A Bloom in Winter (15 page)

She held out her hand, her heart pounding. She could tell from the red hair that this was a Wells, and she couldn’t stand to have another brother against her.

The man looked at her hand for a moment and then he smiled. “It is very nice to make your acquaintance, Miss Buxton. Since both of my brothers are behaving like philistines, I shall introduce myself. I am the second-oldest brother, Samuel. And don’t worry, Miss Buxton, there will be no judgments here.”

It was then that she noticed he was wearing the plain black suit and white collar of a vicar. She almost laughed out loud.

“Please call me Rowena. Cristobel doesn’t yet know who
I am, and I would much rather tell her myself.” She glanced at George, who had the grace to look away.

“That sounds like a good plan to me.”

“What sounds like a good plan?” Margaret Wells asked, coming in the door. “Please don’t be making plans before the girl has a chance to get used to us. She’ll be thinking us stark raving mad.”

Again, Rowena detected the slight burr of Margaret’s voice. Jon’s mother came to her immediately and kissed her in greeting. “A handshake or a bow seems much too formal to greet the girl who has brought such happiness into my son’s life. I never thought anything but those silly aeroplanes could give him that silly smile on his face, but all he has to do is mention your name—”

“Mother!” Jon protested, while Rowena glowed. “Slow down a tetch, next thing I know you’ll be showing her the family Chantilly lace.”

“Don’t give her any ideas,” Samuel said, kissing his mother and wrapping her in a bear hug.

George stood stiffly to one side, apparently irate that his plan to put a wedge between her and Jon hadn’t worked. Rowena watched him under her eyelashes, wondering what his next move would be. He didn’t seem the type who gave up that easily, and Rowena knew that even though Jon would stand by her, it would be best to give him an accounting of exactly who Prudence was and what had happened. Her stomach stirred uneasily. She would tell him the truth without sparing herself. If they were to have any kind of future, they must be honest with each other.

Just then his mother offered everyone a glass of Scotch whisky. “I’ve heard the Americans have started a new tradition called predinner cocktails, and though I rarely think of the word
civilized
in conjunction with the Americans, I think that a very civilized idea, indeed.”

The boys agreed as Cristobel made her entrance into the room. She looked neat in a white wool dress with antique blue silk piping. Rowena could tell the dress had been made over to fit and had been done very well. She knew better than to mention the dress, though, as the girl might be self-conscious of it, and instead complimented her hair as they greeted each other. “However did you get your hair to roll so smoothly?” she asked. “I could never get mine to look so lovely when I did my hair that way.”

The girl flushed pink with pleasure. “You’ll have to ask Mother. I’m afraid I’m a bit of a klutz with a hairbrush.”

“I was so happy to finally get a girl that nothing could stop me from playing with her hair.” Margaret laughed, pouring out drinks. Jon took two glasses and led Rowena to a sofa. Cristobel took a chair close to them. Rowena sipped a bit of whisky and coughed.

“Take it easy,” Jon cautioned. “Relatives make and bottle this stuff in Edinburgh. They send us a case every year because they claim our English blood will turn us to pansies without the right Scotch.”

Rowena smiled. “The glasses are lovely, Mrs. Wells.”

“Please call me Margaret. Yes, my aunt gave them to me when I married. They’re Waterford crystal called the Star of Edinburgh.”

Rowena took another careful sip and gave everyone a weak smile. She couldn’t possibly finish this and yet was afraid to hurt their feelings. It almost felt like a test, especially with George on one side of the room, staring at her with such disdain. Cristobel was a blessing, as she spoke nonstop of horses and riding.

“I desperately want to be asked to go on a hunt next season. I’m a good enough rider to.”

“You’re still a bit young to be in society yet,” Margaret said.

Rowena smiled. “I’m always invited to several during the season. If you like, and your mother doesn’t mind, I would love to have you come with me the next time I go.”

There was a moment of silence and Cristobel blushed up to where her forehead met the chestnut brown of her hair. She looked down at the ground.

