Chapter 20 #2
When they strolled through the rose garden, Fanny sprinkled him with questions, not of the prying but the curious variety.
Billy answered as truthfully as he could: He had two younger brothers who seemed to look up to him, even if he never felt he’d earned it; he’d wanted to study theater, he loved acting and thought he might be good at it, since he’d always been the class clown, and a fair mimic, but his parents had pressured him toward the sciences, so he’d ended up with a rudimentary knowledge of something that might be considered engineering, but couldn’t build a bridge to save his life, or anyone else’s, more to the point.
He wasn’t sure what he had to offer the world, so mostly he’d spent the last while having fun and traveling around, in a kind of aimless way that had started to wear thin.
Fanny spoke about the pressures of being an only child, of having lost her dear father when she was young, the frustrations of having the education he’d insisted she have, only to be left with a mother who thought her sole purpose in life was to marry well.
Fanny now felt it her chief occupation to supply her crisp wit while looking pretty in the latest French fashion.
But she wasn’t resentful. She knew her mother had good intentions and felt her own familial duty was clear.
“I don’t know why I’m able to tell you these things,” she said. “I couldn’t tell anyone else.”
“Same,” said Billy. “You’re so easy to talk to, and I don’t feel like I have to pretend. Too much.”
She laughed lightly.
Billy bent down to pick up a dark pink blossom that had fallen onto the path in front of them. He breathed in its fragrance, handed it to Fanny.
“The damask rose,” she said. “A favorite for a bride’s bouquet, I suppose because it signifies fidelity .
. .” She pointed to various shrubs and bushes spouting a riot of colorful blooms. “While white is for chastity, red for passion, yellow, one’s hope, orange, joy, light pink is love at first sight, and apricot is pure happiness. ”
“Wow. You know your roses.”
Fanny smiled. “I’ve heard your cousin say ‘wow,’ but I’ve never heard an Englishman say it.”
“I suppose I get it from her.”
A petal dislodged from the bloom and drifted to the ground. Billy picked it up, rubbed its softness on his cheek, and slipped it into his waistcoat pocket.
Fanny was touched by the gesture.
“In any case, I find it somewhat ironic how much we English want variety in our roses, every color imaginable, crossbreeding a particular passion. But not so much in our people. We like them very much the same.”
“I get bored when things are the same,” said Billy.
“As do I,” said Fanny, holding his arm a little tighter. “As do I.”
When they reached the crest of the hillock, Billy took off his coat and laid it on the grass for her, held her hand as she gracefully lowered herself to the ground. He sat beside her, still talking.
“. . . And then I realized they were clammy because I was nervous, that you might be here. That’s new for me.”
Fanny gave him a tender smile. A breeze blew over their skin. Billy looked out over the downs of Ellesmere.
“I never knew quiet like this even existed,” he whispered.
“And what do you hear, in the quiet?”
He closed his eyes, genuinely listening.
“Hmm . . . I can hear birds singing . . . I hear the breeze in the tops of the trees . . . whoosh, whoosh . . . Voices, but far away.” He took a long breath in and listened even harder, putting a hand on his chest. “And the beating of my own heart.”
He opened his eyes to find Fanny studying him.
“Wow,” she said.
***
Dark clouds gathered in the distance as Warnaby took the last shot of the friendly game but narrowly missed his mark.
“Yet another victory for you, my friend.” He clapped D’Evercy on the back. “I should have thought you tired of winning.”
“Who tires of winning?” said Revell.
Cassie looked at him. She hadn’t considered Revell much since they’d danced at Norwood Manor, being fixed on Warnaby. But she admired his game.
“In fact, when we were growing up,” she said, “Annabel actually preferred to lose! She was famous for it.”
They all turned to Annabel, who blushed.
“It’s true,” she said. “Winning makes me . . . uncomfortable.”
“An ennobling quality, I’m sure,” said D’Evercy. “Perhaps one I could use more of.”
“Oh, Mr. D’Evercy,” said Harriet. “You are a paragon of virtue as you are.”
D’Evercy didn’t like fawning, but he accepted the compliment with a minor bow of his head.
“Well, I, for one, shall now drown my sorrows in a tall lemonade,” Warnaby said. “If I can interest anyone else?”
D’Evercy looked up at the gray sky. “I think I shall celebrate with a turn about the garden, before the weather betrays us.” He lowered his chin and looked right at Annabel. “Perhaps I could interest you in a—”
“Stroll, what a wonderful idea!” said Harriet, deftly taking his arm, then turning to Annabel. “Won’t you join us, Miss Blake?” The question was shot with a warning look and a spin of her parasol.
“No, no. I find myself thirsty as well. You go ahead.”
D’Evercy bowed his head again and did as he must—escort the woman who in that moment had a firm hold on his arm.
