10 #2
And so they had all dispersed, everyone to their bedchambers to sleep.
All except for Iris, who could not stand the thought of being cooped up just then, her anxiety having spiked dreadfully over their new plan.
She was familiar with balls, had attended many during her one London season.
And just the remembrance of those occasions had her heart pounding in her chest and her skin going clammy.
She had been a fool back then to beg her mother for a season, had been stupid to think she could handle such events.
She had never been good in crowds, after all, had always panicked in close social situations.
She had been tired of being different, had wanted for once in her life to experience things like other girls did.
After much persuading her mother had reluctantly agreed.
What had followed had been the worst weeks of Iris’s life.
Well, worst up to that point, at least. Perhaps if she had not felt so exhausted and vulnerable, and yet too prideful to cry off her ill-thought-out plan, she would not have met her husband, would not have been duped into thinking he was a good man, would not have agreed to a rushed courtship and wedding.
No, she would be blissfully ignorant that a man who promised to love and cherish you could turn on you so quickly.
But she would not think of Timothy now. Nor would she remember the torturous balls that had led to her catastrophic marriage.
Lord Durand’s event would not be like those other times, she told herself as her legs ate up the landscape with the hopeless wish she could outrun her anxious thoughts.
She was not a debutante expected to attract dance partners, all while under the scrutiny of half the ton. Surely she could manage this.
But no matter how she attempted to console herself, she knew the thoughts for the lies they were.
It had not been the expectations placed on her or talking to scores of unfamiliar people or dancing with strange men that had been the major source of her anxiety, though they had certainly added to it.
No, the main source had been the crush of bodies and constant murmur of conversation and the shrill laughter, all accompanied by music that swelled over it all in a horrible cacophony.
It had filled her head to the point it had been excruciating, feeling as if someone were driving a hot pick into her head and running needles over her body.
And wouldn’t Lord Durand’s ball have the same effect? All the conversation and fake laughter, all the music, bodies swirling and twirling and making her head spin?.? .? .
For a brief moment panic threatened her again.
She stopped in the middle of the wildflower field, pressing a hand over her pounding heart, forcing herself to breathe slowly and easily.
They would not be there to socialize. No, they would be there to sneak off while the ball was in full swing, to disappear into the private parts of the house, to avoid those places where the merriment was occurring.
Those assurances, however, did little to waylay her anxiety.
She started off again, legs pushing through the flora, blindly moving, anything to escape her quickly spiraling thoughts.
And so she did not see the person crouched just beneath the shade of an oak tree until she tripped over them.
Which she did not realize until she was on the ground and looking up at the thick, reaching branches and full canopy of leaves above her.
“Oh!” a high voice cried near her ear. “Oh my! Are you all right?”
A young person somewhere between girlhood and adulthood leaned over her, dark eyes wide in a face slack from shock.
Iris opened her mouth to assure her she was, in fact, fine. But nothing emerged.
“Oh goodness,” the girl fretted, hands flapping uselessly as she looked Iris over, as if she were afraid to touch her and do more damage. “Should I fetch someone? Mayhap I should get my mother. No, she would not be able to help. Perhaps my brother? Yes, that’s it, I’ll fetch my brother.”
Before the girl could rise, however, Iris managed to regain her ability to speak.
“There’s no need,” she croaked. “I’m fine, truly.”
She struggled to rise. The girl was there in an instant, arm about her back, reaching up to pull leaves from Iris’s hair when they finally rose to stand. Her busyness, while unexpected, was strangely calming.
“I am so sorry I caused you to trip,” the girl said, tugging a small branch from the mass of pinned curls. “I shouldn’t have been hidden in the flowers like that.”
“I’m the one who should be apologizing,” Iris replied, dusting off her skirts. “I was not looking where I was going. But what were you doing, hiding in the flowers?”
The girl flushed. “I’m certain it would not interest you.
” Despite her words, she picked up a small notebook from the ground, holding it out to Iris with a peculiar eagerness.
Bemused, Iris flipped it open and was met with sketches of flora, just as she had in hers.
But that was where the similarity ended.
These drawings were not quick and rough, drafted with more passion than skill, interspersed with close, cramped writing.
No, these sketches were painstakingly rendered, the detail in them stunning to behold.
“Oh,” she breathed, eyes caressing the bright pink clusters of flowers on the page, “what a stunning rendition of Trifolium pratense .”
The girl moved closer. “A Trifoli-what-now?”
“Trifolium pratense, also known as red clover.” She ran her finger along the bloom. “Most people believe this is one flower with many petals. In truth it is what is called an inflorescence, a cluster of individual flowers on a single stem.”
The girl moved closer, nearly resting her head on Iris’s shoulder. “I wasn’t aware of that.” She flipped to another page sporting a plant with bright yellow flowers. “And what of this one?”
“That is Lotus corniculatus , also known as bird’s-foot trefoil.”
“And this one?” she demanded, her excitement growing as she revealed a flower with wide, brilliant orange petals.