Rowena looked from Jon to Margaret, unsure as to what her mistake had been.

“I’m not sure if her new riding habit will be done by that time,” Margaret said, and Cristobel looked up with relief.

“Oh, but the hunts aren’t for months yet,” Rowena said. “And if her habit isn’t done, she can borrow one of Victoria’s. My little sister is about the same size.”

Cristobel brightened. “Oh, that would be wonderful! I’ve been working with Grenadine, my big hunter, and I know he’d be up to the challenge, though not as well trained as some of the horses . . . ”

George threw his glass against the wall, where it shattered. Everyone fell silent.

“We don’t need a damned Buxton giving us charity.”

Cristobel gasped and her blue eyes turned to Rowena.

Margaret stood. “You just broke a valuable glass that meant the world to me, not to mention ruined the set.”

“Father meant the world to me, Mother. Did he mean the world to you? Because you have a funny way of showing it, inviting a Buxton to dine with us.”

Rowena watched as Margaret paled and her fingers tightened
around the glass she held as if she, too, wanted to throw it. “I am not even going to dignify that with an answer. Not one of you loved your father as I did, and if I thought for one moment this girl had anything to do with his death, I would not be welcoming her into my home. But she did not. The only one responsible for your father’s death was your father. Not the barristers or the judges or the Buxtons. I’m sorry if you can’t accept that.”

Margaret threw the rest of her Scotch back. “I’m sorry, Rowena, for this confrontation. George can be as headstrong as a child. When a man takes his own life, it is difficult to understand why and we often try blaming everyone but who was responsible for it.”

An elderly servant appeared through the door. “Dinner is served, madam.”

Margaret gave a grim smile. “I hope you boys have all washed up and remember your manners. We do have a guest tonight for dinner. Rowena, you will still be joining us? Please don’t let this turn you away. Any family with this many boys is bound to have a few rows.”

Rowena stood, her legs shaking. “We had three girls in our family and there were plenty of conflicts among us, as well. Though of a different sort.”

Jon took her arm and led her to the table in the kitchen.

“I hope you don’t mind eating in the kitchen. As I told you when you visited, this is where we spend most of our time.”

Rowena heard a door slam and understood with relief that George decided not to join the rest of the family for dinner. Judging from the relaxation of Margaret’s posture, it appeared his mother was relieved as well.

Cristobel, on the other hand, hadn’t said a word about the argument. Rowena tried to draw her out but had little success, so she turned her attention to the other three diners, trying to learn as much about Jon’s family as she could. William, the fourth son, was two years older than Cristobel and was working with family in Scotland in the whiskey business. Samuel had a church in a little town outside of Theton and was engaged to a parishioner. She also learned that Mr. Dirkes was an old friend of Jon’s mother.

The food was simple, good, and plentiful, and by the time they finished the sour cherry pudding and cream, Rowena was sated.

“Are you sure you won’t have another wee bowl?” Jon’s mother pressed, but Rowena shook her head.

“What I would really like is to see the stables,” she said, squeezing Jon’s knee under the table before he could volunteer.

“Cristobel, why don’t you show me Grenadine?” The look on the girl’s face showed that she knew she was being led, but Rowena had judged that her pride and love of her horse would move her.

The stable was every bit as clean as those at Summerset, though Rowena imagined that the Wellses had limited help. The tack hanging on the wall was worn but well cared for, and the horses appeared fit and healthy. The nicker from the last box in the barn told Rowena exactly which stall Grenadine was in.

Cristobel withdrew a lump of sugar from a box on a nearby shelf and held her hand out to a large bay.

“He’s gorgeous,” Rowena told Cristobel. “He looks intelligent.”

Cristobel nodded and her shoulders relaxed for the first time
since dinner. “Oh, he is. He knows what I want, often before I even let him know. He’s very responsive.”

Rowena mentioned her own horse and added that she often rode the acres of Summerset for hours when things were troubling her.

