Chapter Thirteen

Blythe

It has been fifteen days and four hours since I’ve last seen Briggs Goswick. And I’ve been counting. Not because I’m particularly thrilled at being reunited with him. Of course not. But this is where my story is beginning: Lord Drummond’s summer garden party. Everything hinges upon this week and however Briggs has schemed to aid my endeavors.

My thoughts should be filled with plans. All kinds of plans. But instead, I can’t seem to jostle the image of what Briggs will look like when I see him for the first time. Well-dressed and poised. The lopsided grin, and the way his green eyes will flick from whatever conversation he’s having to me as I enter the room. That stubborn lock of hair that refuses to cooperate. I’m so anxious, my hands begin to sweat, and I wipe them on the skirts of the dress Charlotte’s had made for me. I glance around, wondering if anyone else in our carriage has noticed, but Uncle Henry and Charlotte are preoccupied.

Long carriage rides with Uncle Henry are less than agreeable even in the most perfect of circumstances. His constant worry combined with Charlotte’s assurances of all being well makes the cramped space intolerable, so that when we finally arrive at Hemington Manor, the sprawling estate of Viscount Drummond and the site of his annual week-long summer garden party, I practically leap out the door before a footman can even approach.

“Oh, thank the Lord we’ve arrived!” cries Uncle Henry as he emerges from behind me and Charlotte. He pulls at his cravat as though the interior of the carriage was sweltering.

“Mr. Barlow, Miss Barlow, Miss Rowley,” says Lord Drummond, descending the front steps of the manor and past his staff, extending his hands in welcome. He’s exquisitely outfitted, the epitome of a wealthy nobleman presiding over his exclusive gathering, and honestly, I’ve never felt more out of place, despite the fact that I’m more than appropriately dressed. Lord Drummond bypasses me entirely in order to kiss my cousin’s offered hand.

That’s fine. I’m not here for him, anyway, I suppose. Especially considering that he already secured my help in building an apiary here at Hemington—all to impress Charlotte, of that I can be certain.

“Lord Drummond, Hemington Manor is every bit as beautiful as you described,” Charlotte says, as if on cue. She hooks her arm through his elbow.

“I’m glad it’s to your liking, Miss Barlow.”

I’m holding in my urge to retch, and my willpower is hanging by a mere thread at this point. When did I become the kind of girl who listens to people like Briggs Goswick? I hate Briggs Goswick. Briggs Goswick has only ever been my nemesis , and now, it seems, he’s my business partner.

“I see you’re wearing a new dress, my dear,” says Uncle Henry, interrupting my internal rant as we climb the massive stone steps to the entrance of the house. “I can’t tell you how thrilled Charlotte was to have new dresses made for you. She’s so fond of your company.”

The doors are open and welcoming, and inside, the cool summer breeze drifts through each room from open windows, the sheer curtains billowing and flapping with each gentle gust. Wordlessly, I watch my cousin from across the foyer as she smiles and giggles at all the right times, then gently touches Lord Drummond’s forearm. He’s clearly smitten. Charlotte’s rosy cheeked with long blond hair—my opposite in looks as well as personality—and there’s something rather endearing about her. All the better. She was meant to be a viscountess.

And I was meant to be an entrepreneur, so I’ve no time for flirting. The thought makes me stand a little straighter, and I study the foyer for any possible investors in my apiary business.

“I imagine you know a few of my guests already,” says Lord Drummond.

I don’t, and Lord Drummond doesn’t bother to make introductions on my account. I grab a delicate little sandwich from one of the trays carried by the passing footmen, but this is not enough. I finish it in two bites, and my stomach growls for more.

Lord Drummond turns around, gesturing to the group behind him. “And of course, you already know this lot.”

Briggs Goswick stands beside his mother, and directly between them, seated in an armchair with his nose buried in a book, is August Goswick. Both brothers sport less-than-appealing, though ultimately fading, bruises on their faces.

An old, familiar feeling starts in my fingertips and spreads steadily to my belly at the sight of Briggs, and suddenly my appetite is completely gone. A small smile burgeons across my face, and when he glances up from whatever his mother is saying, I think he catches me before I can swipe it away. He smirks down at his feet.

“Ah, the Goswicks!” cries Uncle Henry, approaching them with open arms. “How good to see familiar faces in foreign settings.”

“Foreign settings? We can’t be more than twenty miles from Wrexford Park,” I offer but am only ignored. Briggs laughs quietly, though.

