Chapter Twenty

Blythe

“You’ve been here for weeks now,” says Amy beside me, carrying a basket of jarred honeys and shifting it from one arm to the other, “and you still haven’t visited Mistlethrush Hall? It’s been years!”

My sister somehow convinced our parents that she deserved at least another weekend at Wrexford Park, and even Julian was apt to join her, so here we all are. Little did they know that upon their arrival, I was going to press them into beekeeping service.

Upon returning home from our week at Hemington Manor, August Goswick arrived at the front door of Wrexford Park just after dawn, asking if I was awake. I was nowhere close to being awake, but I rallied myself, got dressed, and met him in the lavender drawing room. He informed me that there were bees buzzing about one of the upstairs corridors of Mistlethrush, and I must come at once to see what was to be done about them.

So this morning, we gathered up all my necessary supplies, including one of the frame and box hives from Awendown House that Julian brought with him, and began our half a mile’s journey to Mistlethrush. Julian was curious about the place, and now he leads a rather affectionate donkey hitched up to a wagon filled with our supplies.

“It’s true,” I admit to Amy. “I haven’t been to Mistlethrush since I was fourteen, so I have very little memory of the place. I daresay I’ve rather avoided it.”

“Mr. Goswick must be very disagreeable,” says Julian loudly from behind us, “for you to avoid his family’s ancestral home for so long. So purposefully.” The donkey brays in agreement and then shoves his snout under Julian’s arm. “That’s enough, that’s enough . There’s nothing there for you! Stupid ass.”

“Oh, don’t be down on yourself, Julian,” I say, turning. “I think you’re rather a clever ass.”

Even Charlotte has to stifle a giggle. I know Julian was trying to figure out my reasoning for avoiding a place for so long, but diverting the conversation is a much better idea. I have very little desire to relive my brief foray into the pigsty.

We leave the formal gardens of Wrexford and cross into the horse pastures just beyond the stable. I could have taken the main road, but I prefer the company of the horses, the swooping swallows, and the timid breeze that appears just when I least expect it.

There’s nothing whatsoever about Mistlethrush to be intimidated over, I tell myself. It will be just like Wrexford Park, I trust. Boring, grand, and predictable, and besides, we’ll only be there for the better part of the afternoon. Certainly not too lengthy a time to allow for the portraits of Goswick ancestors long past to stare down their noses and judge the poor girl putting on airs and clothes she could never afford.

The north-facing stone exterior of Mistlethrush comes into view, covered with several windows and creeping vines. Already, it doesn’t make me feel at all the way Wrexford does, and when we round the bend of the drive leading to its main entrance, the memory of the place comes rushing back.

Mistlethrush Hall is considerably smaller than Wrexford, hidden away by curling vines and draped with purple branches of wisteria. As I walk farther to gain a clearer perspective, I follow the length of a narrow river spanned by a curved stone bridge and dotted with floating swans. Beyond them, I spot the vegetable and herb garden next to the kitchens, and down a winding path, there are peach trees burdened with ripe fruit, butterflies gathering along trellises, and a swing hanging from the branch of a sturdy maple. Its ropes creak warmly in the breeze.

It’s so beautiful, so unlike the forced and contrived gardens of Wrexford, that it makes me want to weep.

“I can see why you wanted to avoid this place,” says Julian, coming up beside me, donkey still in tow. “It’s an absolute hellscape.”

“I forgot how beautiful this place was,” I reply so that only Julian can hear. “I couldn’t remember…”

“Oh, look at you.” Julian steps back, observing me, and then chuckles to himself. “You really are rather moved, aren’t you?”

I shrug weakly, trying not to look directly at him. Julian has always been skilled at catching me in a lie.

“Come, ladies,” he says, stepping forward. “Our friend Ernest, here, is desperate for a shady stall and some fresh hay while Blythe discovers the mystery of the wayward bees.”

