Like a Flower in Bloom (24 page)

Mr. Stansbury and Miss Templeton returned the following day. As my father hovered about, she drew a chair over and sat
beside me while Mr. Stansbury put an arm around the back of the chair and bent to squat beside her. He smiled at me, and I was pleased to find I could smile back without inducing too much pain.

“I spoke with Lord Harriwick, and he’s agreed to pay the doctor’s bill as well as send over a side of beef for scraping and the making of beef tea.”

Miss Templeton twisted to look at him. “How marvelous you are, Mr. Stansbury! Don’t you agree, Miss Withersby?”

“A whole side? Where ever are we expected to put it?”

“While you’ve got him feeling guilty, why don’t you get him to subscribe to Mr. Withersby’s volumes as well?” That bit was from Mr. Trimble, who from the sound of him was sitting somewhere behind me. “He and all those indolent friends of his.”

Mr. Stansbury lifted a brow. “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Threaten them with a termination of hunting rights to your park. That will make the bunch of them listen.”

Miss Templeton reached out and touched my hand. “Mr. Stansbury has convinced Lord Harriwick to invite you to his Christmas ball as well.”

Did that mean I would have to go? My head was throbbing again. If I didn’t know my visitors were hoping to cheer me, I would have asked Mr. Trimble to help me up to my bed. Unfortunately, they stayed until he chased them out at half past three.

As father held some tea for me to drink, Mr. Trimble appeared beside him. “Could they not see that you are exhausted?” He lifted my head with a gentle hand, took my pillow and beat it against his thigh, and then slipped it back beneath me. “Perhaps . . . should you like to be taken to your bed?”

“Just leave me here and let me be. My head hurts too much to move.”

“And here I was thinking it was my company you relished.”

“If that’s one of your jokes, I don’t have it within me to attempt a smile.”

“You must be feeling poorly. You haven’t once shouted at me all day.”

“Don’t tease. I feel too wretched to be made to feel more wretched. Let me nurse my misery in peace.”

My peace was to be short-lived. The rector arrived at four, Bible in hand.

Mr. Trimble and my father stood as Miss Hansford announced him. My father excused himself and headed toward his study, leaving Mr. Trimble as my self-declared defender. “I don’t know that Miss Withersby is up to—”

“Let him stay.” Though I wasn’t, in fact, up to his visit, I had tired of doing nothing.

The rector sat in the chair Miss Templeton had only recently vacated and proceeded to read about meaninglessness and drudgery.

“Is that Ecclesiastes?”

“It is indeed.”

“Could you not find something more uplifting?”

Across the room, Mr. Trimble coughed. “The Song of Songs, perhaps?”

A flush burned across the rector’s face.

I reached out a hand toward him. “I was thinking more in the way of Psalms.”

“Of course, you’re right. I naturally incline towards the melancholy, so I must remind myself that not everyone appreciates the same.” He flipped to Psalms. So eloquent were the words, so emphatic was his diction, that I was swept up by the vision of heavenly realms and right into a dreamless sleep.

Much of the week passed in the same way. Mr. Trimble was ever present, though rarely seen. By me, in any case. On Monday I was recovered enough to push myself to sitting. When Mr. Stansbury visited that day, he declared me much improved. “It must be tiresome, shut up here with your father’s assistant. Won’t you come for a drive with me?” He slid a glance toward Mr. Trimble. “There’s something I would like to show you.”

“I may look recovered, but my head still aches much of the time.”

“If you would allow it, I would be happy to carry you to the carriage. And once settled, there would be no need for you to move.”

I heard the scraping of a chair, and Mr. Trimble propelled himself into my view. “I don’t know if that’s wise. I’ve been told head injuries take a surprisingly long time to heal, and—”

“I would be delighted.” Tired of being bullied about by Mr. Trimble, I smiled at Mr. Stansbury.

He took me up in his arms.

“I don’t really think she should—”

Mr. Stansbury stepped right past him. “Has she a mantle? And a bonnet?”

Mr. Trimble hurried past us to collect them from the hall and flung them at me. “Why don’t you allow me to—”

Mr. Stansbury held me tight. “It’s no trouble at all. I’ll return her to you within the hour.”

Mr. Trimble hurried ahead of us and vaulted into the carriage. “I’ll provide the escort.”

“It’s really not necessary.”

“I insist.”

As we began to pull away from the house the carriage dipped
into a hole, and I began to think that Mr. Trimble had been right. My head was not yet properly healed, and the sun seemed to be especially shiny for November. But it was too late to amend my decision. And Mr. Trimble and Mr. Stansbury were already glaring at each other.

I felt every bump of the road, and once we reached Overwich Hall, Mr. Stansbury had the carriage pass by the house and drive into his . . . Not his stumpery!

My misery gave way to despair.

