Like a Flower in Bloom (16 page)

Miss Templeton and the Admiral took quite a long walk, so after conversing about the stumpery, my conversation with Mr. Stansbury turned toward his other plants, and I asked whether his orchid had not yet bloomed. We had got into quite a discussion about the perils of entrusting our work to colonial correspondents when they returned.

During the drive back to Overwich Hall, I noticed Miss Templeton glancing wistfully at the house. Why didn’t she just ask him for a tour? Perhaps I could help her.

“Miss Templeton said you’ve not been long at Overwich Hall. Have you changed things very much inside?”

“Not much. I must confess that my attentions have been devoted almost entirely to my glasshouse and the stumpery.” He smiled and the conversation ended.

If I had been Miss Templeton, he would not have missed my meaning. She made it seem so easy to ask for something she wanted, and yet it was, in actuality, quite difficult. I supposed the only thing to do was to put the question to him quite plainly. “May we see it?”

A look of mystification swept his features. “We just . . . we just did.”

“I meant the house.”

“Oh! Of course.” By that time we had pulled up in front of it. “Please.” He gestured to the entrance. “Please come in.”

He showed us about the ground floor and led us through his collection of swords and sabers, and then he showed us his clocks and explained to us the inner workings of the gears about which he seemed singularly fascinated. He took a positively gigantic gold watch from a shelf and held it out to Miss Templeton. “What do you say of this one? Do you favor it?”

She was already shaking her head, curls swinging back and forth. “I can’t say I do.” She gestured to a second watch, which had been displayed next to the first. “That one is much better.”

“It only has half the shine.”

“Yes, but it probably cost three times as much, didn’t it?”

He nodded.

“It’s not the shine; it’s the quality that counts.”

He bowed. “I’ll have to remember that.”

The Admiral became rather absorbed by a clock Mr. Stansbury said was fashioned from ormolu. I stayed with him while Miss Templeton and Mr. Stansbury wandered on into the front
hall. Eventually, we met up and toured all three stories before Mr. Stansbury walked with us out to the drive.

Miss Templeton waved gaily to him as we drove away, and then she sat back against the cushions, a satisfied smile upon her face. “So, how did I do?”

“How did you do what?”

“I took care of your problem.”

The Admiral was looking at her with alarm. “What problem was that?”

“The stumpery!”

He hmphed and then leaned back against his seat. Folding his hands over his stomach, he closed his eyes.

She continued on. “Mr. Stansbury is a very stubborn man, but at least he’s consented to having it grown over by vines. All in all, I consider the outcome quite satisfactory. Oh! And I convinced him to invite the watercolor society to draw in his glasshouse Friday next. Don’t you think that kind of him? He’s agreed to consider our drawings for inclusion in the publication of a guidebook. He intends to offer tours of the glasshouse once his collections have been completed.”

“You mean he’s to be the editor? I suppose he’ll be paying for the illustrations he selects, then?” If that were the case, perhaps I would reconsider my opinion of the watercolor society.

“
Paying
? For a drawing?” Her laugh burst forth and bubbled out over the gloved hand she had clasped to her mouth. “I hardly think so! The honor is in being invited, and the payment is in the pleasure of being chosen.”

“For which such work, I have been accustomed to being paid by a publisher in the past.”

“Oh, it’s not meant to be a published work.”

“It won’t be printed then? Or bound?”

“I’m quite sure that it won’t be.” She didn’t sound so certain.

“Will it not be sold?”

“Only to visitors. As a limited edition, perhaps. Or maybe on a subscription basis.”

“For which work I am normally given a premium.”

“Don’t be so dour, Miss Withersby. It’s all in fun. And in spite of our agreement about your not coming to the watercolor society meetings, I do think you should come to this one.” We had reached Dodsley Manor. She clasped my hand, however, as she descended and would not let it go. She leaned close to my ear. “It will be just the thing to make your father think your attentions have been captivated. Say you’ll come.”

“I will.”

“You’ll be so glad!”

A
fter a week’s worth of card parties, teas, church committee meetings, and other events to which Miss Templeton had subscribed me, not to mention those evening obligations to which the Admiral insisted upon taking me, I found myself longing for the solitary pleasure of contemplating a species heretofore unknown to science. But Friday found me packing up my drawing paper, my pen and brushes, as well as my pocket glass and colors for the drawing party at Mr. Stansbury’s glasshouse. I decided to take the microscope as well. That way I would be able to really see what I was drawing.

