Chapter 16
Verbena accepted a cup of something sweet and—she took a discreet sniff—wildly potent from a guest who was dishing the stuff out of a copper pot with a soup ladle.
“The finest punch Wales can provide,” the woman declared.
Verbena had been introduced to her earlier in the week, but couldn’t place her name, only the fact that she did watercolors.
“Thank you,” Verbena said. She took a sip of the punch for show, not intending to drink much more than that.
Verbena did not abstain completely from drink, and indeed enjoyed a nightcap every so often, but she did not make a habit of indulging to excess at parties. She felt it always a good idea to keep one’s wits about one.
Besides, being the only sober person in attendance often meant she was the sole proprietor of the knowledge of what had actually occurred, a position that she had often used to her advantage.
And she needed every advantage she could get.
Her meeting with William had, she thought, gone swimmingly up until the point where the man had feigned illness at the mere mention of courting Flora.
Had he done so in the past and then decided against her as a prospect?
If he was repelled by Flora, who was loveliness in human form, then he was an absolute fool.
He usually spoke so sensibly, though, and with a great deal of veracity.
Verbena considered alternate explanations for his behavior: perhaps William shared étienne’s nature?
It seemed likely. How else could Verbena explain what a comfort it was to share a secluded, darkened room with William, despite the obvious danger in doing so?
Then again, there were plenty of men, like Lord Byron, who admired both sexes, though of course that could never be acknowledged in polite company.
She wondered if William was already in love with someone else.
It would take a delicate touch to introduce to him the idea of marrying Flora for safety’s sake alone, if that were the case.
She cradled her earthenware mug of punch in both hands and scanned the crowd. Lord Byron was holding court in a tight circle around the bonfire, regaling his audience with tales of the exotic pets he’d owned over the years.
“Every lad needs a leashed bear,” Verbena heard him say, and she pointedly did not listen any further.
She considered, not for the first time since rejoining the party, that she might go inside and knock on Flora’s door.
But would Flora even wish to speak to her?
She had been uncharacteristically short with Verbena before taking her leave.
Oh, if only they could talk! Verbena wished dearly for the ear of her friend.
Then, as if some celestial being was bestowing blessings upon her, Verbena caught sight of Flora coming toward the bonfire, her pale skirts lifted to save the hem from the ground.
Flora looked all about, craning her neck this way and that.
The object of her search became obvious once her gaze settled on Verbena. She looked nowhere else.
Verbena met her just outside of the circle of firelight.
“Flora? Are you feeling better?” She looked even worse than when she’d begged off an hour or so ago, citing an aching head.
Her cheeks were violently flushed and her hair slightly disheveled, though Verbena only noted the latter because she had closely studied the neatness with which Flora’s hair was normally arranged.
“Yes, I—” Flora pressed her lips together. Her distress was so obvious, yet Verbena could see no obvious cause. “I feel much improved. I thought it best to return before the festivities reached their end. I would never forgive myself if I missed all the entertainment.”
Despite her cheery words, her fingers worried at her skirts in agitation.
Verbena offered her cup to Flora. “Would you like some? It’s quite strong.”
“Thank you.” Flora had the cup to her lips before she was even finished speaking. She took a great gulp of the concoction, gave one small cough, then stretched her lips into a smile that her eyes did not reflect. “Have I missed anything interesting?”
Verbena gave the other revelers a glance. A man known for his sculpture was currently carrying the watercolorist on his shoulders, and the pair were taunting the crowd to form a worthy opponent. It was a marvel no one had yet fallen into the fire.
“Perhaps we should sit down.” Verbena took Flora by the arm and led her gently to the marble bench, some distance from the rabble. “I have much to tell you,” she whispered once they’d sat in close congress.
“Oh?” Flora’s smile widened to a worrying degree. “I wasn’t absent very long. What could have happened?”
A quick decision: it was often more prudent to keep all parties in the dark as one tested the waters.
“I had an extremely interesting conversation with Mr. Forsyth,” Verbena said.
“Although I told him I would not divulge his secret, I cannot keep what was said from you, my dear friend.” She leaned in closer so that her lips were at Flora’s ear.
