Chapter 14 #2
And we two never leave this sweet bed.
There was a long stretch of silence as Flora spoke the final words.
She stood on the marble bench and perceived, in the fading light of the setting sun, her audience’s faces twisted in confusion.
She could not know their thoughts, but she could guess: this was not Flora Witcombe’s usual fare.
This was not light society verse filled with bawdy innuendo and sharp witticisms. When confronted with a love poem, her first, no one knew how to take it.
Then Flora’s gaze fell upon Verbena, who was situated on the edge of the crowd.
Her expression was singular in its intensity; her eyes were wide, her mouth hanging open, her hands clasped to her breast. She was shocked, no doubt about that, but it was the sort of astonishment one might show when faced with a miracle, not a disaster.
That look, in Flora’s view, made the entire exercise worthwhile.
The silence was shattered when Lord Byron, who had been fussing with candles and bits of paper, cried out in triumph.
All eyes were pulled to the bonfire, which had finally caught and was growing ever brighter by the moment.
Orange and red flames licked up the logs, reaching toward the darkening sky.
The guests applauded—for Flora, yes, but for the fire as well. It was all a bit chaotic.
Flora stepped down from the marble bench with assistance from Miles.
“That was beautiful,” he said in a whisper, “and very brave.”
“It was nothing.” She looked over to see Verbena rising to her feet, starting toward Flora with determination.
There was little time. “William Forsyth is already late in arriving,” she said to Miles in a soft whisper.
“Can you go to my room? You’ll find hidden in the bottom of my trunk a navy suitcoat and fawn trousers. No, make it the black trousers.”
“Navy coat, black trousers,” Miles repeated.
Flora’s heart swelled at the seriousness with which he took his charge; he was such a stalwart friend. She owed him a great debt.
She spoke in a rush as Verbena approached. “Meet me inside, in the cloakroom.”
“Right. Good luck with your escape,” Miles said, and took off toward the house.
Verbena replaced him at Flora’s side. “That poem,” she said, almost in a daze, “it was wonderful.” Her eyes searched Flora’s face as if all her secrets could be parsed there.
“Have you—when did you have time to write such a gem?” Her smile was laced with the clever intelligence she always exhibited when digging for the truth in rumors.
“I couldn’t say.” Flora pressed a hand to her forehead and gave a small whimper. “I’m afraid all the excitement has emptied my head and put into it nothing but a pain. I should go lie down.”
“What? Oh no.” Verbena nudged Flora’s hand from her forehead and replaced it with her own. “You don’t have a fever, at least.” Her touch lingered, fingertips tracing Flora’s temple. “Perhaps if you sat for a moment—”
“No, I really must excuse myself before I swoon,” Flora insisted. That, at least, was close to the truth. Swooning seemed more than possible when Verbena touched her with such easy intimacy.
Verbena’s stubbornness, a trait Flora would normally adore, made itself known. “Then let me accompany you. I don’t want you fainting on the stairs. I’ll tuck you into bed and keep you company.”
Flora hardened her heart. It was difficult, but she had no choice. “Please leave me be,” she said, turning away from Verbena’s touch. “I—I simply need a moment to myself.”
Verbena, for all her practice in hiding her emotions, showed a flash of hurt in her eyes. “If you are certain,” she said.
“I am. Good night.” Flora lifted her skirts and rushed toward the house, wishing there was some other way to do what needed to be done. If all went as she hoped, though, Verbena would soon know the real reason behind Flora’s actions tonight. They would laugh about it, she was certain.
Miles was in the cloakroom as promised, arms full of toggery and high country boots. He’d even thought to bring William’s hair tonic.
“Oh, good man! If I weren’t so in love with Verbena, I would have you in an instant,” Flora said.
She unpinned her hairpieces and placed them gently upon a wooden crate.
The cloakroom seemed to function as Plas Tan’s workaday cupboard: winter coats and woolen capes hung in crammed rows along with various things that needed storing. There wasn’t much room to speak of.
“And if I weren’t so enamored with étienne, I would let you have me,” Miles said. He clapped a hand over his eye while Flora unlaced herself from her gown. “Erm, I would help a man dress without a second thought, but I don’t know what’s proper in this case.”
