6. Plants, Like Men, Need Regular Feeding #2
A cornet within the dragoons, he’d been transferred and demoted upon Miles’ testimony for inciting violence in a Spanish tavern – rather than on the battlefield.
After Waterloo, he had, according to the file, been admitted to one of the London army hospitals that were full of such wounded men.
But which hospital, it failed to say. He would–
“You bear a most pensive frown, my lord.”
He turned to a smiling Mrs Tait at the head of the table.
“My apologies, I was thinking on the many wounded soldiers.”
Dair groaned.
This was why he didn’t do dinner occasions.
He’d make amends with compliments. “You have a magnificent conservatory, Mrs Tait. With such a fine specimen of Passiflora alata.”
Dair rolled his eyes.
Mrs Tait’s brow creased. But in a polite way.
“The red-flowered climber,” supplied Miss Seymour, “with the unusual blooms and sweet scent.”
“Ah.” His hostess’ eyes gleamed. “I’m afraid I’ve no idea of their names, my lord, as I simply ask the gardener for plants that are glorious, fragrant and colourful.”
“And it is glorious, Mrs Tait.”
She beamed. “From you, my lord, that is indeed a compliment as I’ve heard you are a keen botanist?”
“I have an avid interest, indeed. Whilst serving on the Continent, I pressed and catalogued the plants I found. Soon, I hope to publish my findings.”
Dair scrubbed a hand over his face.
“It’s truly remarkable and dedicated,” said Miss Seymour softly, “how you managed to catalogue any plants at all given the circumstances.”
Miles twisted. And glared at her.
Her skin gleamed in the candlelight, especially her decolletage which was low and something he endeavoured not to stare at. Short-puffed sleeves and a tight sash under her bosom completed a frock that would cause a monk to reconsider.
And he was a few rungs lower than a monk.
“Army life,” he finally responded, “is either utter chaos or utter tedium. Botany has been my passion since I was young and so I turned to it whenever I could.”
Mrs Tait gave a tentative cough. “Was it a… I hope you do not find this too personal, but was it a dichotomy? The beauty of nature when war surrounded you?”
“Not too personal at all. And no. It calmed me, in truth. I once had a musket wound to my leg after a skirmish in La Nava.” Dair shook his head.
“Nothing too grave but I was laid up for a while. We were camped in the middle of the countryside and as soon as I could walk, I’d head for the surrounding meadow, couldn’t bear to stay idle.
I’d collect roots and plants for the surgeons to make use of and specimens for my own enjoyment.
Some of my fellow officers considered me peculiar, limping around with a coat-full of greenery, but…
I myself believe the time spent in meadows healed me quicker than any surgeon’s poultice.
I cannot explain why or how, only that being alone yet surrounded by the hum of nature and the scent of earth… helped.”
“The physician treats, but nature heals,” Verity said quietly.
Miles grimaced. She’d always been able to explain his ramblings.
It was bloody irritating.
“Just so, Miss Seymour.” He let out a breath. “Collecting local plants also served to recall who I was.”
Mrs Tait cocked her head. “How so?”
“To be a soldier, Mrs Tait, was not my original vocation.” Verity’s knife clattered to the floor but a footman soon set it to rights and he continued.
“But once a soldier, it is far too easy to become defined as such – an automaton without thought or emotion, no purpose other than to destroy. Yet collecting plants reminded me of who I was beneath. Not just a soldier, but also a man with this interest and a life back home. I encouraged my men to also find a pursuit: one wrote a diary for his wife, another two played chess, one whittled wood for the pieces. It helped remind us what we fought for. It helped remind us that behind the grime and pistols, we were just men.”
“Not just men,” said Mrs Tait, “but exceptional ones.” Then she stood, the rest of the table quietening as she raised her glass.
“A toast is in order, I believe. To our Captain Firth here, now the Earl of Stonewold. And to all the brave men who fought for our freedom – those who returned and those who fell.”
The gentlemen solemnly stood and the ladies bowed their heads, for all had lost someone to the war.
After wine was sipped and expressions re-composed, Miles twisted, his limited manners prodding him to at least say something. “You had the words that I did not, Miss Seymour. I can order a hundred men to battle but explaining myself at a dinner can often be beyond me.”
There, he could be distantly polite.
Her lips curved.
Ones he’d kissed a summer long ago till they were shining like raspberries in morning dew.
He shook his head at such winsome flim-flam.
