Chapter Three

Blythe

I weave my way through the hedgerows, determined not to give Briggs Goswick another second of my precious time. Though perhaps I was a bit childish. Throwing apples in rage is beneath me, and besides, now Mr. Goswick knows he can get the better of me rather easily.

Still, even the company of my family discussing pudding is more welcome than his.

But when I get inside, no one is left in the drawing room. I clutch Charlotte’s book to my chest and retreat to the quiet confines of my bedchamber, whereupon I collapse backward onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

Our childhood rivalry started out innocently enough, I suppose. For me, anyway.

The Goswicks were hosting a garden party one summer while I was staying at Wrexford Park when I was ten years old, and I was walking with Amy and August Goswick under a flowered trellis absolutely inundated with bees.

I cannot remember a time in my life when I was not fascinated by bees. I began to explain that bees are attracted to particular flowers like the ones on the trellis, when Briggs Goswick appeared seemingly out of nowhere and rolled his eyes and offered a condescending, “No, Blythe, that’s nonsense.” Apparently, bees like flowers, any flower—they don’t care what kind of flower it is. I tried (but not too hard) to be pleasant, but Briggs has always been irksome, and he told me he had been away at school, so naturally he would know better than any girl.

I took that as a challenge, obviously, and every opportunity I got, I made sure to correct Briggs. In front of his brother, in front of our families, even in front of friends when they were visiting. Admittedly, this was all a bit juvenile, but I was pushed into it by my pride. You know, as a girl .

And there were just so many occasions to correct him. Amy and I were often at Wrexford to stay with Charlotte, and Briggs Goswick was often painfully, foolishly wrong about so very many things.

Naturally, Briggs wasn’t about to allow me to continue along this path, and I suppose, clever as I was, I should have anticipated his retaliation. Not with barbed remarks, because he was too obtuse for that sort of thing, but with pranks.

And I am woman enough to admit that I am not at all above a good lark. He started with frogs in a picnic basket, which upset Charlotte more than it did me. I retaliated by lining his bedsheets with rotting cabbage leaves. That sort of thing. Harmless, really. But they grew in scope. He once trained a cat to yowl every time I sat to play and sing at the pianoforte. I pretended to accidentally spill a glass of water in his lap so that when he stood at dinner, it looked as though he had wet himself.

I suppose it came to a head the Christmas I turned fourteen. We stayed at Wrexford for two weeks that year, and when Briggs came home from boarding school, I was ready with some sort of practical joke. I can’t even remember what it was now.

But I recall when he walked through the door into the grand black-and-white tiled foyer of Wrexford Park. Taller, athletic. Handsome. He wore fashionable clothes that fit snugly over his broad shoulders. At sixteen, he was no longer the little boy who had participated in silly mischief with his neighbor’s cousin. And at fourteen, I realized that those were no longer the kinds of games I wanted to play with Briggs. I wasn’t sure what I wanted from him, but suddenly, every witty retort fell flat in my mouth. Words in general were difficult to produce in his presence, and as he stepped forward, my cheeks flushed hot. It was a most frustrating state of being.

He paused before me and Charlotte, his hands clasped behind his back, and that all-too-familiar smirk occupying his mouth, which I suddenly could not tear my eyes from. I waited for something, anything, but all he said was, “Miss Rowley,” with an elegant bow.

Miss Rowley. Miss Rowley . He had never called me by my formal name before, and it felt like some unfortunate loss I couldn’t quite put into words.

From that moment forward, my holiday was occupied by finding all the ways to gain Briggs Goswick’s attention, and I thought I was doing rather well, actually. Whenever he happened to find me seated beside him (randomly, of course) at dinner, he would smile, offer me whatever vegetable was closest. He applauded politely whenever I played for the company, and after a particularly rousing rendition of “God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen,” he even told me that I was the most accomplished young lady of his acquaintance. At fourteen! Truly, I was a marvel, and surely, Briggs was about to ask to court me in earnest.

Finally, it was to be the annual Christmas party at Mistlethrush Hall, and I had saved my finest dress for the occasion—a pretty, soft pink, silky material with ribbons at the elbow. Mama had made it herself, and as I got ready with Charlotte and Amy, I twirled in the mirror, admiring the way the fabric floated about me.

This was the night I would win Briggs Goswick’s heart. I was certain.

On the carriage ride to Mistlethrush, Charlotte grasped my hand and whispered, “You look so pretty tonight, Blythe.”

“Do you think so?” I could hardly breathe, and despite the frigid temperature and gently falling snowflakes, I was too warm with excitement.

The carriage slowed before Mistlethrush Hall, and when the door opened, we were greeted by a very merry Mr. Frank Goswick. Briggs’s father was always loud and welcoming, a handsome and refined man who made you feel at home immediately.

“Why, Miss Rowley,” he said as he helped me out of the carriage. “You look absolutely lovely this evening, my dear.”

“Thank you, Mr. Goswick,” I said, curtsying.

Inside Mistlethrush, it felt like something out of a fairy tale. Green garlands and bright red berries festooned the exposed beams of the drawing room, and a fire roared in the hearth. People from all over Brumbury gathered, sipping claret and laughing together. And there was Briggs with—to my surprise—a group of boys his age.

