Chapter Seven
Rosalie
Even with most of her flowering trees and vines not yet in bloom, Aunt Genevieve’s garden teems with verdant leaves and bushes.
Divided into three long sections, the garden extends off the back of Uncle Walter’s townhouse along the Royal Crescent, stretching
all the way to the other side of Church Street.
In the first section just beyond the back patio they’ve set six round tables covered in white linens and arranged for a formal
tea. Aunt Genevieve and Mother usually sit out here to gossip, sipping lemonade spiked with whatever Uncle Walter has pulled
from the cellar. Sometimes Father even joins them. Those are Rosalie’s favorite afternoons, listening to Father and Aunt Genevieve
bicker and tease each other while Mother sits there smiling.
But Mother’s not smiling today. Instead, she’s leading a parade of maids around the tables, pointing out little mistakes while
Aunt Genevieve watches from the patio, smirking.
For her own sanity, Rosalie walks back into the second section of the garden. Aunt Genevieve has had a large platform erected
beneath the enormous oak along the eastern wall of the garden where Rosalie used to curl up to read as a girl.
Around the platform, easels with canvases and paint sets have been arranged in a horseshoe, each with a dainty chair covered in white linen behind. Today, they’ll be capturing the likeness of the young society gentlemen, who will be posed on the platform.
Rosalie tries to sketch out the scene in her mind. She should use every ounce of advantage she has, because once everyone
arrives—once Miss Pine arrives—she knows she’ll be distracted.
She hasn’t been able to get Miss Pine out of her head all week. The way her eyes darkened, the huskiness of her voice, the
challenge in her smile have left Rosalie befuddled since their shopping trip. And the way Miss Pine looked in the mock-up
Madame Florent made of the dress Rosalie insisted on buying her?
Rosalie might actually die when it’s finished.
“Now, I want you to seat the girls, Gen.”
Mother and Aunt Genevieve approach Rosalie, Aunt Genevieve watching her mother with fond exasperation.
“Rosalie should be here,” Mother says, moving around Rosalie to place a hand on the fifth chair from the right, not quite
at the apex of the horseshoe, but close. “And Mr. Dean will be right there,” she adds, pointing at the tree.
“Right where?” Aunt Genevieve asks, pointing about six feet to the left.
“No!” Mother says, her voice edging toward that shrill tone that could summon dogs.
“So, so sorry, yes, I see now,” Aunt Genevieve says, glancing at Rosalie with a wink.
Rosalie grins back. Everything’s always better when Aunt Genevieve and Uncle Walter are in town for the season.
It makes Rosalie long for her brother, Christopher.
They aren’t complete with him off at Cambridge, and she knows he’ll be disappointed to miss some of Uncle Walter’s visit in particular.
They’ve always been close. Uncle Walter just understands him in a way it feels like Father never has.
But her brother’s complicated relationship with their father isn’t the point today. Today, Rosalie needs to impress Mr. Dean.
Truly impress him.
Their promenade two days ago was an utter failure, according to Mother. They walked for over an hour along the Avon, didn’t
say a thing to each other, and agreed to do it again next week.
She wonders what it would be like to promenade with Miss Pine, just the two of them. She wants to see more of that playful
spark Miss Pine showed when they shopped—more of her cutting insights and smart observations. She wonders what it might be
like to slip her hand into Miss Pine’s. To maybe find their way under a bridge, out of sight, out of mind. To push Miss Pine
up against a—
“Miss Pine should sit—”
“Third from the left,” Aunt Genevieve repeats. “I know. I’ll get it done. Would you just calm down?”
“I am calm,” Mother insists.
Aunt Genevieve gives Rosalie a pointed look. Rosalie feels her shoulders go up, as if her aunt could possibly know about her
treacherous, confusing thoughts. But Aunt Genevieve just pats her shoulder and heads toward the front of the garden, where
the first guests are now arriving.
“Just focus on your own canvas, and you’ll be the best,” Mother says. “Mr. Dean will pick you as the winner, and they’ll all
fall in line with him.”
The gentlemen get to judge the winner of the contest, as payment for posing for them. Or so Aunt Genevieve says is always
the rule.
Rosalie isn’t sure they have much right to be judging the paintings. Mr. Dean should choose hers. But Mr. Dean is . . . Mr. Dean. It’s always hard to tell.
“You’ll be the best. You’re always the best,” Mother says.
Rosalie nods reflexively. Henrietta and her mother, Amalie and her mother, and Miss Pine and Mrs. Pine have just entered the
back garden, all six of them chatting. Henrietta has her arm through Miss Pine’s elbow and Miss Pine is laughing at something
she’s said, her face bright and pink.