Flora yanked her bodice down to her waist, exposing her underclothes, all three layers of them, and the small amount of padding that lent her some semblance of curvature. “I don’t care, damn you, just get me into a shirt!”
Miles’s shyness abated as William emerged.
It was still surprising, even after all these years, the speed with which he could step forward to take Flora’s place and vice versa.
He no longer made the change with great ceremony, yet he still felt a pang as he shed the skirts and underthings to make way for the masculine attire.
He wished fervently that he might one day devise a manner of dress like that of Miles’s aunt and her companion, piecing together clothing of each sex and wearing whatever pleased him.
That, at least, would present to the world some of the joining of his two halves, or rather, the secret thing he sensed between them.
Soon Flora Witcombe was gone and William stood in her place, breathing heavily in the dark of the cloakroom.
“Am I decent?” he asked Miles.
Miles fussed with the buttons on his coat, the fall of his cravat.
“As near to. Wait!” He shook some tonic into his palm and ruffled his fingers through William’s hair, now loosed from its pins and hairpieces, so that it stood on end in the fashion of a startled owl.
“There. Now go capture your lady’s heart,” he said, stuffing Flora’s ensemble, underthings and all, into one of the many crates for safekeeping.
William pressed Miles’s hand in his in a gesture of gratitude before spilling out of the cloakroom and making for the lawn.
Sadly, Verbena was not sitting alone, waiting for William to monopolize her attention.
She was already monopolized by Lord Byron, who was seated next to her on the little marble bench where Flora had so recently given her recitation.
As William approached, he could hear the man pontificating about poetry—or rather, gossiping about other well-known poets.
Something about sisters, and his former lover, or perhaps all three mixed together.
Verbena had that look on her face that meant she was weary of Byron’s forceful personality. When she caught sight of William, she seemed to perk up.
“Mr. Forsyth,” she said. “How nice of you to join us.”
“Yes, good to have you!” Byron got to his feet and squeezed his hand with great vigor instead of kissing it.
There was a kind of genial aggression in the man’s bearing that had been absent when dealing with Flora.
One thing that didn’t change was the leering calculation in Byron’s eyes as he sized up William’s form.
No one, regardless of sex, was exempt from the Byronic inclination to abscond to the nearest bed for an hour or two.
“Miss Montrose was just telling me how much she enjoyed Miss Witcombe’s little performance,” he said, his gaze lingering at William’s waist. (To be fair, William’s waist was shown off to great effect in the navy coat, so he could hardly be blamed.) “What did you think of the piece, sir?”
“I’m afraid I didn’t have the pleasure. I’ve just arrived,” said William.
He dropped Byron’s hand and turned to Verbena, hoping without much hope to edge the man out of the conversation.
“Was it Miss Witcombe’s usual subject? I do so enjoy her society verses.
” A shamelessly leading question, but there it was.
“No, it was altogether a different sort,” Verbena said. Her hands clasped in her lap, palm worrying against palm. “There was something quite unusual about it, I think. I was—quite moved.”
Byron frowned at that. “It was a pretty piece of work, but as Miss Witcombe herself said, it was not complete. Could you not detect the places in which she must still smooth out the cadence?” He shook his head and grinned.
“Then again, perhaps a poetess need not make the efforts that a poet would. The novelty of her sex is enough to intrigue the reader.”
Verbena rose from the bench, her hands now clenched into fists at her sides. William could sympathize, incensed as he was himself. He could not stand idly aside while his other half was spoken of with such disrespect.
His blood boiled at the back of his throat, heating his words as he spoke.
“You forget, my lord, that a woman’s sex is no asset in her artistic and financial endeavors.
Miss Witcombe has had to work twice as hard to earn half the respect that a man in her position would,” he said.
“What readership she has gained with her fair nature must be weighed on scales tipping heavily on the other side, where curiosity is drowned in sneering disbelief. The fact that there are not as many noteworthy poetesses as poets is not a mark against the entire sex; it is proof that yours has made it nearly impossible for theirs to succeed.”
“Steady on,” said Lord Byron, but William was just getting started.
