Chapter Five

Blythe

Charlotte suggested that we go inside to get ready for Briggs Goswick’s dinner at about two in the afternoon. Which felt preposterous, to be honest. He’s already spoiling my entire evening. Now I have to cut my afternoon short in this absolutely glorious summer sunshine to ready myself for his presence? He is the last person I feel obligated to primp and preen for. I’ve done that before, and I can be sure it’s a waste of my time.

So I didn’t go in when my cousin did. I waited until four.

Which was a mistake, clearly, if my lady’s maid Abigail’s opinion counts for anything. She stands before me in the fading evening light, clucking her tongue at the state of my hair and trying to coerce it into a reasonable style.

“I think it looks fine as it is,” I say quietly.

Her lack of a verbal response just proves that she disagrees with me but knows her place isn’t to argue with the niece of her employer.

My mother appears in the doorway, dressed in a blue gown, her thick, graying blond hair pulled back from her face and a long curl positioned over her shoulder—exactly what Abigail is going for with me. “Not ready yet, Blythe?” she asks gently.

“Almost,” I say. “Abigail is doing her best.”

“Aye, miss, I’m doing my best, but my best thought it would have more time!” She fusses in a circle around the chair I sit upon, examining her work in the mirror and then stepping back to see beyond its reflection.

“Ah, Abigail,” says my mother, coming to her side and grabbing the brush from her hand. “Let me give it a try. I have years of practice with this girl’s hair.”

Relieved, Abigail relinquishes her torture devices to Mama, and we’re left in the quiet of the room, only disrupted by the methodic tug of the brush and the subdued laughter of servants just outside my window lighting torches along the drive to get ready to greet this evening’s guests.

“You’re much gentler than Abigail was,” I say.

“Well, as I said, I know that the best way to get your hair to do what I want is to reason with it, not force it.” She smiles. “Same goes for the girl it’s attached to.”

I take a deep breath as Mama begins to pin my locks in place.

“What’s the matter?” she asks.

I shrug. “I’m not looking forward to this evening.”

Mama is quiet, concentrating again on brushing, making sections, and pinning those sections in place.

“I wish I didn’t have to attend. It makes me feel as though I have to pretend to be someone I’m not in order to fit in. Wrexford Park is nothing like Awendown House.”

My home, Awendown, is an ancient place. I suppose Wrexford Park is, too. But the difference is that Uncle Henry has always had the money to add on to Wrexford Park whenever it suited him. Fix whatever is broken at Wrexford Park. Maintain Wrexford Park. Awendown looks much as it ever has, and I love it for that, despite its leaking roof, worn carpets, and drafty windows.

Nodding, Mama finally speaks. “I grew up at Wrexford,” she says thoughtfully, running the brush through my hair once more. “And I loved the parties, and the dinners, and the balls, and my fine dresses, and the trips to London. I loved them so much that I couldn’t have imagined my life elsewhere.” She places the brush on my vanity. “That is, until I married your father and moved to Awendown House. And now that is where my heart resides.”

“I know!” I say, turning. “Me too.”

“I think you’re misunderstanding what I’m trying to tell you, child.” She kneels down beside me. “Wrexford was the only life I knew, and the thought of anything outside my sphere of knowledge was terrifying. It’s terrifying for everyone. But we do not grow and do great things if we stay in our comfortable nests, Blythe.”

I see her point, but perhaps she’d change her mind if she knew all that I was planning with my apiary business. That Mr. August Goswick had already contracted me to build an apiary at Mistlethrush Hall, one of the oldest estates in the county.

“Besides,” Mama stands again, meandering over to my bed and taking a seat, “when was the last time you danced? You’re too pretty to waste sitting home at Awendown.”

I don’t bother arguing with my mother about how my looks have nothing to do with what I want for my future. I’m certain the only future she can fathom for me is being a good, married lady, sitting at home darning my husband’s socks while I wait for him to return from all that keeps him busy.