“He wants nothing more than to court you.”
Flora reared back, her face all pinched brows and slack lips. “What?”
“He intimated that he admired you and dearly sought your admiration in turn. Is that not wonderful?” Verbena clasped Flora’s limp hands in hers, squeezing them in excitement. “I suspect he confided in me knowing I might tell you and urge you to consider his suit, and I certainly will.”
Flora’s lower lip trembled. “William Forsyth told you no such thing. He—he said nothing of the sort.” She placed the earthenware cup on the ground at their feet. Verbena noted it was drained.
“Do you doubt your own charms?” she asked. “I assure you, he is as captivated with you as a man could be. I think, perhaps, he might even be persuaded to approach this courtship in a less traditional manner.” Verbena licked her lips. A delicate touch, she reminded herself. “You see—”
Flora jerked her hands from Verbena’s grip. “You’re lying to me. Why would you lie to me, Verbena?” A sheen of tears stood in her eyes, catching the dancing firelight in the distance.
Verbena struggled to form an argument. “I’m not lying. He said—”
“I know William Forsyth.” Flora rose from the bench, her hands clasped over her middle like she was trying to hold a part of herself in check. “I know him very, very well. And I know for a fact that he would never say that.”
What could Verbena do in the face of such passionate denial but smile and deny it in return?
“Flora, sweet Flora. Men often claim to have no designs on a lady whilst harboring deep in their hearts that most tender of feelings. They cannot help it; they lack the language we have for it; they need encouragement before they can reveal themselves.”
Flora shook her head, staring at Verbena like she had transformed into a knot of snakes. “You’re unbelievable,” she said.
That put Verbena’s back up. She stood as well, bringing her nearly nose to nose with Flora, who was quite a tall woman. “I am doing you a kindness! If you would listen to me, I know a way to use this to our advantage.”
“Our advantage!” Flora laughed loudly enough that several heads turned away from the firepit and toward their conversation. “You speak as if this is all a chess game or—or—or some war maneuver.”
A flash of righteous anger flowed into Verbena.
“It is war,” she hissed, drawing Flora by the arm further into the shadows that might afford some privacy.
“It is life and death.” étienne’s, surely, and in a way, Verbena’s own.
“I am trying to keep all my friends as safe and happy as possible in the face of immense pressure. And if you would simply hear me out instead of calling me a rank liar, you might come to understand that.”
“Tell me one thing,” Flora said. “Does William Forsyth hold any interest for you?”
“Me?” Now it was Verbena who drew back. She dropped her hold on Flora’s slight arm in shock. “What would I need with William Forsyth? étienne and I—you know we have an understanding.”
Verbena gave the group around the fire a glance to gauge whether their attention was still on the two of them, but thankfully someone had produced a set of long sticks that were being used to poke at the bonfire with the aim of encouraging its growth.
The others were enraptured with the flames.
She hoped it would keep them occupied for some time.
“And there is no chance of Mr. Forsyth replacing étienne in your affections?” Flora’s voice became small, her eyes falling meekly to the ground. “None whatsoever?”
Verbena had a great deal of practice in not looking cross, or befuddled, or anything but placidly appealing.
She deployed this talent now to ensure her face remained uncreased.
“I don’t understand. étienne is the only candidate for a husband in my mind.
” Even if she did find William Forsyth gentle and kind and pleasing to both her eye and touch, there was nothing to be done about it.
Her agreement with étienne took precedence.
Surely Flora, who’d written an entire poem about the arrangement, could understand that.
Yet it seemed she did not. Flora appeared so agitated, in fact—pacing in a small circle, casting hurt glares in Verbena’s direction—that Verbena was quite shocked.
“Flora?” She touched the back of her friend’s shaking hand where it clenched in her skirts. “Why are you upset?”
“I cannot say.” The tears in her voice made her sound very small. “I cannot speak of it.”
That was promising. That was, at least, an admission that some secret stood between them—in addition to Verbena’s, of course. It was Verbena’s most fervent hope that Flora’s secret mirrored her own: that she held for Verbena an affection that had no name.