“What are you doing there?” Mr. Trimble was looking at me, his brow furrowed in what I took to be disapproval.

“I’m gathering my tools for the drawing expedition.”

“Expedition? What expedition?”

“The one to Mr. Stansbury’s glasshouse.”

“You can’t take the microscope.”

“I don’t see why not. It’s not that heavy.”

“It’s not a matter of weight; it’s a matter of propriety.”

“If I’m going to draw, then I need to understand what it is that I’m seeing.”

“Most women just look at a flower to draw it. They don’t feel the need to examine it.”

“Which may be why most drawings I’ve been shown are regrettably lacking in accuracy. Do you know Miss Templeton has a dress that is embroidered with strawberry flowers that are missing some of their petals?” Or perhaps it was the case that they had too many petals. It was difficult to decide since I didn’t know what variety they were meant to be.

“And I suppose you told her so.”

“I most certainly did. Who would want to wear a dress with inaccurate flowers?”

“Really, you are the most . . . most . . .” He gave up and simply shook his head.

I clutched the microscope to my chest and left the house before he could say anything further.

As the expedition was to be undertaken by the watercolor society as a whole, the Admiral had begged off going, although he did allow me the use of his carriage. Miss Templeton was already engaged in the sketching of a palm when I arrived. Rather than joining her, I turned my attentions to some orange blossoms. I was well on my way to completing a sketch when Mr. Stansbury approached. He tipped his chin in the direction of Miss Templeton, who was nibbling on her lip as she drew.

“She’s a marvelous girl, isn’t she?”

“Charming?” That was one of those words Mr. Trimble was so fond of using.

“Yes. Most charming!” He went on for several minutes about the virtues of Miss Templeton, but I confess that I hardly heard
a word because I was endeavoring to determine the relationship between the calyx and the corolla of the orange flower. From glancing at the sketches of the society members around me, I saw that most of them failed to grasp that the relationship was fixed in each species. Some of the drawings had a ridiculous number of teeth to corolla.

I was beginning to realize, however, that the Admiral’s golden rule must not be taken too literally. After my argument with the drawing tutor about the presence, or lack thereof, of pistils and stamens, I had concluded that my information about teeth and corolla might not be welcomed as much as I would have expected.

Mr. Stansbury moved on to speak to Miss Templeton, and I was left alone to my work for quite some time, until he moved on from her to speak to his other guests. At that point, she began to gesture for me. Laying down my brush, I went to talk to her.

“You let him escape!”

“I what?”

“Mr. Stansbury. You let him escape! How is word going to get around that he’s flirting with you if you don’t flirt with him?”

“
Flirt
with him? We were invited here to draw. And that’s what I’m doing. That is, I
was
drawing, but now I’m ready to begin coloring. I was just about to start mixing my paints when—”

She reached out and grabbed my arm, drawing me close. “We were invited here under the
pretext
of drawing, but the whole point was for you to be seen monopolizing his attentions. Really, Miss Withersby, I cannot help you if you will not try to help yourself!” Her words broke off in a hiss.

I glanced off down the aisle where I could see him speaking to Mrs. Bickwith, who was drawing one of his ferns. “I don’t see what I can do about it now . . . unless you want me to color from
memory at home.” I supposed I could do that, but it wouldn’t be half so satisfactory. Though the petals were white, there was a sheen to the leaves that was difficult to capture.

Miss Templeton let out a great sigh. “It’s no good pretending that you wish to marry since your heart just doesn’t seem to be in it. No one—not your father, and most definitely not Mr. Trimble—will be alarmed if it doesn’t seem as if anyone will
ever
ask for your hand.”

She did have a point. “It’s just that it has been so long since I’ve drawn anything at all, save that anemone at the previous society meeting, and—”

“Miss Withersby, I begin to have serious doubts as to the efficacy of our plan.”

She was right. I nodded. “I’ll just . . . I’ll go and . . . What should I say to him?”

She gave me a long, hard look for a moment, and I felt as if I were eight years old again. “Never you mind. I’ll get him and bring him back for you. Just stay right here so I’ll be able to find you.” She squared her shoulders as she slipped her reticule over her wrist. “Oh! I just remembered.” She reached into it and drew out a book, which she thrust into my hand. “You might consider giving this a read sometime soon.”

I held it up to view the title.
“Etiquette?”

“Not, of course, that you don’t already know all of those things, but I always reread the manual myself in preparation for shooting season. Or . . . I used to in any case.” She patted the cover. “Keep it as long as you like! Now then, I’m off to waylay Mr. Stansbury.”