Amy pauses mid-step. “The Mystery of the Wayward Bees,” she repeats. “Wait, I have to write that down. It’s the perfect title for my next novel.” She pulls her notebook and a pencil out of her satchel and jots down her newly acquired title. “There. Let’s go.”

We round the side of the house, only to be greeted by August Goswick. He’s seated, both elbows on a table, and his eyes focused on the open book before him. When he hears Ernest’s incessant declarations, he lifts his head.

“Miss Rowley, you’re finally here. I was beginning to think my brother scared you off with some new and entertaining insult he most likely concocted after weeks of consideration.”

I try not to laugh, but August makes me wonder if I’ve seriously missed out on having a younger brother in my life.

At the mere mention of his ferocity, Briggs appears in the open doorway connecting the gardens to a cozy drawing room, where I think I catch a glimpse of his mother reading near the hearth.

“Why does everyone speak of me like I’m some kind of verbose assassin, scaring women away with every word I utter?”

I travel the path until I’m at his side. “Your brother also implied that you lacked a quick wit. You forgot that part.”

“Thank you so much for reminding me, Miss Rowley.” He bows dramatically, and I feel my face flush despite my best efforts to appear unaffected. I can’t let Julian see what Briggs does to me. Because Julian will know. He always knows, damn him.

We follow the Goswick brothers into Mistlethrush, where we find their mother in the morning drawing room.

“Thank goodness you’re here, Miss Rowley,” she says, rising to greet us. “When we had only noticed a bee or two, I was able to ignore it, but now there are bees all up and down that hall! Do you think you’ll be able to take care of them?”

“I hope so,” I say. “I’ll have to see where they’re coming from first.” I turn to the rest of the group. “Mr. August? Will you come with me to assist?”

He’s staring rather intently at Amy, but his study is broken with his response. “Oh, absolutely not, Miss Rowley.”

“August,” his mother says in reprimand.

“No, I have no desire to be stung today. I saw what happened to Briggs at Hemington Manor. Don’t you remember his face?”

Briggs sighs. “I’ll accompany you, Miss Rowley,” he says, sidestepping his brother and leading me to the staircase.

“Excellent, it’s settled, then.” August takes a seat across from his mother and then motions to a chair near the pianoforte. “Please, sit down, Miss Amy.”

My sister eyes me warily but does as she’s asked.

“Let me know if you need me to bring up one of the hives,” Julian says to me.

“I will.”

I look toward Briggs, who takes a step back. “After you, Miss Rowley. We’ll head up the staircase and then to the left.”

I follow his directions, and at the top of the stairs, I’m greeted by a honeybee, who then promptly buzzes off in the direction that he came. Behind me, Briggs gestures for me to continue down the corridor. The longer we walk, the more bees we encounter.

To my right are doors I can only assume open to bedrooms, and on my left are huge windows that look out over the gardens. I must stare at the flowers for an obvious amount of time because gently Briggs touches my wrist, tugging my attention back to him.

“Do you like it?” he asks quietly. “The gardens?”

I stare back out at the cobblestone path that weaves its way through the foliage and flowers.

He takes another step forward. “Mistlethrush is very important to me. I would be honored by your good opinion.”

I nod and take a breath. “Then you have it.”

He seems surprised by this, but then he smiles, almost bashfully, and I am altogether struck by how shy he suddenly appears. He steps aside, offering me room to pass him.

“So when did you start noticing the bees?” I ask, continuing our journey down the hall.

“My mother said it was a few weeks ago. But I’m afraid they’ve become more and more frequent these past few days.”

At the end of the hall, there’s an entrance to what must be a very grand room, and several bees emerge from the limited space offered between the door and the frame. “It would seem we’ve found our source, at least.”

“We’ve kept the door tightly shut, just in case,” says Briggs. “But it doesn’t seem to matter.”

Carefully, I turn the knob, and inside, hundreds of bees swarm the room. I quickly shut the door again. “I’m going to need a hive, Mr. Goswick.”

“I’ll be right back.” And he takes off down the hall.

