Chapter Six
Ditty took a deep breath, and entered the building. She was immediately hit with an overpowering scent of flowers.
Flowers, everywhere. Roses and sweet lilies, orchids and even early daffodils. There were mixed bouquets lined in order of colour and themed arrangements on her right.
Ditty smiled, her shoulders relaxing as she warmed up in the balmy store. There was something about flowers. She’d never met a florist she didn’t like, and flowers were always there to welcome her home after a long day if her sisters were out working.
There was nothing like a bouquet of flowers to—
‘Well, good morning, Miss Oliver, and how lovely to have you frequenting my little store,’ trilled a woman who had appeared from nowhere wearing an apron with secateurs in the pocket. ‘I wondered how long it would take you to get here!’
Ditty could not help but smile.
It was something she had learned since yesterday, after the odious encounter with that man who seemed intent on nothing more than her ruin.
Everyone at Brexley had been informed—by Mr Cantelli, or by Mrs Fletcher, she did not know which—that she was here scouting out the place for a ball, secrecy vital.
Mrs Fletcher had asked no questions when she had welcomed her back yesterday evening, for which Ditty was grateful.
She had been weary, exhausted by her traipsing up King’s Street, and full of a delicious stew Mr Cantelli—who had told her sternly to call him Reginald—had assured her would be the best she’d ever tasted.
He had been right. That was the trouble; Ditty had not been able to stop herself from having second helpings, and two portions of a delicious doughy dessert.
Her stays were a little tighter that morning and the food had settled like a rock in her stomach by the time she had arrived at the inn, and so she’d had few defences against her landlady’s questions.
Yes, a ball, she had told Mrs Fletcher.
Clearly the word had got around…
‘Now, I am sure you’ll want to see my catalogue, got one of ’em right here,’ the florist sang out, pressing a heavy booklet into Ditty’s hands. ‘But for the right price and with enough notice, I can pretty much create anything, Miss Oliver!’
Ditty grinned. And of course, everyone knew her name.
‘Thank you,’ she said aloud. ‘Miss…?’
‘Oh, everyone round here calls me Miss Vivienne,’ said the florist with a squeak. ‘And you should do the same, too.’
Ditty tried to smile. Finally, someone I can speak to plainly. ‘I need flowers.’
‘Oh, yes, I’d imagine so,’ said Miss Vivienne with a grin.
‘News travels fast in this town. Now, I’ve got a lot of roses coming in, for the Valentine’s Day Festival, you know.
Most of the town decorates its gardens, stoops, doors, shopfronts, you name it.
If you want roses, I’m going to have to have your order soon, so I can make sure there’s enough for you. ’
This was more like it. Practicalities. Ditty nodded. ‘I believe I will need—’
‘Unless you want to go with a different flower?’ interrupted the florist eagerly. ‘Roses are so traditional.’
‘I find roses work,’ said Ditty firmly. She wasn’t going to be talked out of her plan—she had it all laid out.
Miss Vivienne nodded. ‘Now, why don’t we— Oh, hello there! Please do excuse me, Miss Oliver, I shall be right with you. Very important customer…’
She floated away like dandelion seed on the breeze.
Here, it appeared, was a woman after her own heart. Miss Vivienne understood the pressing nature of business, and whoever it was she was off to help, it was clearly an important account.
Here, at least, she could find someone to partner with.
As Miss Vivienne trilled with someone near the door of the store, Ditty wandered. The place was huge, far larger than she had expected from the outside. There were more options than she had seen in a few of the London florists who were on her list, carefully written out in the back of her notebook.
Ideas sparked around her mind, ideas to layer upon her initial spark of genius. A grove—no, a bower! Was Miss Yorke interested in fairy tales? Could she lean into Brexley’s natural inclination toward Valentine’s Day and create something—
Something out of the corner of her eye interrupted Ditty’s thoughts, and she halted her steps. Unsure precisely what had made her feet stop wandering, she returned to her plans. A garland, perhaps. Bouquets had been done, she didn’t want to be too derivative. Or mayhap a throne, made from flowers—
All creative thoughts ceased as she realised what had caught her eye. One of the bouquets was wrapped in newspaper…and blaring out in large type were the words ‘proposal planner.’
Oh, no. Another mention of her in a newspaper article.
