Chapter Twelve

Blythe

Since Mr. Goswick’s departure, the days are long and empty. No one to argue with. No one to spite. No one to tease. My only real company has been Charlotte, and while she is always friendly and eager for conversation, it is, admittedly, often rather bland. Which is why my shoulders droop when she informs me she has invited several ladies from the neighborhood for tea and would like me to share hosting duties with her.

I try not to let my pleasant expression slip. If I really want to make connections for my budding business, then I’ll have to be agreeable. I rise from my seat and smile. “I would love to, Charlotte.”

Her face relaxes into a smile just as one of the footmen announces the arrival of her guests.

Charlotte grins. “What timing! Would you like me to give you time to change? Send your lady’s maid up to you?”

This is inconvenient. I’ve worn my best dresses already this trip, and I try to save them for more auspicious occasions. I glance down at my attire. It’s a faded green dress, a bit too small, but only I could possibly know the intimacies of that. At best, the company will think that my sleeves purposefully stop before my wrists. “I think I’ll just wear this,” I reply. “I feel comfortable, and it lets me move freely.” I swish so she can see the ease with which my skirts move, though I’m not sure Charlotte’s as impressed.

“Lovely,” she says unconvincingly. “Well, let’s go, then. We wouldn’t want to keep our guests waiting.”

I follow Charlotte out to the formal gardens where a little table and five chairs are assembled among the bright rose bushes, and just as we arrive, two ladies, close to our age at least, appear in the pathway, sauntering under parasols and wearing dresses that look like dessert. One girl wears a soft lavender confection with beautiful bows and fine lace sleeves and the other a dress that’s striped in sweet cream and buttery yellow. I twist my hair around and over my shoulder and then cross my arms in front of me.

“Miss Corbyn, Mrs. Young!” cries Charlotte, waving to her guests. “How glad we are that you were able to join us. Let me introduce you to my cousin.” She beams at me. “This is Miss Blythe Rowley.”

I curtsy politely, and they do the same. Mrs. Young, however, allows her eyes to rove from mine, down the length of my dress, then settle on my feet before traversing the entire way back to my face. “How lovely to meet you, Miss Rowley.”

“An equal pleasure,” I reply, squinting a little in the sun.

“Oh, and look!” Charlotte cries, waving to someone down the path behind me.

I turn to see who she’s greeting and am happily surprised to find Miss Sabrina Dixon heading in our direction. At least while Mr. Goswick is away, I can still work on our little agreement. She clasps her hands before her, and she lifts one hesitantly, as though she wishes to return my cousin’s enthusiasm but just can’t seem to muster the same amount. Though, in her defense, no one can muster the enthusiasm that Charlotte maintains in almost all circumstances.

It occurs to me that Sabrina will likely be a stranger to these ladies as well, and if I can make a friend, an ally, out of her, then she will trust me when I begin spouting all of Briggs Goswick’s finest qualities. I also make a mental note to actually figure out all of Briggs Goswick’s finest qualities.

We take our seats at the table as our tea is brought out by one of the footmen.

“Are you staying the summer?” asks Mrs. Young. She is a pleasantly pretty woman who wears a beautiful linen-and-silk hat that matches her dress.

“I am,” I reply. “It took some convincing on Charlotte’s part, but here I am.”

“My,” says Miss Corbyn. “Then your home must be even more grand than Wrexford Park!” She stirs some sugar into her tea and takes a sip.

I smile. “No, Awendown House is modest by comparison, but I suppose we are always partial to where we grew up.”

“Not me,” says Miss Corbyn with a snort. “And you, Miss Dixon?” She turns to Sabrina. “You’re staying at Mistlethrush with your stepbrother?”

We all wait for Sabrina’s response, but she only smiles briefly and nods. Her friendship is going to be very well earned.

Miss Corbyn, however, won’t be deterred. She provides a response on Sabrina’s behalf. “Mistlethrush is such a lovely house. Every day there must be like a dream.”

“Indeed, the Goswicks are very well situated,” says Charlotte. She offers everyone a biscuit. I take two. Miss Corbyn arches a brow at me.

“I’m surprised at Mr. Goswick’s return to Mistlethrush at all,” says Mrs. Young. “You know Briggs Goswick. Always the first for fun and games. Mad pranks, fast horses, pretty girls. I heard his trip to France was rather a scandal. I believe that his return to Mistlethrush is a sign that he’s ready to settle down.”