“I don’t want to dance,” I say, turning in my chair. I lower my voice and check the door to make sure my cousin isn’t lingering in the hall. “I don’t want to be some preening peacock like Charlotte, only concerned with fashion and securing a wealthy husband. I like being useful. I like being necessary.”

“You are both useful and necessary.” She closes her eyes for a moment. “But your father and I were discussing your plans for the rest of the summer, and we think it best if you were to stay here at Wrexford Park with Charlotte and Uncle Henry.”

My tongue is almost unmovable, and I turn in my chair to stare defiantly at my mother, almost daring her to say it again.

So she does. “You can spend the next month or so here.”

“Mama, surely you’re joking,” I start, my heart pounding with the injustice of it all. “What’s the point in staying here? And what about my bees? How can I possibly care for them if I’m to stay in this gilded prison, parading myself around like, like—”

“You already used the peacock simile.”

“I know that!” My voice is shrill now.

Mama stands, placing her hands on my shoulders. “Your beekeeping is a lovely pastime, Blythe, but it cannot be why you stay at Awendown.” She looks away for some reason, unable to meet my eyes in the reflection of the mirror.

“What?” I probe.

“Your father and I were even discussing taking your hives down, Blythe. They’re too distracting, too consuming.”

The utter unfairness of the words she just spoke comes crashing down around me. Take down my hives? They’re my passion, my heart. I love my bees. They’ve done nothing to deserve the brunt of my mother’s limited belief in my life’s purpose. “You cannot take away my bees.”

“We can if it’s keeping you from living your life. You are eighteen years old and have been presented an opportunity to truly help your family, to help our home, and I’m not sure you can afford to let it pass you by.”

I stare incredulously at her. “What opportunity?”

“If you spend your summer at Wrexford Park, you will be in the company of other fine families. Fine gentlemen. You could secure yourself a husband, one who will give you a better life than…” She gestures out the door.

“Than what?” I press her.

“Than your bees at Awendown!” She laughs, but it isn’t necessarily funny. “I love your father, and I love you and Amy, but sometimes, Blythe, I am so tired.” Her voice cracks, and she trails off, wiping her eyes. “I want better for you. You can have more than what I have. Don’t limit yourself.”

“You think that the only way I can do better is by marrying a wealthy gentleman?” I ask. “That’s all? Should I care about whether or not I love him or if he’s thirty years older than I am? Should any of that matter?”

She pauses for a second but then persists. “We have had four bad harvests in a row. We have needed a new roof for two winters. If you marry well, then you give Amy the chance to marry well, and it won’t matter that Awendown is entailed to your cousin.”

“Julian would never throw us out, and you know it.”

“Don’t do this, Blythe.”

I’m desperate to make her understand. “I have plans for my bees. Plans to expand from honey and candles to building an actual business, one that constructs apiaries on great estates, and Julian has agreed to help me. This could be something real, Mama, something that helps Awendown. I just need Father to understand…”

My mother is a stone. “Your father will never understand why his beautiful daughter would rather design beehives than marry well.”

“Think about what you’re implying!” I stand, shoulders tight and my voice higher than I’d like it to be. I don’t want to sound like an insolent child, but she hasn’t listened to reason; she hasn’t even been reasonable herself. I am desperate to make her understand the consequences of what she’s suggesting.

“I have,” says Mama, with finality in her voice.

…

“You look pretty,” Charlotte says to me a half hour later as we survey the arriving guests from Wrexford’s second landing.

“So do you.” I offer her a smile and squeeze her hand.

Despite the fact that I know this entire evening is for him, I’m still taken by surprise when Briggs Goswick enters the foyer. Dressed in a black jacket and an ivory waistcoat, he pulls at his sleeves, adjusts his cravat, his eyes scanning the room and then finally trailing up the staircase until they find mine. I ignore the slight breathlessness the sight of him causes and avert my gaze to where a footman stands with a tray of drinks, determined not to pay Mr. Goswick any attention. Instead, I follow my cousin down the steps and join my sister and cousin Julian.