Warnaby turned to the others, ever the gentleman. “Ladies, Lieutenant, may I interest you in a consoling cold drink?”
Cassie took Annabel’s arm. “Thank you, Mr. Warnaby. We’ll be right behind you.”
“I shan’t be odd man out,” said Revell. “Lemonade it is.”
When he and Warnaby were steps away, Cassie squeezed Annabel’s arm. “I think Ellesmere’s my new happy place.”
“That’s a change of mood.”
“Warnaby wants to have sex with me.”
“Mr. Warnaby?”
Cassie watched him walk away, admiring his derriere. “He sure acted interested when I said the word foreplay.”
“You said the word foreplay?” Annabel looked alarmed.
“Only after he said intercourse!”
“But there’s no sex before marriage! At least, not with a man like Warnaby. He just wouldn’t.”
This required a considerable shift in Cassie’s worldview. “That is so messed up.”
“Cassie, please be careful.”
Annabel saw that Mrs. Lackington had waylaid Warnaby. They were sipping lemonade and seemed to be looking straight at them. In fact, Mrs. Lackington made no attempt to hide it. She gave Annabel a sour smile. Cassie flashed her smile at Warnaby, talking through her teeth.
“Relax, okay? I’ve got this under control.”
“But if they find out we’re not who we say we are, I mean, they think we have money. They think we have Bloomingdale’s!”
“Thanks to me. Can I just point that out?”
Annabel stole a glance at D’Evercy, so noble and good, politely listening to Harriet as they strolled.
“I just hate deceiving him. Them. Anyone.” She looked back at Cassie. “But if Mrs. Lackington finds out, she will destroy us.”
“If you’re saying, ‘get with the program,’ I am definitely on the program. Are you on the program?”
Annabel didn’t know how to answer. She looked back at D’Evercy. “If I could just tell him—”
“Tell him what?” said Cassie, now alarmed as well.
“I don’t know,” said Annabel. “Most Jane Austen comedies are the same, really. There’s a woman, and a man, and an obstacle to them being together. And the obstacle is usually money. But they manage, somehow, to overcome it. And if I could find a way to explain—”
Cassie put both hands up. “Stop. You have to stop. Does this feel like a comedy to you?”
“Comedy just means it ends happily.”
“There’s only one happy ending here, and that is that we go home, right?”
Annabel searched her sister’s face and nodded.
“But the next best ending is that we get husbands, yes?”
“Yes,” said Annabel. “It’s our only hope.”
“So, let’s keep our eyes on the prize. This is not one of those situations where losing would be ennobling, okay?”
“You’re right. Okay.” She looked up at the gathering clouds. “Maybe I just never learned how to win.”
“Well,” said Cassie. “Sit back and watch a master at work.”
***
Billy, now returned from his outing with Fanny, joined Warnaby and Mrs. Lackington, who reeled him in with the offer of a cool lemonade. He took a long, thirsty pull.
“I was just saying, Mr. Doofus, how strange that Mr. Warnaby would not have met you at the Ox & Cocks in town.”
“I’m a Cambridge man myself,” said Warnaby, “but not above consorting with your sort of member.”
Billy covered his mouth with his hand to keep lemonade from spraying out. “Could we maybe leave my member out of this?”
“So, what are your plans, Mr. Doofus?” Mrs. Lackington was straight to the point. “Now that your studies are behind you.”
“Um, well, that one who helps the vicar—?”
“The curate?” said Warnaby.
“Yes, that one.”
Warnaby lit on an idea. “As it happens, Mr. Doofus, I know of a quiet little place, not too far from here, with an opening that might suit you!”
Billy couldn’t believe it, the dude just never stopped. “I’ll find my own openings, thanks.” He spotted Reverend Tudor, excused himself, and rushed away.
***
“I like you, Mr. Doofus.” Reverend Tudor had been standing alone, watching his son pull petals off a flower, one by one. He was glad for the company. “Have you considered a future in the clerical profession? We could always use a good Oxford man.”
“I’m not really, you know, over-the-top Oxford. Like some people.”
“I find that refreshing.” Tudor watched his son blow each petal into the air.
Billy followed his gaze. “He’s so sweet, your son.”
The reverend turned to him. “You are quite a tender soul, aren’t you, Mr. Doofus?”
“I’m actually starting to wonder if maybe I am.” He took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair. “I was wondering about the clergy, actually, maybe starting as a curate, whatever he does—”
“Ha! Sometimes I wonder too!” Tudor laughed. “Let’s see, I suppose one could say the curate is a young man of mild promise, indifferent ability, and little consequence—”
“I can relate.”
“Whose chief duty is to lighten the vicar’s burdens, by which I mean, his more tedious obligations—keeping his teapot full . . .”