Mrs. Young gently nudges Miss Corbyn in the arm, but this doesn’t cause Miss Corbyn to blush modestly. Instead, she smiles knowingly, as though she is simply biding her time for her proposal.

I hold in the urge to snort a laugh. Miss Corbyn is a pretty thing, but her family’s income is modest at best. Mistlethrush Hall could never survive on whatever her dowry might be. And besides, even if he didn’t require a hefty dowry, Briggs would never fall for a bore like Miss Corbyn. I can be confident enough about that. I let her keep her fantasy, though.

“I’m sure that Mr. Goswick has returned due to the death of his father,” says Charlotte.

“Oh, of course, of course,” says Mrs. Young. “That would be expected.”

“So tragic,” says Miss Corbyn. She pouts and looks in Sabrina’s direction for a similar response. Sabrina lifts her cup from her saucer and takes a delicate little sip.

I lean back in my seat, which causes Mrs. Young and Miss Corbyn to regard me with contempt, so I straighten again and stiffen my back. “I’ve only recently learned on my trip here to Wrexford that Mr. Goswick’s father had passed. What was tragic about the event?” I ask.

“He fell ill while Mr. Goswick was away on the Continent,” Charlotte supplies me with the answer. “He didn’t even get to say goodbye. By the time he arrived at Mistlethrush, his father was already gone.”

My heart pinches at this news, the idea of a son racing to get home, only to have his father already six feet in the ground. It’s funny the way people wear their stories, I think. Or they don’t. The day I first saw him, I wouldn’t have guessed that Briggs Goswick was mourning the loss of his father. All I saw was a handsome, self-assured gentleman, riding his horse, trying to agitate me. And succeeding.

“Miss Rowley?”

I look up. Mrs. Young awaits a reply. “Yes?”

“I asked if you painted.”

“Oh,” I say. I lift my cup from my saucer, not even bothering to use the handle. I just cradle it with both hands and take a sip. “Occasionally, but I prefer sketching to painting, actually.”

“And are you musical?” Miss Corbyn adds.

“I—I am,” I reply, unsure at this new line of questioning. “I play the pianoforte, and I can sing.”

Miss Corbyn makes a pained expression, as though she feels sorry for me. “Well, that’s something, at least.”

Mrs. Young stifles a giggle, and I attempt to contain my rage.

Sabrina clears her throat from beside me. “Miss Barlow, these scones are absolutely delightful.”

“Oh, yes,” says Mrs. Young. “You must have your cook give mine the recipe. They are decadent.”

Charlotte grins proudly. “Believe it or not, Blythe made them herself. She is a marvel!”

“You made them?” asks Miss Corbyn. “Do you often have to make your own food at Awendown?”

“Oh, Louisa, you’re terrible,” says Mrs. Young, slapping her friend on the wrist while making a poor attempt to contain her merriment.

I could scream right now. I could tell Miss Corbyn that I don’t often cook for myself, but I take joy in the task when I do. That I have other, fine qualities that she didn’t bother to ask about. Suddenly my dress feels too tight and this thread that I’ve found coming loose at the sleeve too obvious. I feel practically naked sitting here.

“Oh, ladies,” says Charlotte, as though an idea has just struck her. I find it annoying and relieving all at once. “Don’t forget that Thursday is our garden tour here at Wrexford to raise money for the new assembly rooms.”

“Of course!” says Mrs. Young. “I told Mr. Young to save the date already.”

“You know,” I say, pushing my chair away from the table and offering them a smile. It feels so insincere; they must realize it. “That reminds me that I should write to my sister. She would love to hear about the flowers, and perhaps she might even be able to attend.”

“What a fine idea,” says Charlotte.

“Be sure to remind her that it’s a formal affair,” says Miss Corbyn. “We wouldn’t want her packing inappropriate attire.” She smiles and bats her eyes at me from over the rim of her teacup.

Then again, perhaps Miss Corbyn and Mr. Goswick would make a fine love match after all. They are both so prone to making snide comments about my attire.