I open the door, knowing full well these bees don’t mean me any harm. I survey the room and notice how they congregate at a chest of drawers near an open window. The bed is neatly made as though waiting for its inhabitant to return at any moment, but clearly this room hasn’t been occupied in some time. Dust collects in corners, and there’s a tray of tea and toast on the table across the room. It’s crumbs now, and when I open the lid to the pot, the tea is long gone, leaving a brown stain on the bone china interior. I wonder whose room this was.

By the time Briggs returns with my frame and box hive, I’ve located where the bees have been calling home for some time.

“In the drawer,” I say to Briggs.

He lingers in the doorway.

“It’s safe to come in,” I tell him. “Though I understand why you might be a little shy around stinging creatures.”

Placing the hive on the ground before him, he stands up straight. “If it’s all the same to you, Miss Rowley, I think I’d prefer to stay here.”

I meet him there, lifting the box and then pausing to look around. “Whose room is this?” I ask quietly. I bring the box back to the chest and then open one of the drawers to find their hive. They’ve built several combs, but they’ll be easy enough to place in the frames to relocate.

“Um,” says Briggs, rubbing the back of his neck with his right hand. “My late father’s.”

“Oh,” I say, recognizing that I may have trod upon an unwelcome subject. I kneel down near the drawer.

“My parents,” he starts again, as if he needs to explain them to me, “they were not entirely fond of one another’s company. Not the way your parents are. So my father always slept in a separate room when he was home. It was a…” He stares down at his feet.

“A marriage of convenience?” I finish for him.

“Yes. I think it was just expected of them, and neither was in the situation to let their family down.”

I release a quiet, shaky breath. “Yes, I know the feeling.”

“So do I.”

We both glance over at each other, then hastily back to the bees for me and Briggs’s feet for him.

Clearing my throat, I decide to keep talking. “My mother often reminds me how much easier things would be if I married well. That I am too pretty and too fine a dancer to spend the summer among beehives. But luckily…” I scoop a handful of bees into their new home and then move on to the next drawer. “The bees always seem to find me. We can rebel against my mother together.”

“And your father?” Briggs asks. When I look over at him, his green eyes are dark and steady in the shadows of the room. “What does he say?” He always wants to know more. He always makes me go deeper and offers me a safe place to say whatever is on my mind. How strange to think when the summer started that he was the last person I would ever admit anything to.

I smile softly at the bees. “My father does not wish for me to be any more involved with my bees than I already am. I’m sure he believes that this is a pleasant pastime that will pass once I’m settled and married. I’m afraid he’s too old-fashioned to understand.”

“That’s too bad,” says Briggs. “I think he would be proud to see how well you manage all of this.”

I press my lips together, still trying to seem as though my thoughts are only focused on the bees. But quietly, I reply, “Thank you.”

He watches me for a while and then asks, “Is it safe to handle them that way?”

Shrugging, I put the final comb into the box. “They don’t see me as a threat. If they did, I’d be in much more pain right now, as you well know.” I scoop up another handful of bees from the top drawer and then drop them into their new home. “And I’m so used to being around them that they no longer feel like a threat to me. If that makes any sense.”

“It does,” he assures me.

“And now,” I say, and I bite my bottom lip in concentration, “I have located the queen.” I lift her along with a few of her workers and hold her delicately in the palm of my hand. “Come here and look at her,” I tell Briggs. “You’ll be all right.”

Hesitantly, he crosses the room and then squats down beside me, examining the bee in my hand.

“See how much bigger she is than the others? Once I put her in her new hive, all the other bees will follow. And we can relocate them to wherever your brother has deemed appropriate.”

“Yes, we mustn’t leave August out of any of this. Look how intent his interest is.” He motions about the room, pretending to look for his brother.

I try not to laugh too hard, but Briggs’s joke finally breaks the seriousness between us, and even he seems relieved to be off such unfortunate topics. I observe him as he peers into my hive, the way his eyes dart from bee to bee, the interest he takes in what matters to me.

I feel the sudden need to tell him of the plans I made at the ball, like a confession. “Next week, I’m supposed to go to the opera with Lord Colchester.”