Ditty’s stomach clenched. It could be good, she tried to tell herself. It could be complimentary. It could be a lovely review, someone writing to the editor to defend her, something positive…
The trouble was, now she’d seen the words on the printed newspaper, she couldn’t help herself.
‘Oh, that will be lovely! I am sure she’ll love that—and another one, for Avril?’
Ditty did not turn as she lifted the newspaper with a shaking finger. Whoever had just entered the florist, they were clearly courting more than one woman. Bold, in a town as small as Brexley.
Her eyes fell on the article. Even just the headline made her groan.
Proposal Planner Gone To Ground
It is with great astonishment that we report Miss Aphrodite Oliver, the proposal planner who we reported on just days ago, appears to have disappeared. Cowed into hiding, some would say, after such an awful review in this very newspaper.
Our reporter attempted to find Miss Oliver to discuss the accusations made against her by her latest client, only to discover she is no longer in London. Attempts to track down the ‘proposal planner,’ as she likes to call herself, have to date been unsuccessful.
‘Go away,’ said an unnamed woman living at Miss Oliver’s residence. ‘Go and ruin someone else’s life!’
It is of course not this paper’s intention to ruin anyone’s life, and we are astonished at the accusation—but not as astonished as we were to receive several letters from other men who had been duped into purchasing Miss Oliver’s services.
‘She told me romance wasn’t real, that it was only chemical!’ said one unnamed unhappy customer of Miss Oliver’s. ‘When I told her I loved my lady, now wife, she laughed and said it was her job to concoct romance, not believe in it!’
Ditty looked up from the printed newspaper. She didn’t need to read any more.
Well, when it was put like that, she didn’t come across well at all!
And to suggest she had purposefully gone missing!
Was it not more likely that she had been called away?
Ditty tried to lift her chin defiantly, as though the newspaper could see her hiding in a florist in Brexley. She was here, working!
‘Go away. Go and ruin someone else’s life.’
Ditty could not help but smile. That was Thalia, she was sure. There was only one person who spoke like that in anger.
And it was brave, kind of her sister to defend her, but it did not seem to have changed any of the rumours, did it?
Forcing herself to look away from the offending paper, it was most unfortunate that her gaze fell onto another newspaper—and another mention of her name.
Ditty groaned. Surely not another one? Did London not have better things to do than go after a woman like herself?
This headline was, if anything, worse.
Romance Swindler Disappears With Client’s Money
Miss Annabelle Oliver, known as Fitty to her clients and friends—if she had any—has been accused of stealing the money of her clients without delivering the services she promised.
Mr Alexander Matthews, 28, told the Gazette…
Ditty did not bother reading any further. Anyone who got her name that wrong evidently had not done their research. And as for Mr Alexander Matthews! Lying to a newspaper! Stealing his money, indeed! Did the man know how much that many rose petals cost in the depths of winter?
Swallowing hard, Ditty tried to put the newspapers from her mind and stuff them behind a periodical examining the roots of begonias, but it was impossible. Her matchmaking services were ruined—her reputation in tatters.
How could she ever return to London now?
She had to make this proposal a success. Ditty blinked away tears, determined not to permit herself to wallow in sadness, even if the last thing she wanted to do was stay here looking at flowers.
Come on, Aphrodite. I thought you’d be more inventive than that. You’ll put yourself out of business that way!
Ditty’s chest tightened. That was what these people wanted, wasn’t it?
Be cowed into returning. Admit defeat. But she would not allow her family to fall even further into penury; her mother’s grief notwithstanding, the Oliver sisters would not be left stricken and homeless merely because she could not finish a job.
Ditty dashed away a tear forcefully, hating she was crying—and in public! When was the last time she had cried in public? Not since she had been a small child. She’d learnt, after losing her father that tears got you nowhere.
No, she was going to stay. She was going to see this through.
There would be a perfect proposal in Brexley.
* * *
Henry chuckled. ‘I know, I know, I shouldn’t.’
‘And out of your own pocket, too!’ Miss Vivienne chided him, pressing a finger into his chest. ‘You really should buy them wholesale! I can open an account for you, no trouble.’
Henry hesitated. She was probably right.
There probably weren’t that many doctors who became dukes and instead of cavorting off to London to luxuriate in the respect their new title deserved, instead decided to open the Lodge in their estate to the elderly of the town who couldn’t look after themselves…
or many dukes who personally chose and paid for birthday flowers for them all.