I stand beside my chair and dip a shallow curtsy, then retreat back into the shadowed halls of Wrexford. I make a sharp turn into the lavender drawing room, its cool hues and calming landscapes soothing my racing heart. But still, I pace. Even when Charlotte appears in the doorway, I can’t even look her in the eyes.

“Blythe,” she says quietly.

“No.” I hold up a finger. “No. You have no idea what it’s like, Charlotte. To be judged solely upon what I’m wearing, as though that were an indication of my overall worth and value. I am so tired…” I begin. But I can’t finish. The thought has crossed my mind too many times. If we had more money, if we were more settled, if I could wear the finery that Charlotte does, and not care so much about everything , then maybe I’d be happy.

But I force the sensation from my thoughts. I can’t harbor feelings like that, for I know they aren’t true. More money wouldn’t make taking care of my bees any easier or more satisfying. More money wouldn’t make me value myself, my independence more. A fancy dress won’t make these unbearable women accept me any more. But I must admit I still wish I could wear one, not for them but for me .

“I’m sorry,” says Charlotte, and her face is crumpled. “I truly am. I had no idea that they would act that way.”

“It’s not your fault,” I tell her. I cross the room to be by her side. She can be rather endearing, and I don’t want her to feel badly, not about her get-together, and not for me. I touch her upper arm. “I suppose I just wish that I had a dress that reflected how I actually felt about myself,” I say with a smile.

Charlotte’s head snaps up at attention. “Do you?” she asks without meeting my eyes, her attention now engaged by her passing idea. She paces toward the farthest fireplace. “What kind of dress? Any occasion? Morning? Ballgown? Garden party?”

I study Charlotte for a moment, wondering if now would be a good time to tell my cousin of my plans. She would never betray my confidence or judge my precarious agreement with Briggs Goswick.

“Charlotte,” I say slowly. “There’s something I need to confide in you.”

Her eyes grow wide, but she takes a step closer, grabbing both my hands. “Anything.”

“Oh,” I say, surprised by her sudden fervor. “All right, then. You may be surprised to hear that I have a business venture with my cousin, Julian.”

“With the bees,” she says with a knowing nod. “You sell honey and candles.”

“Actually,” I press my lips together, glancing behind her at the door, “it’s a little more than that. We are attempting to set up apiaries across the county on great estates, like the one I’m planning here at Wrexford Park. And I have entered into a rather unholy alliance with…” Oh, God, I cannot even say it. I’m so embarrassed. I clear my throat and hold my head up high. “With Briggs Goswick.”

“Mr. Goswick,” Charlotte repeats, her eyes studying me so that she might understand me better. And so I catch her up on all the details.

“I daresay you have the more difficult end of this bargain, Blythe.” She taps her chin and considers. “Oh, but you don’t have—”

“Anything suitable to wear to the garden party, I realize.”

“I have all kinds of dresses, you know,” she says. She comes back to stand in front of me. “Ones that I don’t even wear anymore because I’ve outgrown them, but your chest is considerably smaller than mine.”

She reaches out for a feel, and I lurch back in surprise. “Charlotte, really!” I cry.

“They’re perfect,” she decides.

I look down at my own chest. “Well, I’ve always been rather attached to them.”

“Blythe, would you be opposed to borrowing a few of my dresses?” she asks. “We can have more made for the formal events, too, of course. Let me show them who you really are. Let me do what I do best.”

There’s a scheming in her eyes that I rather admire. Truly, I had no idea that Charlotte could be so passionate about something. I can hardly say no.

The sound of footsteps coming from the foyer drags our attention away from our plan and to the door of the drawing room where Miss Sabrina Dixon stands, hands still clasped together in front of her.

“Excuse me,” she says. “It’s just that I was all alone outside and was hoping I might join you both in here?” She smiles demurely. It’s the greatest number of words I’ve ever heard her utter in one go.

“Alone?” asks Charlotte. “Where did Mrs. Young and Miss Corbyn go?”

“I may or may not have missed Miss Corbyn’s teacup when pouring the scalding hot tea from the pot, and then naturally, it ended up in her lap. She went home, and Mrs. Young escorted her.” Sabrina shrugs. “Oops.”

Charlotte and I don’t start laughing for another moment or two, and even Miss Dixon giggles at her own mischief.

Perhaps our friendship won’t be as difficult to procure as I initially thought.