Chapter 12 #4
“I am also capable of fawning in a sitting room,” Verbena reminded her.
“Only because you are a woman of many talents.” Flora grinned. “At any rate, I would never be so reckless with my own health and station as to sabotage your gowns.” She quieted then, her face falling somewhat. “I would do well to remember to not be so reckless when it comes to you, I suppose.”
Verbena was intimately aware of their hands, still clasped together.
She drew in a breath. It would be the height of impertinence to suggest to Flora that they could stand to be a little reckless.
She thought of kissing Flora as she had kissed Winifred all those years ago, but could not picture it.
Those moments had been perfunctory, fumbling, almost cold at Winifred’s insistence.
Verbena distinctly remembered holding Winifred about the waist once, or attempting to, only to have her hands batted away.
There had been rules, unspoken and perfectly rigid, which frustrated Verbena to no end.
Flora never frustrated her. She was like a cool spring flowing freely, never dammed, never running dry.
She swayed forward, thinking she might try, recklessness be damned, to press her suit with Flora.
Flora, however, was too preoccupied staring down at Verbena’s wide-open trunk to notice her movement. “Is that yours?” she asked, pointing.
Verbena looked down into her traveling case. Amid the various items of clothing and underpinnings, there sat a copy of William Forsyth’s novel Colleen.
“Oh, yes,” Verbena said. The moment was gone, but no matter. There would be others at Plas Tan. She rose and picked up the cheaply bound book, its cardboard cover rough in her hands. “You said you know Mr. Forsyth, did you not?”
“Slightly, yes.”
“I so rarely read novels, but curiosity caused me to seek out one of his.”
“Really?” Flora stared at her with wide eyes. “And how are you finding it?”
“Well”—Verbena flushed with the excitement she usually felt when discussing morbid crimes—“it’s about a murder, you see, and a ghost that—” She glanced up at Flora and saw, in her lovely face, a sort of queasiness that she perceived as politely quiet disgust. Verbena quickly replaced the book in her trunk, shoving it beneath some stays.
“But of course, you don’t go in for tawdry stories!
” She tried to keep her voice light. “I suppose they’re quite beneath you.
Your artistic soul is too sophisticated for such things. ”
“No, no,” Flora said, but with the sort of hesitation that made Verbena think she was not being entirely truthful. “It sounds like a very good book.”
Verbena could not let Flora think her silly, or a fool, or anything less than a brilliant woman on par with a celebrated poetess, and so she did what many might do: she scorned the very thing she loved.
“It’s not good at all,” she said, burying a piece of herself within herself. “The writing is awful and the story laughable. I only found it amusing in a common sort of way.” She affected a casual air as she continued her unpacking.
“I see,” said Flora. She sat there as if she herself was a ghost, silent and pale.
Verbena cleared her throat. “Shall I help you unpack?” she asked.
That made Flora whip back into wakefulness. “What?”
“Once I’m done here.” Verbena motioned to her trunk. “Shall I help you?”
“No! That is, I did not bring much.”
Verbena cocked her head. “I recall you bringing two trunks, plus your lap desk.”
“It’s less unwieldy than it looks.” Flora stood abruptly and moved toward the door between their rooms. “I think I will rest before dinner, actually. The journey has tired me more than I realized.”
Verbena frowned at her retreating back. “Are you unwell? I can call for Penny if you—”
“No, thank you. A short repose is all I require.” Flora gave her a watery smile. Her hand rested on the doorknob. “I’ll close this, shall I?” She did so, shutting her room off from Verbena’s once again.
Verbena heard the click of the latch, then returned to her unpacking with a shake of her head.
She hoped Flora did not think less of her for reading Colleen.
She retrieved the little volume and traced the author’s name on its front.
Mr. Forsyth really was a gifted writer, if he could capture her imagination so.
Perhaps, when he arrived, there might be a chance to discuss the book with him.
No, Verbena told herself firmly. She tossed the novel onto the spindly nightstand. Mr. Forsyth might be entertaining, but there was no reason to waste time on him.
It was a shame she could not enjoy his company further. William could make someone a good husband.
Verbena paused in lifting a chemise out of her trunk.
The gossamer fabric fluttered as she clutched it close to her chest, her mind too focused on other things to realize the wrinkles she was inflicting.
Her gaze went to the stained-glass window, though the colorful shapes did not make an impression, as preoccupied as she was.
Yes, if a woman did not care much for rank or financial solvency—if, say, a woman was used to sustaining herself—then a woman might, under certain circumstances, be inclined to marry William Forsyth.