“I had the last stump placed just yesterday.” He signaled the carriage to stop and then bent to push the door open. “What do you think?”

I thought it not nearly worth the effort I had expended to see it. Really, it was all so tiring. “I . . . I truly don’t have the words.”

“I knew that seeing it would cheer you!”

Once we got back to the house, I felt like tying a ribbon round my head to keep it from cracking in two. But I did not wish to admit to Mr. Trimble that he had been right, so I asked him for some tea instead. He went into the kitchen and then came back to sit in the chair beside me while Father continued on with his work for which he was using Mr. Trimble’s desk.

“Really, Miss Withersby, a man can hardly hear himself think with all the suitors flocking about.”

“Does it bother you?”

His gaze met mine. “Only insofar as it keeps me from my work.”

“I suspect one of them will propose quite soon and put you out of your misery.” If I couldn’t do anything else, at least I could try to help my cause. I turned toward father. “You’ve
had a chance now to acquaint yourself with the rector and Mr. Stansbury. Do you have any opinion on the matter?”

He looked up from his microscope, squinting. “Which matter is that?”

“The matter of my finding a husband. I’m certain one of the men will soon be asking for my hand. Do you have a preference?”

If I had hoped to see alarm in his eyes, I was mistaken. It looked more like resignation. “I suppose it will be for the best. You’ll be much happier married.”

“But you don’t have an opinion about it?”

“I’m sure your uncle will tell me what he thinks of the pair of them. He usually does.”

The ache in my head was so pronounced that I feared my tone was rather sharp when I replied. “They aren’t a pair. They’re quite different, really. If I marry the rector, I won’t have any spare time to come help you, what with the children and all the work that I would have to do. And if I marry Mr. Stansbury, who is to say that he won’t suddenly decide he’s tired of Cheshire and wishes to live in London instead. Or somewhere on the continent even!”

Father looked up sharply. “I hadn’t realized he was so prone to the whims of fancy.”

Had I said the wrong thing? “But even if he decides to stay on here in Overwich, I won’t have that much opportunity to come see you what with helping him with his glasshouse. He has plans to expand it.”

“I suppose that’s to be expected. Undertakings of that sort are never truly finished.”

“But what I mean is that I’ll no longer be available to help you.”

“Mr. Trimble seems quite capable. His assistance is sufficient.”

I appealed to Mr. Trimble. “Don’t you have family to see to, Mr. Trimble?”

“I assure you, the less seen of them, the better.”

“But your sheep must be in need of you.”

“I left my flock in very capable hands. I am at your father’s leisure.”

“But, Father, you must need someone to decipher your notes, and I’m sure Mr. Trimble can’t—”

“That’s something I do myself these days. I’ve found that it forces me to be more disciplined in the expression of my ideas.”

“But . . . but . . . Mr. Trimble
can’
t
be keeping up with your correspondence.”

“Isn’t he? I’ve been signing quite a few letters and writing some of my own. At least it seems as if I have been.”

Was that alarm I read in Mr. Trimble’s eyes? “If you care to look over my files, Miss Withersby, I’m sure you’ll agree that I haven’t fallen behind.”

“But . . . the bills! The lease!” There must be something Mr. Trimble had been leaving undone. Something my father must need me for.

Miss Hansford came in with a tea tray and placed it on a table between Mr. Trimble and me.

He handed me a cup. “The lease has been paid. In advance.”

“Advance? But where did—”

“I persuaded your father to argue for a discount.”

I didn’t even know that could be done. “You must . . . There must be something . . .” Father had to miss me, didn’t he? There had to be some point at which he would tire of Mr. Trimble and ask me back.

After our discussion, I fell into a troubled, restless sleep. When I woke, I lay there for some time, trying to work up the impetus
to sit. I heard someone come down the stairs and pushed myself up on an elbow. Mr. Trimble crept into the room. His arms were filled with . . . “Are those
my
papers?”

“These?” He looked down at the papers as if astonished to find them there.

I
swung my legs over the side of the sofa and pushed to sitting. “They
are
mine! What are you doing with those?”

“I need them for a paper—”

“You can’t use them. They’re mine!”

“—and I couldn’t find them anywhere. The only place I hadn’t looked was your room, and . . .” He looked down at the pile and shrugged.

“But you can’t—”

He disappeared into my father’s study, leaving me fuming on the sofa. As many papers and discourses as I’d written in my father’s name, as many times as I’d signed his signature instead of my own, I would not have predicted the absolute rage that encompassed me as I contemplated Mr. Trimble’s plan to use my work as his own.

I pushed to my feet. With a hand to my head, I took one step and then another. I wouldn’t be dancing anytime soon, and thank heaven for that, but I didn’t doubt that I could walk to the study.

If I didn’t proceed too quickly.