“There are hundreds of ladies, thousands, perhaps, who could craft words that would bring you to tears if only they were allowed!” he said.
“What masterpieces must be held silently in their heads whilst they raise children or work the fields! Can you imagine it, my lord, or is your own life’s arc the only line to which your mind may bend? ”
William stopped then, winded from his long speech. He breathed hard through his flared nostrils, sweating with the passion that had been stirred in him, but did not look away from Byron’s shocked face.
“I agree entirely,” Verbena said. William looked to her then, gratified to see her flushed with spirit. “You speak well and truthfully on the matter, Mr. Forsyth. If Miss Witcombe were here, she would be delighted to have such a defender.”
“The lady needs no assistance from me,” William said with creeping shame.
Here he was collecting accolades for coming to the defense of—well, himself.
“If she were here, I am certain she would have said much the same, albeit in prettier language than mine.” He glanced uneasily at Lord Byron, who remained uncharacteristically silent.
The man had no real hold over him, as he wasn’t even supposed to be in the country at all, but he was still a baron, and a well-connected one.
There was still the real threat of retaliation.
“If I spoke too harshly, my lord—” he began.
“No, no.” Byron waved an elegant hand through the air.
“The greatest sin a poet can commit is to be careless with his words, as I was just now. It was an offhand remark I made, and you were right to correct me. I am a great admirer of Miss Witcombe’s work, truly.
” He accepted a glass of something from a passing tray.
“Perhaps,” Byron said in that seductive drawl of his, “we might continue the conversation later? In my room?” His tone left no doubt as to the shape of his plans.
“I promised William a tour of the grounds,” Verbena said, forcefully inserting herself into the tête-à-tête.
She took a candle from a box that someone had placed on the ground for the guests’ use and moved to the bonfire to light it.
“He was not present when our fine hostesses showed my party about last week, and now is the perfect time.”
William turned to her, not bothering to hide his relief. “Yes, Miss Montrose is to be my guide.” An absurd falsehood, but as it was one of Verbena’s making, he was obligated to follow along.
Byron narrowed his eyes at them both. “Is that so? An entire week here and you have not yet seen the grounds, Mr. Forsyth?”
“He’s been so very busy, you see.” Verbena looped her arm through William’s, allowing herself to be held in its crook rather than the other way round, as she did when walking with Flora.
Her candle glowed in her free hand. “Now, my lord, if you would excuse us?” And with that, she spirited William away.
As they left the circle of light cast by the bonfire, the heat of it at their backs, they bent their heads together to share a laugh.
“How ever do you think of such things on the spur of the moment? And with a straight face!” William asked, breathless. “How quick-witted you are.”
“It is a skill anyone might foster,” Verbena said breezily. “I felt it only fair to come to your rescue, as you had so gallantly come to the aid of my entire sex. I’ve never known a man to do so, not ever.”
William hummed. “It helps not to be much of one, I suppose.” The half-truth was intoxicating to say aloud, but he felt he must. He was in Verbena’s good graces now—him, not merely Flora! A delicate introduction to the topic he wished to broach seemed prudent.
Yet Verbena took it as a jest. She slapped at his arm with a laugh. “Now, don’t say that. You’re twice the man His Lordship is.”
“Closer to half,” William murmured, but Verbena did not mark him.
She was too busy pulling him farther into the dark.
“Where are you taking me, Miss Montrose? Not that I will complain, even if the destination is hell itself, but are you sure we should venture this far from the fête?” The revelry was now a distant smudge of laughter and firelight behind them.
A walk alone in the woods in broad daylight was one thing, but a shadowy assignation was quite another.
William had no desire to ruin Verbena’s reputation.
Verbena’s eyes flashed in the candlelight, as did her lovely teeth. “Thank you for thinking of my honor, but I have observed the guests here at Plas Tan for days. There is a loosening of social etiquette here that I find quite freeing. By the by, have you any interest in horticulture, Mr. Forsyth?”
William perceived a building looming before them, its glazed panels reflecting the faint glow of the fire. The glass conservatory, brimming with plants and flowers, stood silent before them.
“I could be persuaded to cultivate some,” he said, and melted at Verbena’s answering laugh.