In Some Parts Of Life, Flowers Are Scattered, With Profusion, The Road Is Smooth, And The Prospect Pleasant But In Others （And I Fear The Greater Number） The Road Is Rugged, Beset With Thorns And Brie
“IN SOME PARTS OF LIFE, FLOWERS ARE SCATTERED, WITH PROFUSION, THE ROAD IS SMOOTH, AND THE PROSPECT PLEASANT: BUT IN OTHERS (AND I FEAR THE GREATER NUMBER) THE ROAD IS RUGGED, BESET WITH THORNS AND brIARS, AND CUT BY TORRENTS.”
“Ah, there’s Eleanor.”
Eleanor?
Miles followed the direction of Dair’s tilted champagne glass through the crowded art exhibition marquee to a radiant brunette conversing with a gaggle of Ton matrons.
“Who’s Eleanor?”
“The friend who invited me. And hence you. The Duchess of Somersby.”
Duchess?
Wearing a dress of lilac, the lady reminded Miles of a field of French lavender: graceful, vibrant yet serene. “A friend, you say?” And he raised a single brow at Dair.
“No, no. Nothing untoward. I knew her husband, Laurence. We met on the Grand Tour and became fast friends. When he married Eleanor, we kept up correspondence and if I returned to England, we’d all dine together.
Then Laurence died. Bad lungs.” Dair breathed deep.
“I’d introduce you but I’ve just seen Mother and Jeremy heading for the refreshment’s table. ”
Neither Miles nor his cousin had been aware that Aunt Mildred would be here in her capacity as patron of The Society of Genteel Art for Genteel Ladies…
Miles sipped his champagne.
This marquee had the feel of something far grander than canvas and poles should allow.
To his soldier’s way of thinking, canvas existed to keep a regiment dry, and hence his only yardstick for this was his army tent – which fared rather badly in comparison, having lacked polished wooden flooring underfoot, white silk elegantly wafting above, the ends drawn open for afternoon light and a soft breeze carrying the scent of late-blooming roses.
The Duke and Duchess of Rothwell had greeted them, the duke urbane and crisply dressed while the duchess glowed with the pride of a hostess whose event was a decided success, filled as it was with artists, patrons and hangers-on like himself and Dair.
Critics gestured, artists expounded upon their raison d’être and the air was filled with admiration and the faintest whiff of competition.
As Dair had said, the exhibition was for artworks of the four-legged fraternity, and a cluster of equine portraits had caught Miles’ eye: fine detailed studies of glossy coats and intelligent eyes.
He’d even purchased one by the sister-in-law of the Duke of Rothwell himself – a magnificent horse mid-gallop, a feat that other artists often struggled with, the hooves all over the place.
“Mother is heading in this direction.”
“A tactical retreat?”
“I’d say so.” Dair turned on his heel. “And never fret,” he called over his shoulder, “I took the precaution of bringing a hip flas–” A tall fellow appeared out of nowhere, barged into his cousin, hissed something or other and then continued on.
Miles frowned but Dair, with unperturbed stride, headed across the lawn and to a bench that backed onto the glorious shrubbery.
“What was that about?” Miles also took a pew. “That chap in the marquee?”
Dair’s eyes flicked up, now glacial. “Lord Flitton. Thinks I cheated him at cards the other night.”
Perhaps Miles should not ask but… “And did you?”
“What do you think?” Dair’s features were as tight as a storm-stretched sail. “How do you imagine I win so often?”
Likely it was meant in jest but…
Miles studied his cousin Alasdair as though he were a plant, dissecting him to discern what lay beneath the stylish petals and protective sepals.
And he saw cunning, astuteness and determination. But no deceit.
Plants and flowers survived because they used all they had to their advantage, their beauty, scent and enticing nectar, to exploit mankind and insects alike.
If plants were people, Miles oft thought they’d be the cleverest and craftiest of the kingdom.
“No, I do not believe you cheat, Dair. I think you most likely have hidden mathematical genius.”
A flicker of a smile appeared. “Perhaps.”
They both looked out over the Gardens and indeed there was much to admire in this doubtless brief October sunshine.
Wide flower borders surrounded the central grass on three sides with a backdrop of taller trees and magnificent shrubs, whilst hidden paths weaved between them and the high perimeter brick wall.
The house was Palladian in style, built by the Fourth Earl of Chesterfield some seventy years back.
It boasted a sizeable first-floor balcony with grand twin steps leading down to the Gardens and the meandering Ton – including Mrs Tait and her daughter.
Miles inhaled the scent of autumn. “I’m off to see this Prince fellow tomorrow eve. Any advice? I’m sure you’ve attended his hell a time or ten.”
“My advice is don’t go.”
“I need his help to find someone.” As dawn had risen, a grubby lad had found his way to the Stonewold kitchens and delivered a red-scripted message from the Prince. It had said to call upon him at the Pall Mall gaming hell, though without such overuse of words.