“Oh, there you are, Blythe,” says Amy, her wavy brown hair spilling down along her shoulders. Though she’s two years younger than I am, we look so alike our father often jokes that we were meant to be twins. She’s also borrowed one of Charlotte’s dresses this evening, a seafoam-green beauty, and she looks as though she’s ready to dance with any gentleman who even glances her way. “You look so lovely in lavender,” she says, grabbing my hand and pulling me to her side.

“Thank you,” I say quietly.

Julian stands between Amy and Charlotte, and I admire how easily he moves between worlds. For the most part, Julian enjoys helping my father work his land, land that will someday be Julian’s. He is the other half of my bee business, and though he’s terrified of bees, he’s happy to sell their honey and candles at the market. Without his jovial good humor and knack for conversation, I don’t know where I’d be. But he’s also remarkably good at getting dressed up and enjoying a formal dinner from time to time. Tonight, he’s in his glory, watching all the wealthy people populating Uncle Henry’s house.

“What’s wrong?” Julian’s eyes pinch together as he observes me. There’s no secret I could possibly keep from him. “Is this about Mr. Dormer?”

“Mr. who?” I ask.

“Mr. Dormer,” Julian repeats. “Apparently he saw you at church on Sunday and was charmed out of his wits by you. He commented to your mother that he would like to get to know you better.”

I press my lips together, my heart plummeting. Of course my mother had a cunning plan devised long before she even informed me that I’d be spending the summer at Wrexford. “Did he indeed,” I murmur, scanning the room to see if I can spot any gentleman whose gaze might linger a tad too long.

“Did you say Mr. Dormer?” Charlotte asks, turning away from an older couple she had been greeting.

Julian nods, though his eyes follow the path of Mr. Westley Parker. I’m sure they’ve been introduced, but the two of them share a rather pointed gaze. Clearing his throat, my cousin turns back to our conversation.

“You cannot marry Mr. Dormer.” Charlotte glances around the room, then leans in conspiratorially, her voice lowering. “He’s a strange little man who lives all by himself in a large house just outside of Brumbury. He keeps a collection of moths.”

“Moths?” I repeat.

“ Dead moths,” Charlotte adds.

My lips curl in horror as my mind rushes to conjure every image of dead moths inundating his house—collecting in corners like piles of dust, pinned to the drapes. I shudder.

“Oh, well, this is perfect, then, Blythe.” My sister grins. “You collect bees and he collects moths. Leave it to Mama to make such a sensible match.”

I pinch her arm, and she giggles, dashing away from me and then returning once she’s certain I won’t do it again.

“Blythe,” says Charlotte, suddenly somber. “Walk away from me as quickly as you possibly can.”

Immediately, I’m alarmed, and I search for the source of this warning. Guests are still arriving, milling about the foyer and standing in clumps and clusters greeting one another. “No, why? What’s wrong?”

“Mr. Dormer is headed this way, and I know he’ll want an introduction, and as I’m the lady of the house, I’ll have to—”

But it’s too late. I didn’t heed my cousin’s advice, and now a short, older gentleman stands before us, his smile strangely plastered on his face. “Miss Barlow,” he says. “A pleasure to see you again. These must be your charming cousins.” He glances between Amy and me, waiting for Charlotte to make the introduction, but with no effort to acknowledge Julian.

She clears her throat. “Indeed. Mr. Dormer, allow me to introduce my cousins, Miss Blythe Rowley and Miss Amy Rowley, and their cousin Mr. Julian Browning.”

Amy and I both curtsy as Julian offers a curt bow, and Mr. Dormer takes a breath so deep, his chest looks as though it might burst. “Lovely,” he says on the exhale, his attention focused solely upon me. “‘The unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.’”

I stand wordlessly for a moment, allowing what I just heard to process. “Was that—?” I close my eyes and shift my weight from one foot to the other. “Was that a Bible verse?”

“Indeed, Miss Rowley! Do I dare to hope that you also take part in nightly readings from the Good Book to have recognized it so quickly?”

“You would think.” I need an excuse to walk away. Something. Absolutely anything. A twisted ankle, a refreshed drink. I’m half tempted to shout, “Fire!”