Better her than me. I picked up her drawing pencil and completed her sketch of the palm illustration.

Miss Templeton never did get around to coming back with Mr. Stansbury, although they seemed to have quite a good conversation between them. I had time enough to finish her sketch and then return to my own illustration.

Once home, I made short work of reading the manual Miss Templeton had passed on to me. It began pleasantly enough, with the topic of conversation, by posing the question of how one could aim to be conversant without first having spent the time to consider politics and the travails of men and other questions of philosophy. As I had dedicated my life’s work to becoming ever more philosophical, I very nearly quit reading. Reflecting, however, that Miss Templeton might ask what I thought of the book, I decided I had better read it through.

It soon ventured into the requirements of having an appreciation of the arts and the reading of poetry. From there I began to think myself quite inadequate to the task when it proposed that cheerfulness and bonhomie could overcome nearly any failing. Having never been accused of being particularly cheerful, I read on with growing dread.

I was informed of the social trap of the laugh. Of the virtues of the truly graceful smile, which the author seemed to think no one adept enough to achieve. It went on to consider whether it was, in fact, rude to contradict. In short, it seemed nothing about conversation was truly sanctioned and yet everything was permissible.

There was nothing to be gained by continuing to read such equivocation and so I turned to the chapter on dinner parties and balls. It began by urging that the reader ought to go into such endeavors by banishing all thoughts of what he ought and ought not do. Which made me wonder why the author felt the need to write the book in the first place! It was truly a very unsatisfactory instruction, if instruction it could even be called.

Reading further, I found the information for which I had been looking: actual rules that might be followed. Eat peas with a fork. Curry and desserts must be eaten with a dessert spoon. If there is a sauce, it must be poured to the side of the plate. Help fish onto your fork not with a knife but with a piece of bread. Only fingers ought to be dipped into finger-glasses. Never gargle at the table.

Thank heaven I had never thought of doing such a thing.

At private concerts, ladies are seated in the front, with the gentlemen behind them. Finding fault is never acceptable—which seemed to contradict the previous discussion of contradiction. Never offer a person the chair from which you have just risen. Do not drum on the table with your fingers.

Ha! I knew Mr. Trimble was not the gentleman he wished so badly to seem.

The next evening, I attended a musical recital and took particular care to avoid doing any of those things prohibited in the manual. When Miss Templeton waved her fan at me from across the room, I started toward her . . . but then remembered that no polite person would use a fan in such a manner. So I started back . . . but then recalled that generosity of spirit and the forgiveness of foibles was required of those who consider themselves mannered. Caught between coming and going, I stood there for some moments. Miss Templeton came to my rescue by crossing the room to meet me.

“How did you find the music?”

“Quite nice.”

She smiled. “I did too! Ever so nice. And I saw that Mr. Stansbury took a seat next to you.”

He had. But, really, he ought not have. If he were a true
gentleman, he would have left that first row to the ladies. But he could not truly be considered a gentleman, could he? He’d made his money; he hadn’t inherited it. So . . . that rule could not apply to him, could it?

Miss Templeton was looking at me as if she were expecting some sort of reply. “Yes. Yes, he did sit next to me.” Did this conversation fall under the sort of thing that was too trifling to speak of?

“And what are you doing tomorrow after church, if I may be so rude as to inquire?”

I sighed. “I shall probably do nothing worthwhile even as I am thinking the whole time of all the things Mr. Trimble is doing that I would like to do instead.”

“That will never do! If your father sees you at home all the time, then he’s not likely to imagine that you will ever not be there. The King’s Head Field Club meets on Sunday afternoons. A person so impassioned of plants as you are ought to go. I go. We should go together. I think it will be much more successful than the watercolor society. It’s a much better fit for your talents.”

“My general opinion of field clubs is that they’re composed of people who don’t know anything at all about the plants they claim to love.” I clapped my hand over my mouth. I should not have said that. Being polite was so very difficult.

“Well, then you must certainly go—and I must beg to differ as I consider myself quite above the average field club member. And would your father not fear for himself if you cease working on his behalf and instead begin to seek the company of those you had formerly chosen to scorn?”

I didn’t quite follow her logic, but as she was the expert in this sort of thing, I found myself agreeing.

“So you’ll meet me at the King’s Head, then?”

“At the King’s Head? Isn’t that a pub?”

“It is. It’s where the club meets. At the pub. Hence its name: The King’s Head Field Club. The meeting starts at one o’clock. And don’t be late!”