22. Chapter 22

Chapter 22

T he very next Sunday dawned bright and clear, without a trace of the grey skies and rain that had dominated the scenery for weeks. In the fields, lambs and calves gambolled about, while seemingly overnight, an explosion of wildflowers bloomed as if a madman had run riot with a painter's brush. All across the county, farmers nodded with satisfaction as fields began to show green fingers reaching skyward. Even to Beatrice's decidedly urban eye, it was a pleasing sight.

The girls were dressed and prepared for church in quick order, needing less encouragement to get moving when the weather was fine. Beatrice, too, dressed with slightly more enthusiasm than on other mornings. She was not particularly religious, being vaguely Anglican like most other English citizens, but Sunday was the one day of the week when she might realistically be allowed to shed her drab governess' weeds.

Even so, she had to carefully dress in a manner that did not draw too much attention to herself, as she was still a governess. Bearing that in mind, she dressed in an amber-coloured linen dress that was pleated becomingly at the bust and waist. The long sleeves tapered becomingly to her wrists and were embroidered with small blue flowers. She opted for practical walking boots as ever, but tied her stockings up with pretty blue ribbons beneath her knees instead of the usual plain white linen ribbons, simply because she could.

As if fairly daring the weather to turn, she swapped her grey woollen bonnet for a jaunty straw poke bonnet. This she tied under her chin with a dark green ribbon that set off her eyes nicely. She pulled on burnished dark brown leather gloves that matched her boots, and the girls all declared her ready.

Though she was conscious of her own appearance, much of Beatrice's time that morning was devoted to Florence. The girl donned her new lilac dress, tied about the waist with a spring green ribbon. Carefully, Beatrice arranged the girl's long dark blonde hair into a style that was half-up, with a little bun on the back of her head. The rest was left to cascade about her shoulders, which seemed a good compromise to her father's reluctance to allow her to put her hair fully up.

A dark green capelet and gloves completed her ensemble, and Florence turned about in front of her mirror a few times as if unable to be sure that she was really seeing herself.

"You look a picture, Florence," Sophia breathed, her eyes wide and enchanted. "Like a real lady!"

"Not entirely," Florence said, frowning down at her hem which still ended just above her boots.

"One step at a time," Beatrice reassured her, touching her shoulder. "Nothing good has ever been accomplished by rushing. Besides, Sophia is quite right: You make for a very charming picture this morning."

"You look a pip, Florence," Eliza chimed in.

Mollified, Florence preened under their attentions. With head held high, she made her way to the waiting wagon that they would all pile into. Beatrice followed after her, the other girls in tow, and could not help but smile a little at Florence's newfound confidence.

The colonel, as always, awaited them at the bottom of the stairs, pacing impatiently. His pacing halted, however, the moment that he caught sight of Florence descending down to meet him. A positively stricken expression flitted across his face, but was quickly replaced with a softer, more sentimental one.

"Well, Father?" Florence demanded, pausing at the bottom of the stairs before him. She gave a little twirl, her capelet flaring out a little. "Am I presentable?"

Beatrice, watching the colonel closely, saw him swallow hard before answering. His posture immediately straightened, and he folded his arms behind his back. "Yes," he said with a stiff nod. "I believe you are."

With that, they all piled into the wagonette, the household servants stuffed into another wagon behind them. A brief cloud passed over Florence's face, and when Beatrice inquired what was wrong, she sighed, "I wish we didn't have to arrive in a wagonette. A carriage is so much more elegant."

"And impractical," the colonel replied from his position next to the driver.

"Your father is right," Beatrice agreed. "A carriage may look nicer, but with all of us squashed in one together, your dress would be creased in a trice."

That concern settled, the rest of the drive to church passed quickly. They were settled into their pew box in short order, with Beatrice being permitted to sit at the far end, the girls in the middle, and the colonel nearest the little door. Neither the vicar nor the colonel brooked any conversation during the sermon, which made conversation a challenge, but not impossible.

"Do you see Miss Fitzroy?" Beatrice asked Florence, barely moving her lips.

"Yes," Florence replied, using the rustle of the pages of prayer books to cover her voice. "Three rows up, to the right."

Beatrice took the opportunity to study Miss Fitzroy. She had round, pink cheeks and straw-coloured hair, worn braided and coiled at the back of her head. She looked every inch the daughter of a country gentleman, with a sort of rural gentility in her bearing and look. Beatrice doubted that her country manners would allow her to refuse an invitation extended by Florence.

She was sat between a gentleman with locks of red hair peeking out from beneath his hat, and a woman who could not be anyone but her mother. They both had the same round milkmaid's face, though the mother's showed creases about the mouth.

"Is that her father sitting there with her?" Beatrice asked.

Florence glanced over, then shook her head. "That is her uncle, Mr James Fitzroy. Her father died a few years ago."

"How dutiful of him to see to his late brother's family," Beatrice commented.

"Well," Florence said, leaning in a little closer, "that's the scandal there. It's said that he is in love with the widow Fitzroy."

"Is he indeed?" Beatrice looked upon the trio with renewed interest; good gossip, particularly of the romantic kind, always helped to pass the time as the vicar droned on from the pulpit.

