She released her swiftly and rubbed her palm up and down the length of her thigh as if she could rub away the guilt in that appendage. “You would never do anything cruel, I know that.”
She turned and sat heavily on the edge of the narrow bed, all spirit draining from her. This was meant to be a lark of a country visit, and here Verbena was, turning her thoughts and deeds to awful memories.
Flora sat on the bed as well, not so close that any part of them touched, but close enough for Verbena to feel the warmth of her body across the few inches of distance.
“You speak as if cruelty is expected from others.” It was not a question, but rather an invitation.
Quite an elegant one, Verbena thought, that could just as easily be answered as it could be discarded.
Verbena, after a moment’s consideration, chose to answer.
“I’m afraid I have some small, lingering fear about the state of my wardrobe,” she said.
“There was an incident. Years ago.” Lord, she had been little more than a child, preparing to make her debut at sixteen.
How could something that had happened so long ago still have the power to cause her limbs to shiver?
Flora, sweet Flora, put her hand on Verbena’s arm, no doubt in a bid to calm her. Verbena wriggled closer so that their thighs and hips were perfectly aligned, and she brought Flora’s arm about her waist. The comfort of her was immense, allowing the shivers to subside and the story to be told.
“It was nothing, really,” Verbena insisted. “I had this friend—Winifred Stassel. We were playmates from childhood, as our parents deemed it convenient. As we grew older, we were quite inseparable.” She frowned down at her lap. “Inseparable” seemed a paltry word for it.
Did Flora know the heady rush of a girlhood friendship forged in secrets and shared language?
Did she also have, in her murky past, a girl who had at one time held the keys to her lockbox heart?
Verbena did not dare ask, though she was certain Flora would answer honestly; she dreaded too much an answer in the negative, which would leave her in a state of loneliness she could not bear.
Winifred Stassel had been the empress of young Verbena’s world, bending it to fit her whims. When such a whim turned, one fine afternoon at the Stassels’ country estate in the privacy of a shaded glen, to the practice of kissing—only for practice—Verbena had been an enthusiastic participant.
And when, some months later, their practice sessions ended abruptly so that they might, as Winifred said, focus on their upcoming introductions into London society, Verbena had not argued.
Perhaps if she had, Winifred would not have become as cold toward her as she did.
Then again, perhaps Winifred had always hated Verbena for reasons Verbena would never understand.
(It did not occur to Verbena, as it might to you, dear reader, that Winifred may have been enraged at the emotions that arose in her whenever her lips touched Verbena’s, and unfairly placed the blame for such emotions at Verbena’s doorstep.)
“We were to debut together,” Verbena continued in what she hoped was a reasonable tone.
“The day before the ball, Winifred paid me a visit, wanting to view my gown. It was a deep royal blue with silver embroidery—very fashionable that year. Winifred was always interested in what I was wearing, you see.” Her face heated.
The words felt imbued with unintended meaning, yet Flora did not waver.
She pressed her arm more firmly about Verbena’s waist. “What happened?”
“Nothing that I could see at the time,” said Verbena.
“It was only later the following day, as I was readying myself, that my maid noticed a terrible slash through the back of the gown as if someone had drawn a penknife through it. Winifred must have ruined it whilst I was out of the room, fetching some jewels from my mother’s collection.
” She could still feel the disbelief deep within her belly, where all her forgotten feelings were stored.
The foolish theories she’d leapt to before she dared think of Winifred’s betrayal—perhaps a rogue had come through the window in the night—perhaps a conflagration of moths—perhaps, perhaps, perhaps—
She shut her eyes, remembering. “I went to the Stassel residence with all due haste. Winifred did not deny it. She—she laughed. Said I would simply have to wear one of my old gowns, as I would have nothing else from the clothier until the following week. And so I did—I attended my debut in a most unsuitable gown. It was all very humiliating.”
“I don’t understand,” Flora said. “Why would Miss Stassel do this to you?”
“Oh.” Verbena looked to the stained-glass window, watching the way the light shifted through the bright colors. “There was a man.”
“A man?”
“Yes. Lord Woolspeth, a young man. A boy, really, no older than we were. Winifred informed me before our debut that she was in love with him. She had never even met him, as far as I could tell.”
“Why would she lie about something like that?” asked Flora.
Verbena hesitated. “I cannot know for certain.” Though she could infer.
One could not conduct kissing practice for as long as Winifred Stassel had without applying oneself to the stated goal of marrying well.
“At any rate, I bumped into the man at a dinner party—my parents knew his aunt and uncle slightly. When I mentioned it to Winifred, she became convinced, for some reason, that I was trying to steal Woolspeth for myself.” An unladylike snort left her.
“The whole thing was absurd. I tried to tell her I hardly spoke to the man. Winifred would not listen to reason, though.” Verbena shrugged.
“Less than a week later, my gown was in tatters.” Along with any illusions that a bosom friend could be trusted.
Flora squeezed her tight about the waist once more, pressing her forehead to Verbena’s shoulder. “How awful,” she murmured. “How absolutely dreadful.” The fall of her curls tickled Verbena’s cheek.
Verbena turned her head slightly so that she might bury her nose in those curls. They smelled of sweet grass and sharp tonic. It was enough to make Verbena want to believe in illusions again.
“It was a long time ago,” she said. “I should not be so tender about it still. And anyway, it’s not as if I didn’t manage the situation perfectly well.”
Flora lifted her head and stared at her. “I thought you said you were forced to wear an old gown to your debut.”
“Oh, yes. That could not be avoided,” Verbena said. “I managed the Winifred situation, however. She ruined my gown; I ruined her prospects with Lord Woolspeth.”
“You did what?”
Verbena lifted a hand palm up in the air, serving her story as one would a round of drinks.
“Even then, I had some little talent at using gossip to suit my needs. A few well-placed tidbits and Woolspeth was engaged to the daughter of a viscount. I believe they have just had their third child. Everyone said he was too young to marry, but the dowry was extensive.”
“You did all that to spite Winifred?” Flora asked.
“No, of course not.” Verbena smoothed her skirts down her legs. “I also arranged for her to be married to a Russian diplomat.”
Flora gaped at her.
“It was hardly an evil plot on my part,” Verbena hastened to explain.
“He was a kind man, well-off, with a good family. Winifred needed to marry someone, so why not someone who would remove her from England?” She laughed, remembering the look on Winifred’s face at a subsequent ball that season, when the statesman had demanded two dances from her.
“That way, our paths would not cross again. It was better for everyone involved, you see.”
Best especially for Verbena, who could not stomach the sight of her former friend any longer, and so devised a way to ensure she would not have to. Simple. Elegant. Bloodless.
“I see.” Only now that the story was told did Verbena notice Flora’s pale face and parted lips. A frightened girl, indeed. “You are…a woman not to be crossed, aren’t you?”
She looked like she had seen a ghost. Or a monster.
“She didn’t actually love Woolspeth.” The words tumbled out of Verbena.
“Winifred didn’t actually love anyone. She only wanted to marry well, and better than me, so I saw to it she did.
Please believe that I would never harm—only when my hand is forced would I ever—oh, you probably think me an awful wretch! ”
“Verbena.” Flora gathered her wild hands in hers. “You have a talent, as you say. It makes me glad to hear of you wielding it.”
Verbena’s own lips parted. “It does?”
Flora shrugged. “When you first came to the Calliope, you terrified me. I think a woman should inspire a modicum of terror. It is her right, especially when the world would have her defanged and fawning in a sitting room somewhere.”