Rosalie’s stomach clenches. It should be jealousy coursing through her, that Miss Pine has charmed her friends. But it isn’t.
She isn’t feeling any of the things she should, and what she is feeling—hot along her neck, flushed up to her ears, tingly—is
inappropriate in the extreme.
Something is clearly wrong with her.
Miss Pine is a threat to everything Rosalie’s built.
So, she has to go over there. To oversee the afternoon. To guide Miss Pine to the right suitor. To ensure she’s making the
proper connections.
Not to see if she’s wearing the same perfume she was when they sat close on the bench at the back of Madame Florent’s shop.
Floral and fresh and—
“Welcome,” Rosalie says, approaching the trio. She hopes she looks confident and aloof, and that no one can hear the infatuated
pounding of her treacherous pulse.
“It looks splendid,” Amalie says, gesturing to the garden. “Though I wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Lady Jones throws the best fetes,” Henrietta tells Miss Pine.
“I believe it,” Miss Pine says, staring around, her big brown eyes wide and delighted.
Rosalie should not be feeling any pride from that look whatsoever. Even if it is her aunt’s garden. It’s not like she had anything to do with it.
“Come see where we’ll be painting,” she says, taking the hand of Henrietta, who tugs along Miss Pine, who grabs Amalie, so
they’re a traipsing train across the lawn. It loosens something in Rosalie’s chest.
“The boys will be there, and we’ll all have—I think it was two hours?” Rosalie says as they come up on the platform and easels.
“Two hours exactly,” Aunt Genevieve says, appearing behind them and grinning when Miss Pine and Henrietta let out little gasps
of surprise. She likes to stalk her prey at these events, stealthily popping into conversations. It’s how she gets the best
gossip. “Then the boys will choose the winner, and while they fawn over her, the rest of us will drink and drown our sorrows
in tea cakes.”
“We’ll get biscuits and sweets too,” Henrietta tells Miss Pine. “When Rosalie wins.”
Rosalie bites her lip while Amalie swats Henrietta. “I don’t always win everything,” Rosalie says, going for humble. She does,
but Henrietta doesn’t need to brag about it.
“Of course I’m rooting for my niece, but I do love a good dark horse,” Aunt Genevieve tells them. “Miss Linet gave me a wonderful
sketch the other year, and you yourself have painted multiple watercolors I’ve hung in my parlor,” she tells Henrietta. Both
of her friends blush. Rosalie grins at her aunt. “And who knows, Miss Pine is a new variable in our midst.”
“I could beat you all,” Miss Pine agrees.
Rosalie meets her eyes, enjoying the challenge. “You think so?”
“My mother certainly does,” Miss Pine says with a shrug. “Though mostly I want to see your paintings,” she adds, looking to
Amalie and Henrietta.
“I’m sure yours will be wonderful,” Henrietta says, while Amalie looks back and forth between Miss Pine and Rosalie.
Henrietta’s warmed to Miss Pine in the way Henrietta warms to everyone—trusting and giving her full self at a whiff of kindness.
But Amalie’s remained steadfast in their mission; Rosalie’s winning the season, she’ll see to it. But she can like the girl.
Miss Pine is charming, and kind, and listening to her and Henrietta begin discussing shading and which ratios to mix to get
the exact green of the giant oak leaves is practically warm and fuzzy.
It’s making Rosalie soft, which is a problem as the gentlemen enter the garden. What if Miss Pine is actually as good as she
says? What if she’s not just being playful? What if, like with the pianoforte, she’s gifted and Rosalie merely has hard-won
practice on her side?
Thankfully, she doesn’t also have to put on a show for Mr. Dean and his friends, because Aunt Genevieve snags them first.
She positions Mr. Dean against the oak tree, staring off into the distance, not unlike how he spends most balls.
The broad Mr. Rile she places in a contemplative pose in a chair center stage, with the tall and narrow Mr. Fortes on Mr. Rile’s
right on the floor, leaning back against the side of his chair. Rosalie rather hopes he’ll fall asleep with his head on Mr. Rile’s
thigh.
Mr. Plory she plunks down on the front of the stage, legs over the side, hands on his thighs. “Look down, you’re sad,” she
tells him.
He giggles and does as he’s told, clearly enamored of her. All of the boys are watching Aunt Genevieve, jumping to do her
bidding. Who can blame them? The twinkle in her eye as she directs them around is infectious.
Rosalie glances back at the mothers, who have clustered on the patio in chairs to watch the proceedings. They’re all holding drinks already and laughing. Even Mrs. Pine looks amused.
Rosalie looks back at the stage just in time to watch Mr. Sholle gamely lie down on the floor on his stomach in front of Mr. Rile,
a notebook and old quill in hand.