"And it is believed the widow Fitzroy returns his affections," Florence continued in a whisper, "but of course they cannot marry."

"Ah, of course," Beatrice nodded. It was illegal in England for a man to marry his dead brother's wife.

" Ahem ," the colonel said, pointedly clearing his throat. The sound echoed off the stone walls of the church, which caused more than a few heads to swivel to look back at them.

Beatrice, without thinking, raised her prayer book the moment the colonel made an utterance so that her face was covered by the time eyes turned in her direction. Florence, blushing a little, followed suit a second later. They remained silent for the rest of the service, with Florence doing an admirable job of projecting all signs of paying rapt attention.

Even as she mouthed along to the hymns, Beatrice felt her eyes sliding over to the unlucky Fitzroy clan. She did not know them, but their plight touched her; perhaps it was due to her own failed romances. Beatrice could not claim to be particularly pious, but even she felt compelled to offer up a silent prayer that they might somewhere, somehow, find happiness together.

When the service was concluded, the congregation filed out of doors, blinking in the spring sunshine. As always, the colonel made a beeline for the wagonette, expecting all others to follow along behind him in quick order. Beatrice, however, discreetly caught him by the sleeve, gently halting him before he could hastily cross the churchyard.

He sighed, and with the air of a man suffering, went to stand beneath an ancient, twisted apple tree that had long given up providing any fruit. Leaning against the trunk with one shoulder, he crossed his arms over his chest, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle.

Florence, meanwhile, appeared to be gathering her courage. Beatrice, Eliza, and Sophia watched as she approached Miss Fitzroy's back, raised her hand as if to tap her on the shoulder, then turned about at the last moment. This occurred two more times as the little party watched on.

"She's not very good at this," Eliza commented.

"Give her a moment, she might—oh, no, she's waffled again," Beatrice sighed.

"Why is it so difficult for her?" Sophia asked.

"Well," Beatrice said, "I suppose because when you are older, you must account for manners more."

"Manners seem boring," Sophia pronounced with all the philosophical weight a girl of ten could give her words.

Beatrice was a little inclined to agree, and decided it was time to interfere. Without hesitating, she walked right up to Miss Fitzroy, her arm reaching right past a hesitating Florence, and tapped the other girl gently on the arm. She never stopped walking, much to Florence's open-mouthed shock, breezing right on past the pair of girls without Miss Fitzroy being any wiser. This left Beatrice standing in the shade of the church, close enough to hear and observe.

"Yes?" Miss Fitzroy asked, turning around. "Why, Florence—that is, Miss Hillmot, is that you?"

"I—yes, hullo, Anne—Miss Fitzroy—I was so glad to see you today," Florence said haltingly, soldiering through her words despite the awkwardness.

"Well, we are here every Sunday, so it shouldn't be surprising that we were here," Miss Fitzroy replied evenly with a small smile.

"I'm glad that you are," Florence said, stepping a little closer. "You are the one bright spot in church every Sunday."

Miss Fitzroy blinked at Florence, clearly caught off guard. "I—thank you, I'm sure."

"I am also happy to see you because I wished to extend an invitation," Florence continued, gaining in confidence as she spoke. Beatrice could not keep a proud smirk from her own face as she watched her charge find her footing. "I was hoping you might join me for tea tomorrow afternoon."

"Oh!" Miss Fitzroy said, her blinking reaching new levels of rapidity. "I would love that. Though," she said, lowering her voice and glancing around, "Mother will insist on sending her maid, as I am not out yet." Florence nodded sympathetically. "What if I asked Miss Winthrop and Miss Constable to join us?" Miss Fitzroy asked, brightening a little. "Their company is so diverting, and I think that you will find them as enchanting as I do."

"I should be delighted," Florence answered easily, smiling as if it were the most natural thing in the world. "Why don't you all come at two o'clock?"

"I shall send a note tomorrow morning if it seems we shall be joining you," Miss Fitzroy answered properly. Florence accepted this with a grand nod. Both girls stared at one another for a moment, and then dissolved into a fit of giggles. Beatrice could not help but smile at them, too.

So focused was she on the heart-warming scene of girlish friendship that she did not notice the cassocked vicar sidling right up to her until he spoke.

"You are governess to Colonel Hillmot's daughters, are you not?" he asked, his voice thin and reedy.

Beatrice, a little startled, quickly dropped a curtsy as she was expected to. "I am, Reverend," she replied.

"Hmm," he hummed, his mouth pulling down at the corners. "It would appear that frivolity is catching," he said, nodding toward Florence, who had her head close together with Miss Fitzroy's, the two of them engaged in whispered confidence. Behind them, Sophia and Eliza were both preoccupied with attempting to catch a dragonfly. "I had hoped that as a governess, you might set a better example."

"You are not the first to tell me that, Reverend, and I daresay that you shan't be the last," Beatrice answered breezily. Despite her easy words, Beatrice felt a little prickle on the back of her neck. She had not wanted to attract any more attention than was necessary in the neighbourhood, and she suspected that she had just placed herself firmly in the vicar's sights.