Briggs leans back on his heels, elbows resting on his knees. “Oh?”

“When Miss Dixon heard, she told me how she loved the opera. She was rather animated, actually.”

He takes a deep breath through his nose. “I hate the opera. Besides, I gave up our box, unfortunately. Couldn’t afford it anymore.”

“So use my uncle’s. Charlotte and I will be in Lord Colchester’s box, so it will be free. Perhaps Miss Dixon will be grateful for it.”

I expect him to thank me for this tidbit of information, but instead, Briggs looks a bit reluctant. “It’s very considerate of you, Miss Rowley.”

“I believe that’s all of them,” I say, turning my thoughts back to the bees. “There might be a stray one here or there, but if we secure that window—” I point over my shoulder. “And you carry this box outside for me, I believe your bee problem is solved, Mr. Goswick.”

“I’m in your debt, Miss Rowley. I don’t know what we would have done without you.”

The heat rises to my cheeks. “You’re welcome,” I tell him quietly.

I follow Briggs back down the stairs, and he leads us out a side door in order to avoid the drawing room. Once outside, August, Charlotte, Amy, and Julian all join us.

“Would you like to see the bees we’ve rescued from upstairs?” I ask August.

“And if the apiary setup doesn’t take too long, perhaps you’ll all stay for luncheon?” Briggs suggests.

Julian appears beside me, popping a few blackberries into his mouth and inclining his chin at Briggs. “Yes, what an absolute dragon he is. I hate him.”

I nudge him in the arm with my elbow.

Briggs continues, “My mother has some cold meats and salads prepared for us.”

“Oh, luncheon,” says Charlotte. “Yes, that sounds perfect. I hope there’s lemonade.”

Briggs, however, looks at me. “Miss Rowley?”

“Yes, luncheon sounds wonderful.”

August lets out a relieved sigh. “Westley and his boring stepsister are supposed to be joining us, so now at least there will be other people to talk to.”

“August,” says Briggs, placing the hive on the wooden table August has designated for it and stepping away.

“Look, brother,” says August, clapping a hand on Briggs’s shoulder. “I won’t pretend to understand why you insist upon pursuing her, perhaps the less I know the better, but even you have to admit she’s not nearly as interesting as Miss Rowley.”

“Well, I don’t like this development,” mutters Julian. “Not at all.”

“No,” says Briggs, rolling his shoulders. A brief smile flicks across his mouth and then disappears. “She’s not.”

I take a shaky breath, trying to ignore the possible implications of Briggs’s response. “Well. Perhaps it’s best that we get started, shall we? Before Mr. Parker and Miss Dixon arrive and I’m forced to find ways to be interesting. One must uphold reputations, of course.”

I begin attending to the beehive, allowing the conversations to drift away from the topic of me and Miss Dixon and onto less stressful matters, and when I’m finally finished, my bees in their new home, Mrs. Goswick calls us in to have our lunch.

“If I had to decide, I would give Mr. Goswick a ten,” Julian murmurs in my ear as Briggs brings out enough chairs for everyone to be comfortable.

“He’s hardly a ten,” I scoff. “A seven, at best.”

“Oh, please. Look at him. Oh, he’s taking off his jacket. He’s taking off his jacket, Blythe.” He begins hitting my arm, but I swat him away.

“I can see that, Julian.”

We both take a moment to stare as Briggs rolls his shirtsleeves up. The muscles of his forearms flex as he arranges the table, and suddenly my corset is just a smidge too tight, and I wish the sun wasn’t so glaringly hostile.

“Fine,” I concede. “He’s a ten, but he adamantly despises the opera.”

“Ooh! So an eleven.”

Ignoring Julian, I take the seat that’s offered to me. I’m surprisingly nervous, and when I settle next to Sabrina, trying my best to elicit some form of conversation from her, I can’t help but let my attention wander back to Briggs.