“I must admit to you…” Her lashes fluttered up. “Those words were not mine but a philosopher’s. And I recall you once said you’d rather be trekking a wolf-infested gorge than attend a dinner.”
He recalled that also but was astonished she did. “All true but now I’m an earl, I will have to learn how to steer a course between my responsibilities and my interests.”
“Of course. But I hope you will soon be able to publish your botanical findings?”
“I hope so too. I was elected into the Horticultural Society a few months back and they are to aid me in my endeavours.”
“How wonderful.”
Her smile was bright and dazzling and he clenched his fists under the table, would never stand down his guard. Despite her siege.
“Indeed,” he replied curtly.
“I thought…” Her lips wilted a little. “I worried that maybe you had abandoned botany during the war.”
He frowned. “Not at all. And once my estates are settled and I have hired a few more land stewards, I hope to venture to Portugal again, and then further afield to the Americas on a plant-collecting expedition.”
“Oh, that’s…wonderful too.”
Miles studied her visage. Hemlock came to mind: beautiful white florets hiding a heart that could stop your breath – permanently. Or, at the very least, give you a nasty rash.
“I recall you wished to travel also, Miss Seymour,” he proffered as idle conversation. “Did you succeed?”
He watched her fingers – there was brown paint on the middle one – toy with a bread bun until it was demolished into crumbs.
“No,” she finally whispered. “Only…only once to the east coast. Since then, I haven’t been further afield than London.”
“But I thought after your father died that you were immediately travelling west to Devon…or Cornwall with the intention to wed Mr Locksley?”
She startled. “L-Locksley? Oh…er… No, I didn’t…as it turned out.”
Miles narrowed his eyes as hers shifted around like a married chap who’d been caught with his hand up the maid’s skirt.
Of course, seven years was a goodly time but surely a woman would remember the circumstances of a man she’d been betrothed to? Or was Miss Seymour so inconstant that she fell in and out of love at the drop of a handkerchief? Hardly recalling the trail of destruction?
“Miles?”
Forcing a smile, he turned his head. “Alasdair?”
“Mrs Tait and I were just discussing an outing for all of us before autumn sets in. Have you any suggestions?”
Miles narrowed his eyes. What was he up to? “Er… Brighton?”
“Too far,” grumped Viscount Shadwell from the young Miss Tait’s other side.
“Astley’s Amphitheatre then?” suggested Miss Tait.
“No!” shrieked Miss Nash before she cleared her throat. “Clowns.”
Everyone nodded in agreement.
“How about the Hanover Square Rooms. For a concert?”
“Too…dark?” ventured Miss Seymour. “There’s time enough for that in winter. We should enjoy the rare autumn sunshine.”
“I know of a fair on Michaelmas Day,” said Alasdair, “to be held at Kingston-upon-Thames.”
Everyone looked to one another and since no one declared an objection, prior engagement, or hadn’t the time to think of one…
“Excellent!” gushed Mrs Tait. “We could all convene at…say the corner of Hyde Park? Cumberland Gate? And travel together. What a delight!”
Dair took on that sly look of his. “Miles, what say you? We could escort Miss Nash and Miss Seymour in your new town carriage?”
“No!” The fierce refusal had come from Miss Seymour herself. “I-I… Thank you, Mr Firth, but I always travel in my own phaeton. Always.”
Miles felt rather affronted since his new Houlditch and Hawkins carriage had every comfort.
Their hostess nodded with a smile. “I do so admire you, Miss Seymour. I see you dashing along in your open phaeton, so confident with the reins. Even wet weather does not deter you.”
Frowning, Miles was about to ask why anyone would get wet for no good reason when Miss Nash leaned over the table.
“It does have a half-hood, my lord. And it’s just that the seatbox of the phaeton has all the paraphernalia we ladies need, you see. Flasks, shawls.”
“Spare shoes,” added Miss Seymour. “Not to mention books. And fans.”
“Ribbons, bonnets. Other such fripperies.”
“Gloves.” Miss Seymour pursed her lips. “And cushions.”
Miss Nash smiled brightly. “You know how us ladies are, my lord.”
Miles’ frown deepened: the Miss Seymour he’d known hadn’t been one for all those gee-gaws and fripperies. “Of course.”
Service of the Crown, especially when he’d been promoted to captain, had taught Miles much: to endure discomfort without complaint. To note careless words in idle chat. And to become adept at detecting lies.
Miss Seymour and Miss Nash had lied.
He sipped the excellent wine, stared up to the blackness of night beyond the glass and could not help but wonder…
Why?