“That is Anagallis arvensis , otherwise known as the scarlet pimpernel.”
“My goodness,” the girl said, bouncing on her toes in her enthusiasm, looking at Iris with something much like respect. “You know so much about plants. How did you come to learn it all?”
Iris blushed at the praise. People did not typically accept her knowledge with any grace.
She was wont to talk too much when the subject arose, spewing facts faster than her brain could sort them.
It inevitably led to blank stares and yawns and quick excuses to leave the moment she paused to draw breath.
Even the Widows, who encouraged her thirst for knowledge, had been known to take on glazed expressions when she droned on too long.
Yet here was this girl asking to hear more. Iris glanced at her, confused, only to be met with a mirror of the same passion she felt when she was particularly fascinated by some new bit of knowledge. She swallowed hard, her chest warming.
“My mother was a botanist,” she explained in a thick voice.
“Most of what I learned was at her knee. Most especially of the local flora. The morality surrounding the methods many adventurers and botanists use to steal specimens from other countries, often exploiting the native people in the process, led us to focusing our efforts much closer to home.”
“Oh, no wonder you have such incredible knowledge,” the girl said, wide-eyed. “You must have been learning all your life.”
“I have, yes.”
The girl looked wistfully at her book. “I’m just beginning to learn. It seems I have far to go.”
“I can teach you,” Iris blurted. Truly, how wonderful it would be to talk to someone who was as passionate as she was, to share knowledge without worrying she was boring the other person?
The girl’s eyes widened, her face seeming to light up from within. “Would you really?” she breathed.
That thickness was back in her voice when she replied, “Absolutely.”
Some hours later the girl looked up from the meticulous notes she was taking, peering at the sky a moment before she gasped.
“Oh goodness,” she exclaimed, glancing about, “Mama will be furious I was out so long.”
Iris finally took stock of her surroundings.
When they had begun their conversation, the sun had been high in the sky, the early summer air so warm that their shady spot beneath the old oak had been a relief.
Now, however, the horizon was taking on rosy hues, the descent of the sun coming fast, their shady spot having grown chill without them realizing it.
She stood, helping the girl up, and tucked her shawl firmly about her shoulders. “We’d best get you home, then,” she declared.
The girl began gathering her things, the notebook disappearing into a voluminous bag along with a small box of watercolors, pencils, brushes, and several specimens she had collected throughout their day together. “But there is still so much I wish to ask you,” she fretted.
“We can meet again.”
“We can? Truly?”
Iris smiled at the girl’s enthusiasm. “Yes, truly. But let us get you home quickly, or your mother may not allow it.”
A thought that prodded the both of them to move quicker. Truly, Iris had not had such a delightful day in too long. So often she was alone in her interests, having no one to share her excitement and enthusiasm with.
Now, however, she had found someone. And it was the most incredible feeling. She felt, for the first time since her mother’s death, as if she had a kindred spirit.
They moved through the trees, their footsteps quickening as the landscape grew darker.
Finally the soft, golden glow of lanterns penetrated the deepening shadows.
They exited the tree line, and there was a small cottage before them, with a neat garden in front and ivy climbing up the brick face.
As they crossed the dirt road, the door was suddenly thrown open, and there stood a diminutive woman haloed by the candlelight behind her.
“I was growing so worried,” she woman said, hurrying forward. Her movements were stiff as she took the girl’s hands in hers, a slight tension in her mild features.
“I’m sorry, Mama,” the girl said. “But I have made a friend, and we quite lost track of the time.”
Iris expected anger or frustration or coldness that she had influenced her child in such a way. But there was only kindness and welcome in the older woman’s features. She smiled, the tiredness in her eyes seeming to disappear in an instant.
“A friend, you say? But this is wonderful news. My daughter does not make friends easily, and so you must be a special person indeed. But do come in; we can have a nice chat and you can tell me all about yourself.”
“I’m so sorry,” Iris replied, “But I must be going now. My housemates will worry if I don’t return soon.”
“I will see you tomorrow as planned, won’t I?” the girl piped up.
Iris smiled. “Yes.” Dipping into a curtsy, she made her way out the garden gate and was about to start off down the road when the girl called out to her.
“But we do not even know one another’s names.”
Iris could not help but laugh at that. Leave it to her to be so engrossed in something, she did not think to learn the name of the person engrossed right alongside her. “I am Mrs. Iris Rumford,” she replied. “And you are?”
“Verity,” the girl replied. “Miss Verity Archer. And this is my mother, Mrs. Maeve Archer.”
Iris smiled again, dipping her head and continuing on her way.
Something, however, tickled at the back of her mind, an uncomfortable sensation that she was missing something important.
It was not until she was nearly to Rose House, however, that the forgotten information fell into place, like the mechanisms of a lock, opening the door on just what she had missed: Maeve and Verity Archer?. .? .
Mr. Oliver Beckett’s mother and sister.