I sat down on a chair and rested for a moment as I waited for my head to stop throbbing.

It took me several minutes to make it to the study, but when I did, I was greeted with all the shock one would welcome a ghost.

It was quite satisfying.

I approached the desk where Father and Mr. Trimble were consulting . . . about my papers if I read the situation correctly. “I must insist that I be given back the papers which were taken from my bedroom.”

Father frowned. “You mean the notes about your subantarctic islands?”

“Yes. My notes. The timing for writing up a paper on them is perfect really . . .” I hobbled over toward Mr. Trimble and had almost reached him when he swept my papers up in his arms. “It’s perfect, because now I have the time to work on them.”

My father dismissed my words with a sweep of his hand. “No, no. You can’t. That’s why I have Mr. Trimble. So that you can concentrate on finding a husband. And it’s even more important for you not to be taxed with your work, now that you have to recover from your injury as well.”

“I am recovered. I’m standing before you, aren’t I?”

Mr. Trimble stood looking at me, as if daring me to say the words again. “Then perhaps we should send word over to the Admiral that you can attend the band concert with him tonight.”

“That won’t be necessary. I’m still a bit fatigued, and—”

“Perhaps you should retire to your bedroom, then?”

The room began to sway, and I grabbed onto the corner of the desk for fear I might faint. “I don’t want to retire.”

“It will do you good.”

“But I don’t
wish
to retire. At all. In any way.”

My father was looking on with great concern. “You’re exhausted, Charlotte. And you’re—”

“And I don’t want to marry, and I don’t like being pushed into—”

Father had come round the desk to take up my hand. “You’re overcome by your injuries. If you would just go back into the parlor and rest . . .”

But I couldn’t. I wouldn’t. Words were pouring from my soul in great sobs. “I’ve been pushed into something I don’t want, when what I really want is just to be wanted!” A large teardrop splatted onto Father’s desk. “I just want it all to be the same. Like before. But different.”

Mr. Trimble picked me up in his arms and carried me out of the room and up the stairs. I threw my arm about his neck and buried my head in his shoulder. “I want my work to matter. And I want it to be my own.” Why did it seem as if everything had gone wrong? Why did it feel as if I were being flattened in a flower press? As if all the vitality and life were being forced out of me?

“If it were up to me, you would want for nothing at all.”

“But that’s just it. I don’t want to be taken care of, and I don’t want to take care of someone else’s collections. I just . . . I don’t . . . I don’t know why no one ever wants to know what
I
want. They just make me do what they want.”

The next morning I woke to a knock at my door.

I pulled the blanket up over my head, for I planned on never speaking to my father or Mr. Trimble, face-to-face, again. “Who is it?”

I heard the door creak open. “Miss Withersby?”

Was that Miss Templeton? I lifted a corner of the blanket to look. It was. I threw the blanket off and sat up.

“Are you . . . are you worse?”

“No. That is, yes.”

“Which is it?” She was standing there in the doorway, wringing her hands.

“I’m never going downstairs again. Ever.”

“Why? What’s happened?” She strode over to my windows, thrust back my curtains, and secured them.

I winced from the sudden light. “It’s all too humiliating.”

She took off her bonnet and looked around for a place to put it. Finding no space, she simply held it in her lap as she sat on the edge of my bed beside me.

“I gave myself over to hysteria and crying last night. It was dreadful.”

“I’m beginning to wonder . . . why don’t you just ask for your position back if it means so much to you?”

“After Mr. Trimble’s done it even better than I? And look as if I’m begging? Wouldn’t I risk being told I’m not needed anymore?”

“You’re right. You can’t. So you do still need your suitors.”

“I suppose I do. But that still doesn’t take care of Mr. Trimble. It’s not a question now of my being asked back and him being shown the door. It’s quite clear that he’s got to leave first if I’m ever to reclaim my place. And I don’t even know if my father would give it back to me! Not after I went and sobbed about everything last night.”

“So you’re just going to let him stay here?”

I fell back against my pillow. “He doesn’t seem to care much about his family, and he’s left all those sheep of his in someone else’s hands.
Capable
hands is what he said. He’ll probably work here and die here and have himself buried in Cheshire and I’ve only myself to thank for it.”

“You’ve the Admiral, in fact, to thank for it, don’t you? Wasn’t it his idea to find you a husband?”

“It
was
his idea!”

“In any case, the thing to do is to get Mr. Trimble to go away voluntarily. But you say his sheep don’t need him.”

“No.”

“What about his family?”

“They’re some despicable, degenerate sort of people. Remember?”

“But that’s perfect!”

“How?”

“They sound ghastly. And ghastly people are certain to need help. Or money. Or both. I’ll just have to find a way to make Mr. Trimble feel obligated to supply them.”

My spirits began to rise. “You are the most intrepid soul I have ever met. Do you think you can do it?”