“Mr. Parker and his stepsister should be joining us soon,” continues Lord Drummond. He and Charlotte chat with Mrs. Goswick while the eldest Goswick brother extricates himself from their knot of conversation, casually easing in my direction.

“Miss Rowley,” he says by way of greeting. “You look…” He trails off, and I brace myself for his criticism. Briggs blinks for a moment, shaking his head. “You look beautiful.”

My heart pounds, and I suck in a sharp breath. I think this is the first time he’s ever called me beautiful, and it makes parts of me quiver that I didn’t realize could. “Mr. Goswick,” I reply with a shallow curtsy, desperate to gather myself. I don’t know what to say now—he’s caught me completely off guard, so I mention the first thing I notice. “You’re looking rather wounded this afternoon.” The late sunlight that pours through the window beside us illuminates his injury.

“If you think this is bad, you should see how I left my opponent.” He nods at the footman who approaches us and takes two glasses of lemonade from the tray, extending one for me.

I arch an eyebrow, taking my drink from his grasp. “Are you insinuating that you’re the cause of your brother’s condition?”

Briggs laughs and then glances behind him where August continues to read. “No, not August. We haven’t settled an argument with our fists since we were small. I think he realizes that boxing is one of the few talents I have over him.”

“And yet, ironically, you both sport the same injury.”

“It isn’t lost on me that after reprimanding my brother for overestimating his skills, I went out and did the exact same thing.”

“Boxing is a gruesome sport, if you can even call it that. It attracts the lowest dredges of society.”

“I beg to differ,” says Briggs, taking a sip of lemonade. “I found boxing at a time in my life when I couldn’t find the words to accurately express what I was feeling.”

“So you let your fists speak for you?”

“Ah, Miss Rowley.” He smiles and shakes his head. “Always the first to make assumptions, especially when it comes to me.”

“I consider myself a studied reader of humanity,” I reply, tilting my chin upward to better meet his gaze. “And you’re particularly easier to read than most.”

He huffs, both hands behind his back. “Now that we have our usual pleasantries out of the way, perhaps we can begin planning our week. The garden party’s inaugural ball will be this evening, and I know for a fact that the Earl of Colchester will be in attendance. He has a sprawling estate in Hampshire, and despite our usual hostility, I’ve seen you be quite charming when you want to.”

“I will be the most charming lady in attendance,” I vow.

“Well, that’s impossible. You forget that Charlotte is here.”

I roll my eyes and turn to leave.

“Not so quickly, Miss Rowley,” he says, his hand on my forearm. “Do you have an appropriate dress for this evening?”

My chest grows tight at this implication. That he’s dressing up a poor girl in order to trick his peers, and that’s the only way he can fulfill his end of our bargain.

“My attire is none of your concern. Your job is to arrange introductions with potential investors, and that is all. I can handle the rest on my own.”

He lowers his voice, narrowing the space between us, his mouth too close to mine, and his scent of bergamot and rosemary overpowers me, rendering me speechless. I have the sudden urge to bury my nose in his neck. “Don’t forget about Miss Dixon. Be sure to play up my best features.”

“Like how calm and carefree you can be?” I say, regaining my senses and snatching my arm from his touch.

He huffs, but his attention is soon diverted by the carriage that rolls up just outside the open doors in the drive. Two footmen approach, opening the door, and Sabrina Dixon herself steps down, her right hand securing her hat on her head as she looks upward and takes in all of Hemington Manor. Her face practically beams at her charming new surroundings.

Briggs’s voice is low so that only I can hear. “Miss Dixon’s dearly departed father was in trade, made his money in coal. Died suddenly, and her mother, nearly a year later, remarried Westley’s father. Sabrina is rarely invited to all the fashionable places where the ton resides. The annual summer garden party at Hemington Manor no doubt pleases her greatly.”

“Thank you, I don’t need you to summarize her.” I want to tell Briggs that broaching this subject with someone as shy and sensitive as Miss Dixon must be a delicate act, but he grabs my arm in alarm.

“Here she comes.” Briggs suddenly disappears, as though he doesn’t want Sabrina to think that we had been talking at all. I suppose he’s avoiding having her suspect that I’m trying to manipulate her. He isn’t altogether the most naive person I’ve ever met.

Outside, Lord Drummond greets his latest guests and then invites them in to partake in the shade and cool confines of his house.

“Oh, Miss Rowley,” says Sabrina when she enters the foyer. We curtsy to one another, and she touches my arm.