Cristobel ran her hand up Grenadine’s face and scratched under his forelock. “What kind of troubles would
you
have?”

The emphasis on “you” hinted to Rowena that she hadn’t been forgiven for who she was. With the loss of her own father so fresh, Rowena ached to reach out to this girl whose suffering was so similar. “My father died five months ago. It was completely unexpected, as he had always been healthy. I miss him so much it hurts to breathe sometimes.”

Cristobel climbed up the gate to get better access to her horse, no doubt forgetting about her newly remade dress. She didn’t look at Rowena, but she could tell that the girl was listening intently.

“I let myself be paralyzed by grief, and someone I love ended up being hurt because of it . . . ” Her voice trailed off and she swallowed hard.

“Why are you telling me this?” Cristobel asked, her voice low.

Rowena walked over to the stall next to Grenadine’s where a pretty chestnut mare stood quietly. “I don’t know. Maybe to let you know that other people have suffered and felt the whole world shift, too.”

“It’s different,” Cristobel whispered fiercely. “Your father didn’t want to leave you. Mine killed himself.”

She kept her face away from Rowena, and Rowena knew the girl was crying.

“I know what it’s like to be angry with him for leaving,” Rowena said.

Cristobel wiped the tears from her face and turned back to Rowena. “Will you really take me hunting this summer?”

Rowena smiled and held out her hand. “Of course. When I’m not flying, that is.”

Cristobel picked up the lantern and they exited the barn. The chill darkness hit Rowena and she shivered. Cristobel latched the barn door behind them.

“Is Jon really teaching you how to fly an aeroplane?”

Rowena tilted her head back and looked at the stars in the winter sky. “Yes. Soon I’ll be able to fly in the sky all by myself.” She smiled. “I can’t wait for that day.”

P
rudence hung her husband’s shirt up to dry on a line strung from one end of the cellar to the other. She shared the cellar with the four other families who rented rooms above the greengrocer and the hardware shop. Only on Tuesdays was Prudence able to come down here and do her washing.

A large basin split into two separate sinks sat in the back of the cellar under the one dingy window. Attached to the rim of the divider was a hand-turned wringer that in theory was supposed to wring the soap and dirt out of the clothing, but in reality did neither very well. Prudence had developed a rash after wearing underthings washed in the cheap laundry soap she had bought, and now she had to do all her finer clothes in the bathroom basin upstairs.

The cellar itself was a place from hell where Prudence imagined rats made their home, though she hadn’t seen evidence of them. One of the tenants kept the basement, the stairs, and the hallway clean in exchange for a rent deduction, and whoever it was seemed to be fairly conscientious about it. It wasn’t the filth that sent shivers up her spine, it was the lack of light and having only one way in and out. If there were a fire . . . Prudence shuddered and picked up her pace. Because of the boiler that heated
the entire building, the cellar was warm enough, and in the winter the clothing dried fairly quickly. In the summer, she would no doubt join the rest of the East End and use the ropes and pulleys that ran out her bedroom window to a wall on the other side of the street. If she weren’t so conscious of every penny she spent, she would splurge and buy herself one of those new electric machines that emptied in the sink.

She wasn’t the only one conscious of their money. It had become an obsession with Andrew to see how little of her money they actually had to use. She put her foot down when he wanted to work an extra day a week. “You need the time to study,” she told him firmly, and he had to concede that she was right.

Prudence filled the right sink with water and then carefully measured out the bluing Muriel had given her to whiten their whites. She sprinkled it into the water and then added their sheets and Andrew’s undershirts. Because of the cheap laundry soap, the sheets had taken on a dingy, yellow cast. She would let them soak for a bit to get them really white. Rubbing her lower back, she carried the load she’d just wrung to the line and hung it up. Then she took the basket upstairs with her. She had lost her first basket after leaving it down here, and though no one admitted to taking it, she knew it had to be someone who had a key. By unwritten rule, the clothing was never touched, but anything else was fair game.