“I can try. Now then, do you know anything at all about who his family is or where they come from?”

I thought for a moment. “Well . . . he received a letter from a place called Eastleigh.”

Miss Templeton’s field club met the next week for an excursion, and I let myself be persuaded to join her. Mostly because Mr. Trimble didn’t want me to. My head didn’t pound like a drum anymore, and I really was anxious to be out, doing something.

The Admiral took us to church in his carriage and afterward delivered me to the train station. I met the group there, umbrella and vasculum in hand. Miss Templeton and I were soon joined by Mr. Stansbury and the rector. Upon arrival in a neighboring town, the field club gathered together on the platform to make a plan for our ramble. There was some discussion between the female members as to where would be the best place to come by
mistletoe and among the male members about the possibilities of spotting one of the small linnet finches in the vicinity.

I found it quite distressing that no one had thought to organize the outing in advance. “We might find one or the other, or one on the way to the other, but it’s unlikely they’d be found together.” I muttered the words to Miss Templeton, since doing anything with any sort of vigor made my head begin to pound.

“Maybe Miss Withersby can lead the way to the mistletoe.” Miss Templeton spoke quite loudly as she jabbed at me with her elbow. “She’s a genius with botany.”

The president blinked, like an indignant owl. “But I was hoping for some thistle seed or dock seed.”

My head was throbbing again. “If you want those, then it would be much better to head toward the nearest mere, wouldn’t it? To a place where they are known to grow?”

The mere was finally settled upon as our goal. But when we got to it, we found it overrun with members of the Irondale Foundry Field Club from the county of Shropshire, who had snuck into our county from their own. They looked very much like foundry workers in their smocks and caps.

Our president halted in outrage. “Good heavens! It looks as if they’ve already stripped all the seedpods!”

Which was why amateurs should not be allowed to partake in scientific pursuits, in my opinion.

He addressed himself to the president of their field club. “Perhaps you hadn’t realized, but this is a Cheshire mere.”

The other president came at ours, chin raised. “You don’t own it.”

“We plan on it being available, as it’s in our jurisdiction.”

“Nature knows no jurisdiction.” The man was sneering now.

Our president took a step backward. “Why don’t we be reasonable about this?”

The men from the visiting field club slipped the vascula from their shoulders and let them clatter to the ground.

Our president retreated further. “Look here. We’d made the plan to visit last June.”

The rival club’s president took a step forward for every step that ours took backward. “Maybe we made our plans last April.”

“Then I suppose you’ll welcome us next month to a field in Shropshire?”

He snorted. “Not likely!”

The longer I’d stood there looking at the picked-over field, the more reasons I’d found for dismay. I stepped between the two men and addressed myself to the visiting president. “Look at what you’ve done: you’ve stripped the place bare! You ought to be ashamed of yourselves!”

The visiting club’s president halted in his approach. “It isn’t your field.”

I stabbed at him with my umbrella. “And it isn’t yours either and now, thanks to you, it will never be anyone’s. None of these will come back in the spring. Did you not think to leave even one?”

“We didn’t—”

I appealed to the field club members who had come to stand behind him. “And how many of you actually know how to preserve your specimens? Or label them properly?”

He glanced over his shoulder at his club’s members. “We weren’t—”

“What are you going to do with all your seedpods and catkins? Take them home and . . . and stick them between the leaves of . . . of some big book and let them rot? Or put them in a vase and let them gather dust?”

“We hadn’t—”

“You’re not worthy even of being called amateurs of botany
and if you had any decency at all, you’d return those vascula to the vendor from which you got them.”

“We won’t—”

“I think the best thing would be for all of you to
leave.
Immediately.”

“Now, wait just a minute!” The cry came from someone among the group from the neighboring county. “Why should we listen to some girl? We’ve as much right to all of this as they do.”

Mr. Stansbury stepped up beside me. Given the chill of the day, I was surprised to see that he’d discarded his coat and rolled up his shirt sleeves. “The lady is right.”

“Lady!” The man was jeering. “That’s no lady!”

I couldn’t say for certain who threw the first punch, but soon, all of our men were involved in a melee of grand proportions. Miss Templeton and I stood clutching each other as the brawl swirled around us.

Eventually the rival club was beaten back, and we found ourselves in possession of the field. A dubious prize considering how trampled the remaining plants now were.

One of the men sent up a cheer. “I say we need a new president!”

There was a murmur of general agreement among the club membership.

Miss Templeton fluttered her handkerchief. “All in favor of Miss Withersby, say ‘Aye.’”

“But I don’t want to—” My words were drowned out by an overwhelming chorus of shouts in the affirmative.

Miss Templeton was plucking at my sleeve. “I think your first order of business ought to be to suggest that we repair to one of those pubs down by the train station.”