Chapter 14
Over the next week, Flora was forced to divide her time between appearing as herself and appearing as William.
So much of her energies in the ensuing days were devoted to switching between her personas, rushing between the two bedrooms she was supposedly occupying, trying her damnedest not to be seen sneaking into William’s room wearing a gown, and vice versa.
At least Plas Tan was a beehive of activity with artists of all stripes buzzing about.
It was not so strange for a guest to go missing in the middle of a writing session, for example, or for someone to slip away during mealtimes.
“I need to write something down before I forget,” William would claim.
“I must rest my aching hand after all that work,” Flora would say.
No one took note of these mundane things, especially not in such queer company.
And although it caused Flora great distress to sneak about, it was worth it for the time both her sides were allowed to spend with Verbena.
Intimate conversations, happy outings in nature, one delightful (and disastrous) afternoon where Verbena insisted they try their hand at milking the cows—Flora could not believe how close William and Verbena had grown, nor how strong the existing connection between herself and Verbena had become.
A little more than a week into her stay at Plas Tan, Flora came downstairs to join the others at breakfast. Verbena had saved her a spot on the long wooden bench, as had become their habit.
(William had told Verbena and anyone else who asked that he never ate in the mornings due to some slight quirk of his constitution, and Flora had said she never ate at midday for the same reason.
They traded suppers; Flora was keen to ensure both her personas enjoyed their time at Plas Tan—and with Verbena.) She took her seat, returning Verbena’s warm smile.
After the eggs and toast had been demolished, Bette announced that there was to be a soiree on the grounds that evening complete with a bonfire.
“Such beautiful weather,” she said. “We simply cannot waste the opportunity.”
The assembled guests cheered at this. Flora could not help but think this was the perfect opportunity for William to at last make his feelings known. She glanced at Verbena, who was flushed with a happy glow.
“What does one wear to a firelight fête?” Verbena asked.
“Whatever one likes, I suppose,” said Flora. In her own case, it would be William’s finest raiment.
Once the breakfast things had been cleared away, Flora raced back to her room.
She plucked a navy tailcoat with pewter buttons from her trunk’s hidden compartment.
It was an excellent coat. And a good thing, she thought, running her hands over the fine wool, as William would need to be his most charming, dapper self if he had any hope of persuading Verbena to accept his affections.
Flora, of course, would need to absent herself from the soiree.
She planned to excuse herself in the middle of dinner with complaints of a mild headache, then transform into William.
He would have the entire evening to mingle with the other guests while Flora “recovered” in peace.
An entire evening to woo Verbena Montrose, capture her heart, confess William and Flora’s shared secret, and make an agreement for all three of them to be joined in marriage.
It was a good plan, if William did not lose his nerve.
There was a tap at the door—the one that led to the hallway—and Flora quickly replaced the coat, rearranging the trunk so that the gowns covered the men’s clothing. “Yes?” she called.
“I come to ask a favor from you.” It was Anne’s voice.
“One moment.” Flora smoothed her hair and cast a glance about the room, finding no evidence of her dual nature anywhere about. She crossed to the door and opened it to her hostess. “What can I do for you?”
Anne smiled kindly. “So many of our guests are great lovers of your work, myself amongst them. Would you grace us with the pleasure of a reading tonight at the bonfire? We would love to hear the poetess in her own voice.”
“Oh!”
Despite her carefully laid plan, Flora felt the seductive pull of the invitation deep inside her. (Poets are generally very susceptible to that sort of flattery; they leap at the chance to showcase their stanzas if given the slightest leeway.)
“I would be happy to—that is, I would be. Only, I seem to be developing such a headache.” She pressed her hand to her forehead and tried to look pained. “I think I might rest in my room instead.”
“Nonsense,” Anne said. Being constantly surrounded by poets and their strange ways, she was apparently immune to such dramatics.
“Directly after dinner, we will light the bonfire and have you regale us. If you still feel poorly after, of course you should rest then, but you wouldn’t let a little thing like a headache keep you from your audience, would you?
” She gave Flora a stern, auntlike look that would wilt even the most stalwart person.