“Miss Dixon, how was your trip?”

“Fine,” she replies.

“Mine was quite warm. Are you overheated?”

She shrugs. “Perhaps a little.”

“You know,” I say, “Mr. Goswick is near the lemonade. I’m sure he’d be delighted to get you a glass.”

“Maybe later.”

“You would rather get settled first, I’m sure.”

She nods, and I widen my eyes, attempting to encourage just a smidge more conversation from her.

“And then perhaps take a walk down to the sea with me and Charlotte?” I continue. “I saw a peek of it from the window of the coach. It’s beautiful here.”

A wistful look appears on her face.

“Do you not think it’s beautiful?”

“I do,” she insists.

I take a deep breath. “But perhaps you holiday elsewhere?”

Sabrina grins. “Brighton.”

“I’ve heard Brighton is quite lovely.”

I suppose I shouldn’t have expected her to elaborate. She sighs contentedly and looks about the room at all of the other guests.

Charlotte soon appears at my side, rescuing me from this one-sided conversation, and the three of us are led by the butler up to the second floor of Hemington Manor and given our rooms.

Charlotte and I are to share a bed, which was slightly alarming. Charlotte is my cousin, of course, but she isn’t my sister, and I know, I know , she’s never shared a bed with anyone. And she exudes a certain air that screams blanket hog. But now that I’m here, staring at the bed itself, I’ve never seen one so big.

Charlotte crosses the room, bending down and opening the trunk we packed with our dresses for the week. She insisted on a variety and that we could easily share considering our similar sizes. There are gauzy white muslin dresses for morning walks in the garden, more structured and detailed gowns and sunhats for afternoon tea or a rousing game of pall-mall. Perhaps we’ll even watch the men play cricket. And then there are our gowns for the evening, elaborate and flirtatious. I had no idea what sort of dress would suit me best, but Charlotte shepherded me through the process along with her modiste, and now I have several lovely dresses that I doubt I’ll ever wear again. The bees never care what I’m wearing.

Sudden and unexpected tears flood my eyes, and I blink rapidly to usher them away. I miss Awendown House. I miss my bees. But I remind myself that I’m doing this for a reason. I can’t meet investors if I’m not in attendance at events where they’ll be discovered.

“Blythe?” comes Charlotte’s voice from behind me.

I turn, swiping at my eyes and offering her a smile. “Yes.”

She approaches me gently, like I’m a rabbit in the garden she doesn’t wish to startle. “I saw a bolt of fabric that I was absolutely taken with when we went to be fitted for our dresses,” she says quietly. “It reminded me of the color of honey, and of course, I thought of you. So I thought I’d surprise you with this.”

She places a box on the bed and removes the lid, then steps aside to let me open my gift.

Beneath the layers of tissue, I find a golden ball gown, its layers of skirts a warm cream color and laden with bronze flowers and vines, and every so often, a little stitched bumblebee.

“There are three of them altogether,” says Charlotte, touching one of the bees. “Aren’t they lovely?”

Here come the tears again. I cover my mouth and nod, then reach for my cousin, drawing her into an embrace.

“Oh, Blythe! Are you crying?”

“Maybe,” I sob.

“What’s the matter? Don’t you like it?”

“I do,” I assure her. “I love the dress. I’ve never owned anything so beautiful in my entire life.” I rub the heels of my hands into my eyes, like that’s going to ease the puffiness. “I guess I’m just a little homesick.”

“Well,” says Charlotte, wiping a tear from my cheek with her thumb, “the best cure for homesickness is an evening of dancing.”

I manage a giggle at this. I rarely get the chance to dance. Mama was right. And I’m not altogether dreading it. Especially now that I’ll be wearing this dress.

The rest of the afternoon flies away from me, as Charlotte and I are consumed with bathing, having our hair done, rouge applied to our cheeks, kohl to our eyes. Charlotte supplies me with pearl drop earrings, and finally, our lady’s maid dresses us.

When I’m cinched and tied appropriately, she turns me to the mirror to admire my reflection. “You’re ready, miss,” she says.

I stare for a moment, wondering if it’s the same Blythe being reflected back at me. I choose to believe she is. The best version of Blythe. The most confident version of Blythe. The Blythe who will go downstairs and not allow Briggs Goswick to intimidate her.

“Shall we?” says Charlotte, tapping her closed fan on my arm.

I straighten my shoulders. “Let’s.”