He was truly magnificent. My stomach fluttered as his eyes found mine, and I clasped my hands before me to keep them from fidgeting.

“We have some extra company this evening,” said Mr. Goswick from behind me and Charlotte. “Some of the boys from Briggs’s school have joined us.”

No matter , I assured myself. Nothing would keep me and Briggs apart tonight. It was like we were preordained.

And the evening started off better than I could have imagined. Briggs sought me out and introduced me to his friends. He insisted I perform at the pianoforte after dinner, and whenever he noticed my glass was empty, he asked if he could fetch me a fresh one. Finally, I felt seen by Briggs Goswick. Worthy of Briggs Goswick. He recognized that not only was I his equal, but deserving of his attention and admiration.

At the end of the evening, Charlotte and I were sitting near the fire, discussing something that was surely of the utmost importance, when Briggs appeared.

“May I speak to you privately, Miss Rowley?” His striking green eyes sparkled in the firelight. This was it.

“Of course. Excuse me, Charlotte.”

Briggs led me to the door, glancing around as if to make sure no one was within earshot. “Forgive me if this is too forward, Miss Rowley—”

I stood taller, my chest constricting in anticipation.

“—but I just learned that one of our tenants’ dogs had a litter of puppies in the loft of their barn.”

“Oh,” I said, clasping my hands together in delight. What could be better than this? Briggs Goswick about to profess his undying love… and puppies? Absolutely nothing.

“I thought you might like to see them with me.”

I nodded enthusiastically. “I would.”

Briggs grinned in relief. “Wonderful. Let’s find your pelisse.”

“What, now?” I asked. I glanced over my shoulder. Mama and Papa were engaged in conversation with Mr. Goswick and Briggs’s uncle Richard. Uncle Henry was asleep by the fire, and Charlotte and Amy watched me with wide, eager gazes. I couldn’t back down now. Besides, I was certain that I would be able to slip out with Briggs unnoticed, play with the puppies for a bit, and then, if I were really lucky, have the most romantic, snow-flaked kiss in the history of all kisses.

Outside, the cold air was shocking, but Briggs grabbed my hand in his, the other holding a lantern, and led me across the fields behind Mistlethrush. A great stone barn stood in the distance, and we stopped at a ladder that was propped up at the opening to the hay loft.

“Wait here,” he said. “You can’t go up alone, not without me. I’ll go first because the mother knows me. I don’t want us to frighten her.”

“Of course,” I agreed. “Never without you.” He was so thoughtful and considerate.

Briggs climbed the ladder, disappearing into the hay loft while I waited down below, shivering in the dark night yet humming with warm anticipation. At last, he poked his head out. “Come on!” he called in a whisper. “Walk up slowly. There are five pups.”

I grinned, grasping the first rung of the ladder, and followed him into the loft. Inside, it was dark except for the limited light of Briggs’s lantern, and I could see that he was hunched behind a mountain of hay.

“Over here,” he said, glancing back at me. “But go slowly. We don’t want to frighten her.”

Gently, I took a few measured steps in his direction. “Are they sleeping?” I asked.

“They just woke up.”

I took another step.

“Wait right there,” said Briggs. “The mother seems a bit concerned.”

“All right,” I replied, stopping where I was.

And without any warning, the floor beneath me caved in, dropping me several feet below to the muddy, manure-laden hay of the pigsty. My mouth fell open as I inhaled deeply, dizziness overcoming me. It took several moments to even realize what was happening, and if it wasn’t for the squeal of the pig I apparently had woken from a very restful slumber, it might have taken me longer.

I couldn’t catch my breath. I was covered in manure. My beautiful pink dress, destroyed. I looked up into the hay loft where all of Briggs’s friends appeared, laughing hysterically. Briggs, of course, tried to maintain his composure, but his self-control was cracking the longer I sat there.

My limbs felt weak and tingly, and I grabbed a handful of muddy hay, launching it at Briggs, but that just made them laugh even harder.

“What is it, Miss Rowley?” one of them called down. “No witty retort for Goswick?”

His friends’ laughter became incoherent cackles.

There was no moment of disbelief, no time for that kind of denial. It was all vividly apparent: everything I thought, everything I had hoped for, had all been a charade. I was just a joke for him and his friends to laugh at. The silly girl who had the audacity to believe Briggs Goswick was in love with her. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, and I buried the sob that formed behind every breath I took.

I marched back to Mistlethrush Hall in silence, my entire body vibrating with anger. I hardly even noticed that Briggs had clearly followed me.

“Blythe, wait,” he called.

I paused in the middle of the field, turning on him, my chin in the air. “You will address me as Miss Rowley.”

He stumbled to a stop, chest heaving from the exertion of trying to catch up to me. “Yes, Miss Rowley, of course.”

I burst into the drawing room of Mistlethrush, covered in mud and manure, and his father’s eyes roamed from me to just over my shoulder where Briggs lingered in the doorway.

“Briggs Goswick!” he shouted.

Briggs made no attempt to defend himself, and whatever his punishment was, I did not see him for the rest of my stay at Wrexford.

I’ve made a point of not seeing him for four years. I suppose my fury has only festered in the meanwhile, because now here I am. Exasperated once more by his very presence and wishing there was a puppy for me to cuddle.

Or a pig, even.