There’s a little table outfitted with a pitcher of water and another of lemonade, and beside it, Julian and Westley have struck up a conversation that Briggs seems to desperately want to be a part of. He keeps glancing at me, almost as though he’s begging for my help, but I can’t hear what the two gentlemen are discussing, and there’s no way I can extricate myself from Sabrina now.

“You should come and see how our apiary is progressing,” I hear Julian say to Mr. Parker. “I’m certain that once you see Blythe’s work, you’ll want something similar at Brompton Place.”

“I hope you’ll show me,” Westley replies. “Perhaps tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow would work for me, too,” adds Briggs.

Both Westley and Julian observe him with neutral, albeit confused, expressions.

“Briggs, dear,” calls his mother from her place near a magnificent wisteria. “Tomorrow you must call upon one of our tenants, Mr. Hughes. Mr. Walker informed me yesterday that he is incapacitated.”

“Right, of course,” says Briggs. “Yes, I’ll have to go and see how the family is doing.”

He sounds disappointed, and maybe the Blythe I was at the beginning of summer would think that he’s disappointed that he has to complete something that’s rather a chore for him instead of spending time with the two other gentlemen his age who are here for a visit. But I know better now, I realize. He’s disappointed that he’s being left out—that, for whatever reason, Westley still hasn’t forgiven him for his previous indiscretion. He’s disappointed because he knows visiting the Hughes family is his responsibility as the head of one of the foremost families of the neighborhood, as their landlord, and he didn’t think of it himself.

“I can help you, Mr. Goswick,” says Sabrina from beside me. Her back is ramrod straight, and she doesn’t quite look him in the eye.

We all silently turn to observe her, but this has no obvious effect on her offer.

“I pride myself on my charitable work. I can help. If you’d like.”

I raise my eyebrows and take a sip of my lemonade. You’re never free of surprises until you’re dead, I suppose. But perhaps she’s softened herself to Briggs’s advances ever since he rescued her from certain peril.

“It’s kind of you to offer, Miss Dixon,” says Mrs. Goswick from beside her.

Sabrina smiles at Mrs. Goswick. “It’s the least I could do for those poor, poor people.”

“She probably just means poor people,” Julian whispers to me as he perches on the edge of his chair beside me, snickering at his own joke. It draws the attention of Westley Parker. Westley glances at Julian, and I think (I’m almost certain, actually) that his cheeks turn a bit red, and then he downs his glass of lemonade.

Casually, Julian turns to me. “Tell me about him,” he says.

“Well,” I say with a light shrug as Briggs begins telling the party about the process of bringing in hay. He anticipates the Hughes family struggling with this, as hay is their main crop. Bless my dear sister, but Amy pretends to be enthralled with this conversation, even though she helps take in the hay at Awendown almost every summer. “He’s so much more insecure than I ever thought he would be. I think he must put on an act of being obnoxious and, dare I say it, a little stupid, but it’s all because he’s never quite sure of himself.”

Julian frowns in confusion and then sighs with understanding. “No, Blythe. Don’t tell me about Mr. Goswick, who you most certainly don’t find appealing in any way, shape, or form, of course. I was asking about him .” He nods discreetly in the direction of Westley.

“Mr. Parker?” I ask. I lower my voice and launch a warning glare in Julian’s direction. “He’s Mr. Goswick’s oldest friend. You cannot mean to flirt with him!”

“First of all,” says Julian, taking a sip of his drink, “I can flirt with anyone I damn well please, and no one, not even you, my darling girl, will stop me. Secondly, I was asking because I am convinced I can get Mr. Parker to set up an apiary at Brompton Place.” He arches a brow. “As clearly, you have found your way into Mistlethrush quite proficiently.”

“Don’t be absurd,” I whisper. “Clearly, Mr. Goswick is enthralled with Miss Dixon, and—”

“How can anyone be enthralled with a wet dishcloth? Don’t be coy with me, Blythe Rowley. I know you far too well.”

I don’t make any verbal response, but Julian leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other and then bringing his drink to his mouth. “Exactly.”