“Miss Rowley!”

Of course, August Goswick would work, as well. He weaves between guests, a drink in one hand and I’m fairly sure a book tucked under his opposite arm.

“Miss Rowley, here you are.” He bows briefly. Bless him. Bless this socially inept Goswick for stepping right in front of Mr. Dormer and not even addressing him as someone worth his while. This is exactly what I needed.

I smile at his enthusiasm. “Mr. August, how good to see you again. You remember my sister, Miss Amy Rowley?”

Amy dips a curtsy. “It’s a pleasure to see—”

“Yes, I’m sure.” August quickly turns back to me, ignoring my sister’s squeak of surprise. “Miss Rowley, I was hoping you’d have a few minutes to spare to talk to my brother. He seems to need convincing of the many benefits a colony of bees would provide to Mistlethrush Hall.”

It takes all I have to keep my nostrils from flaring. “Does he, indeed?”

Charlotte clears her throat, her grip on my hand growing tighter.

“I’m afraid he’s not as forward-thinking as you and I are,” says August.

“I fear you must be right. After all, you know your brother best.”

“Remember,” says Charlotte, leaning in close to my ear, “this entire evening is in honor of Briggs Goswick, so it would be a shame to ruin it for him.”

“Your evening will remain intact, I promise.” I crane my neck to see Mr. Dormer still standing behind August. “You’ll excuse me, of course. I’m needed elsewhere.”

Before he can object, I grab a glass of wine from a passing tray, take a large, fortifying gulp, and then follow the younger Goswick across the foyer. It’s unfortunate for Briggs that he isn’t the only source of my displeasure this evening, but he’s ripe for receiving its effects.

“Mr. Westley Parker, Miss Sabrina Dixon,” says August as I approach. “This is Miss Blythe Rowley, Mr. Barlow’s niece.”

“You look so lovely this evening, my dear,” says Mrs. Goswick, reaching a hand out and touching my upper arm.

“Good of you to make yourself presentable on my account,” says Briggs.

His mother’s eyes widen. “Briggs.”

Attempting to contain his eye roll, he straightens his shoulders and mutters, “Yes, you look very nice.”

“You’ll sit by Briggs during dinner, of course,” says August. “That way you have all the time in the world to impart your knowledge about bees on a trapped audience.” He glances over his shoulder and into the dining room where Uncle Henry is ushering people inside, urging them to find their seats lest the soup grow cold. “In fact, allow me to go ensure that you’re seated next to each other.”

“Oh, really, Mr. August, there’s no need to—” But he’s gone before he can hear my objection. I dare not meet Briggs’s eyes, but I take another sip of my wine. This is fine. I can tolerate an entire evening next to Briggs Goswick. He might be rather a dolt, but he’s a handsome dolt, so there’s that. And I need August’s patronage for my apiary business more than I need to be away from Briggs.

“You have a business all your own, Miss Rowley?” Mrs. Goswick says from beside me. She is an elegant woman, all politeness, but I know that if I were her daughter, she would not encourage any kind of entrepreneurship. Her interest does seem genuine, though. “I admire a woman who doesn’t rely upon the comfort and position of a man in society.” Hooking her arm through mine, she leads me into the dining room. “If Mr. Goswick won’t hear about the bees, then I am certainly a willing listener.”

“Me too,” adds Sabrina Dixon quietly.

“Who said I wouldn’t listen?” argues Briggs, trailing behind us but trying not to appear too eager. “I’ll listen.” Clearly I’ve found his Achilles heel, and it’s arrived in the form of Miss Sabrina Dixon. I’m not even sure I can blame him, entirely; she’s rather pretty. Whether or not she’ll ever be interested in a pompous, blathering child too in love with himself to establish any real emotion for another human being has yet to be decided.

Inside the dining room, August darts from chair to chair, one name card in his left hand and the other being placed accordingly.

“There we are,” says Uncle Henry behind us. My uncle is a tall man with a happy disposition but has a tendency to prefer things just so. “August, you weren’t changing the name cards, were you?”