“Just don’t sign your soul away by being in his debt.”
“Not keen on him then?”
Dair flung his champagne to the shrubbery, slipped a hand inside his jacket and withdrew the hip flask. “Keep your wits about you, that’s all.” And poured a good measure. “Debt can be the very devil to get out of.”
Miles frowned but his eye was caught by…
Walking from the house and pausing beside a late-flowering aster was Miss Verity Seymour. A surprise as he’d been led to believe by Dair, amongst others, that she did not attend events. But perhaps she was exhibiting one of those feline works of hers.
She wore a deep-yellow summer dress, resembling a buttercup in full, shameless bloom, heavy with nectar, petals enticing him to pluck her.
Miles filled his lungs, the sweet fragrance of a late-blooming Lonicera periclymenum not aiding his thoughts one bit.
Why did she no longer paint flowers?
Her watercolours were so magical and lifelike, as though you could lift the bloom from the page and smell its scent.
An everlasting flower imprinted upon paper.
She caught his eye, seemed unsurprised to see him here, before she turned to the marquee.
“Dair, we need a plan. Miss Seymour’s here.”
“Is she?” His cousin looked at him askance. “Well, all mine go awry.”
Miles tapped his thigh. “I’ll come up with initial manoeuvres of concealed approach but we should expect to adapt to circumstance once in the field.”
Verity smoothed her skirts and slowed her breath.
The exhibition had been delightful, the Gardens magnificent, the champagne dry and the marquee bathed in light. Many had praised her portrait of Cleopatra and further commissions had been promised.
And not that she’d been hiding from Lord Stonewold in any manner, but the extensive gardens and spacious marquee had provided a most convenient separation.
Until that was, she’d been returning from the ladies’ retiring room and caught sight of him glaring at her from a garden bench. So she’d re-entered the marquee in search of her cousin.
But Sephi was rolling her eyes over the shoulder of some gentleman.
At Verity’s arrival, said gentleman startled, eyes darting like a pesky fly before he slipped off with indecorous haste.
“Who was that?” she asked as a footman approached with a silver salver of champagne-filled glasses – accepted without hesitation.
“Pah.” Sephi waved an arm of Pomona-green silk. “Some artist who wished to paint me.”
“Oh, how wonderf–”
“Nude. And as his mistress. He’d heard the gossip.”
Verity pressed her lips tight. “I’ll eviscerate him with my art scalpel.”
“That’s gracious of you,” said Sephi with a pat on the arm. “But fear not, I was quite eviscerating myself. To some men, we women are merely categories. I am no longer in the potential wife category and so they can think of nothing else that I could be but a mistress.”
“And what would you like to be?”
“Maybe that’s the problem. I don’t know either.” Sephi sighed. “Perhaps I ought to have a torrid affair.”
Verity nigh spluttered her champagne. “What?”
“Well, why not? I may as well embrace being ruined. Search for someone…someone who makes me shiver. But I cannot think of anyone of my acquaintance who does that.”
Verity’s eye fell upon Mr Firth as he and a lady entered the marquee. With Miles. “What about Mr Firth?”
“He is handsome, stylish and I enjoy his company but there is something too cold in his eyes and I–”
“Miss Seymour?”
Verity startled. “Lord Stonewold!” How had he done that? With the lady. And Mr Firth. Miles was clothed in black except for a waistcoat of deepest sapphire, embroidered with clusters of dainty posies: rose, primrose and forget-me-nots.
Mr Firth gave a flourishing bow. “I wished you both to meet a dear friend of mine. Miss Seymour, Miss Nash, may I introduce the Duchess of Somersby.”
Gosh.
Verity and Sephi both sunk into low curtseys.
For scarcely a mention of this duchess had escaped Aunt’s fond readings from the gossip columns this year.
A lowly vicar’s daughter, she had married the young Duke of Somersby at the age of seventeen; it had been the talk of London. Alas, a year into the marriage, the duke had died of the lung disease and the duchess had withdrawn from the Ton for nigh three years, only returning to society last season.
“Miss Seymour, a pleasure.”
“Likewise, Your Grace.”
The duchess’ eyes shifted to Sephi. She tilted her head. “Miss…Persephone Nash?”
“Y-yes, Your Grace…”
Her cousin swallowed, shoulders tightening, gaze tumbling to her toes, and Verity reached out to clutch Sephi’s hand, a small comfort against the liable cut direct that would follow from an introduction to such a noble lady.
“I am so pleased to meet you. Both of you.” Her smile was radiant. “And it is too rare, Miss Seymour, to meet a female artist.” Verity noted a violet tinge to her eyes – most arresting.
Sephi frowned but tentatively looked up. “She is most talented, Your Grace.”
The lady’s smile widened. “Which is why I asked Alasdair for the introduction, Miss Seymour, as I hoped you would consider a canine portrait.”