“No,” Flora found herself saying. “I would not.”
“Good.” Anne turned from the door. “I look forward to it!”
Dinner that evening was wildly informal as usual, men and women arranged around the long table in whatever higgledy-piggledy fashion they chose.
Bette and Anne did not, as a rule, set out place cards.
Flora successfully negotiated for a seat right next to Verbena, who did not hide her delight at the arrangement.
“I believe Penny is giving us lamb tonight. Isn’t that exciting?” she murmured. Her delicate hand rested on Flora’s thigh.
Flora very carefully did not think about it, or lamb.
“Have you seen William Forsyth at all today?” she asked, knowing Verbena had not.
She accepted a ladle of potato and leek soup from Miles, who was seated on her other side.
They served each other instead of relying on staff, another novelty.
“He was looking for you earlier. Told me you two had much to discuss.”
“We will run into each other at the soiree, I’m sure.
Are you changing into a new gown after dinner?
I was considering something a bit more formal myself.
” Verbena’s hand remained on Flora’s leg, patting companionably.
She chose a glistening piece of buttered trout from a platter presented by étienne on her left.
Flora cast an eye over Verbena’s costume, a gorgeous dress of shot silk, the dual colors of green and blue catching the light with her every movement. In the presence of a bonfire, she would appear as an immortal nymph, Flora was certain.
“Oh, please don’t change a thing,” she said. “You are beautiful as you are.”
As soon as the words were out of her mouth, she knew she had miscalculated. William was supposed to be the one pressing his suit tonight, not she. It would only confuse the issue, speaking boldly like this.
Verbena, though, did not seem to mind. She looked over at Flora with a sparkle in her eye. “All right,” she said. “But only if you also refrain from making any change. You could not be more radiant tonight.” Her hand smoothed down the creamy taffeta of Flora’s skirt.
Flora hid her grimace behind a bite of fish. She could make no such promise, not even in jest.
After the meal, the party moved outside to the lawn, where Penny had built a large pile of firewood in a circle of stones. Cushions and quilts ringed the nascent bonfire, and people took their places in the same informal way they had done at dinner.
“Here,” Verbena said, taking a seat on one of the smaller cushions and patting the tiny slice of it left available. “Why don’t we share?”
Flora was torn. She wanted to sit nestled against Verbena while the fire warmed them, but she needed to make her eventual escape so that William might return in her place.
How could she ever get away if Verbena’s attention remained wholly on her?
It would be impossible to tear herself away from that.
Bette came up to Flora before she could decide how to respond.
“Perhaps you could make your recitation now, Miss Witcombe?” Behind her, Lord Byron and several male painters were arguing about the best way to light the fire, as they’d apparently taken on the task for themselves.
Bette gave them an aggrieved glance. “So that we might have some good entertainment as opposed to this farce?”
“I would be happy to,” said Flora. With an apologetic smile at Verbena, she took her place atop a small marble bench that bordered the rose garden.
The assembled guests quieted their chatter as Bette clapped for their attention. “Miss Witcombe has agreed to perform some of her work for us! Miss Witcombe?”
Flora was not unused to reciting her poetry to an audience.
It was a regular occurrence at the club, and her various patrons often trotted her out at gatherings to perform for their guests.
She had several of her more popular verses memorized in toto, along with the cadence with which they were best delivered.
Yet standing there in front of the unlit fire, dozens of eyes upon her, two of which belonged to a woman so cherished by her that she could not help but meet them and hold them—all memory of those poems left Flora’s head.
The only thing that remained was the poem she had been toying with off and on since she’d met Verbena.
Flora prayed it wasn’t too terrible.
“This has not yet been printed,” she said, knowing it might never be. “Please excuse its roughness.” She took a deep breath and began to recite:
How long hath I lived apart from love?
Separate from life entirely
Whose soft hand encased inside a glove
Never touching sweetness nor it—me.
Then!—she arrives with beauteous things
Her blazing sword striking down the dark
And for the first time my heart can sing
The life before and after laid stark.
Lay with me, whilst we still draw breath
Upon me, love, rest thy fiery head!
Allow thine lips to refuse sweet Death