August grins. “Of course not, Mr. Barlow. I would never question your good judgment when making seating arrangements.”

“Good lad,” says Uncle Henry. He takes his seat at the head of the table, Charlotte to his left, me beside her, and then, of course, Briggs Goswick.

Across from us, August settles in between Amy and Miss Dixon, smiling widely, quite pleased with his work. “Go ahead, then, Miss Rowley,” he says.

Briggs takes a deep breath through his nose, straightens his shoulders, then pushes back that single unruly lock of hair that has fallen out of place. “August, have pity on Miss Rowley. And for God’s sake, have pity on the rest of us. Surely there are more interesting topics of conversation than bees and their hives?”

I lift my head to see if anyone else shares Mr. Goswick’s opinion. My sister blinks up at me amicably, while beside her, August Goswick scowls at his brother. Julian and Mr. Parker are engaged in what must be a rather entertaining discussion if their laughter is any evidence.

Slowly, I reach for my wineglass in front of me, bringing it to my lips and taking a sip, all while staring at Briggs Goswick. It has the effect I desired. He squirms in his chair, tucks his napkin in his collar, and clears his throat, trying to avoid the fact that I’m clearly unamused by his suggestion that this line of conversation could be anything but riveting. He can say what he pleases about bees, but this is my chance to prove to my mother that my plans for my apiary business are feasible and achievable. I will not let Briggs Goswick ruin it.

“Your brother is right, Mr. August,” I say. “And I take pity on him , of course. It must be difficult to follow along, blessed as he is with the intellectual capacity of a dung beetle.”

Briggs smirks, taking a sip of his wine as well. “You understand, Miss Rowley, why sometimes I must drown out your conversation, blessed as you are with the mouth of a shrew.”

Amy and August both regard their respective siblings with wide-eyed wonder, but Mrs. Goswick attempts to interrupt. “Miss Rowley, what inspired you to go into business? It seems a rather risky endeavor for a lady so young. I admit, I’m rather impressed.”

“We didn’t have bees at Awendown House until I became interested in investing in a few skeps,” I say. “But it felt like a waste to have to kill the bees in order to harvest the honey, so I went about researching and designed a box with sliding frames that the bees can attach their combs to. It makes harvesting the honey much easier, and I can inspect the hive for any unwanted pests.”

“Truly a marvel,” says August. “And now she is looking to create these modern apiaries on local great estates.”

“And I wish Miss Rowley all the luck in the world.” Briggs refuses to validate his brother’s comment.

“Tell my brother how bees benefit crops, Miss Rowley,” August tries again.

“Well,” I say, lifting my spoon and dipping it into my soup, “bees are often—”

“I don’t need to know how bees benefit crops,” Briggs interrupts me. “I’m capable of reading a book and coming to my own conclusions. But quite frankly, we’ve never had any difficulty with the old skeps, and I don’t see the need to replace them at this time. My apologies, of course, Miss Rowley.”

I clench my jaw, pinning a smiling expression to my face despite the fact that I’d like to rip his off. “Accepted, Mr. Goswick. Still, I’m not entirely sure that opening a book would equal the amount of hours I’ve put in observing the bees and their hives.”

“That you’ve chosen to spend your free time among insects is no problem of mine,” he continues. “But please understand, Miss Rowley, that while I wish you the best in your apiary business, Mistlethrush Hall will not be where you start this great experiment. I hope I’m clear.”

By now, most of the other guests, including my uncle, are watching our conversation, their eyes settling upon me, waiting for my reaction. Except Mama. She won’t look at me. Probably because she’s right about almost everything. That I should spend this summer at Wrexford, secure a wealthy husband, and forget all about my bees, because what I truly need is a gentleman, and gentlemen—like the one before me—don’t allow ladies to dabble in men’s business.

I push my chair out, throwing my napkin down beside my bowl of soup, and drop Briggs Goswick a withering stare. “You could have at least shared your thoughts with me privately.” I gather my skirts and march from the dining room, almost missing entirely the look of what could be regret occupying Briggs’s face.