Like a Flower in Bloom Page 2

  I hadn’t ever really thought on it. After Mother had died, I seemed barely to manage keeping up with our deadlines. I’d never had the time to imagine a future apart from them. Most of my attentions had been fixed of late on the problem of getting my own work published and paying our bills.

  “If you’re going to marry, you need to get a start on it, as it were.”

  “I believe the term he used was launch. I must launch myself.”

  “Yes. Well . . . he is in a position to help you.”

  “The Admiral is?”

  “He’s quite respected in these parts.”

  “He is?”

  Father’s shrug indicated that he was just as puzzled at that news as I was. “He wants to help you. Says he’ll manage all the fuss . . .”

  There was fuss involved?

  “And all the dinners and . . . and . . . other . . . things that it would require. I think that you should do it.”

  He sounded quite uncharacteristically firm in his opinion, which made me think it was best to nip the idea in the bud. “I haven’t the time.”

  He sat forward, squaring his shoulders as he did so. “You would if you didn’t insist upon helping me.”

  Insist upon it? “But if I don’t help you, who will?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  Manage? He’d manage to let the bills sit until a collector came, and he’d confuse his letters to Mr. Pierce with the letters to Mr. Peece and jumble up his notes, and he wouldn’t get anything done at all. “Are you saying you don’t want my help?”

  “I’m simply saying that I don’t need it.”

  2

  Didn’t need it! Didn’t need it?

  I wanted to know just how much he thought he would have accomplished these past eight years if I hadn’t been here. I transcribed his notes and wrote his papers and undertook his correspondence. I paid the tradesmen and the Royal Mail clerk. I kept us in food and boots and sandwiches, which were apparently entirely beneath our cook’s dignity to make. And from time to time, on an annual sort of basis, I also dusted.

  Marry.

  I nearly snorted at the thought. When my father realized how much work I did, he would tremble at the thought. The suggestion was ludicrous, and he would soon come to know it. There was simply too much work to be done for me to marry, so I put the idea aside.

  Sometime later, the bell sounded at the door. Sighing, I rose. When I opened the door, a wooden chest greeted me. “For Mr. Withersby.”

  I had the man place it on the floor in the parlor, then worked a knife under the straps and sawed them off.

  “A chest of specimens arrived.” I threw the words over my shoulder toward my father’s study.

  I heard him pad across the floor, and he soon appeared in his doorway. “What’s that?”

  “Specimens. We’ve been sent a box of them.”

  Comprehension rippled across his features. “Splendid. Let’s have a look at them, shall we?”

  I lifted the lid with no little trepidation. Once I had opened such a chest only to have a lizard dart up and hiss at me before it dropped to the floor and slithered away.

  “Where is it from? Does it say?”

  “It must be from one of your fine young fellows.”

  “Yes, yes.” He had eased himself to the floor and was already sifting through the contents. “But which one?”

  That was the question. My father had a veritable army of fine young fellows who scoured the world, looking for botanic specimens worthy of his work. He went down to Liverpool once a month and canvassed ships bound for foreign parts, soliciting help. It should be noted that his fine young fellows were not all fine. Once or twice he had picked out men who had turned out to be former criminals. And of late, we’d endured the distress of having several of our best correspondents beg payment for their specimens, as if their contribution to science was not recompense enough. It must be said that not all my father’s correspondents were young either.

  I suspected I knew who had sent this one. “I rather think this chest is from our Mr. E. Trimble.” It had that look about it. As many times as I had implored him, in my father’s name, to take more care with the conveyance of his specimens, he had disregarded those instructions. These plants of his, as those previous, were not affixed to any kind of sheet, they were not labeled, neither had they ever, apparently, been pressed.

  “Useless, the lot of them.” He was frowning. “I really should write to that young man about the proper way to preserve specimens.”

  “I already have.” I’d done it many times. Mr. E. Trimble was a sheep farmer from New Zealand who was enamored of numbers and systems and procedures, and I imagined him to be one of those wiry, vigorous men of middle-age. We had enjoyed a regular, if rather spirited, correspondence.

  He meant well, but he had sent us a useless chest, filled with worthless specimens for which we must now pay transport. “Next time you go to Liverpool, I really must go with you.” Maybe then I could ensure that my father’s next recruit would in fact be both fine and young.

  “You wouldn’t like it. I don’t like it . . . all the people, all the boats, all the noise. I don’t really know why I bother to go at all.”

  I had begun to wonder the same thing.

  “Here now.” He had fished something out from the bottom of the chest and was clutching it like a prize. An envelope. He handed it to me.

  I broke the seal and opened it.

  To wit: one white flower, called wood rose; one white flower, am told is Mount Cook lily—doesn’t look like one; one red flower, species unknown; two suspicious yellow flowers masquerading as ranunculus . . .

  Suspicious? Masquerading? Flowers didn’t masquerade as anything but themselves. I wished he wouldn’t feel the need to be so fanciful in his writing. I finished reading the list aloud and then turned the missive over to see whether he had provided more details on any of them. He had not.

  “There’s a lily? In there?” Father was peering into the depths of the chest, as if the very thought was inconceivable. I hardly blamed him. He sighed. “I should have liked to have seen a flower from one of those rata trees.”

  “This might have been one.” I held up a bald-headed stem. “It looks as if it might once have had petals.”

  He took it from me. “He ought to be told that a jumble of specimens isn’t particularly useful. It will require too much time to sort them, let alone classify them. And it doesn’t look as if he’s included any labels.”

  “I’ll send him another letter tomorrow.”

  “Let’s hope he hasn’t done too much more collecting in the meantime.”

  That afternoon, my father went out for a ramble, and I determined to finish my illustration. But just as I was putting my brush to the paper, someone pulled the bell at the door. Really, I’d had quite enough of people for the day.

  I wrested the door open. “Yes? What is it?” The words had hardly left my mouth before my eyes registered the glass-sided Wardian case being offered to me. A paradise of plants grew inside of it. I was used to my father’s fine young fellows shipping us glass cases, but normally they arrived as a cemetery of dried, dead things, the barest memory of plants that once had been.

  And then the case descended enough for me to see that it wasn’t the Royal Mail man. Though this man had a thatch of unruly dark hair, he gave the impression of having been carefully cultivated, and his angular face was one upon which all the elements were pleasingly proportioned. A furrow between his eyes was echoed by a cleft in his chin, and beneath dark brows, blue eyes were regarding me.

  I blinked. “Why . . . I don’t know who you are.”

  “I hope you don’t feel the need to stand on ceremony and demand an introduction. This case is rather heavy . . .”

  “No, of course not. Yes. Please. Come in. You can put it—”

  But he was already through the door past the hall, into the parlor, setting the case down on my desk.

  “I would prefer if you could put it
somewhere else. Although that is a rather extraordinary . . . What is it exactly?” From a swath of strap-like leaves a cylinder of golden flowers protruded. Reminiscent of a hyacinth, our cook might have taken it for a bottle brush. It was wholly unexpected.

  He bent beside me to look at the flower I was examining. “It’s a lily.”

  “A lily? It can’t be. But it’s quite stunning.”

  A smile tipped up the corner of his mouth. “Quite.”

  I went round the other side in order to see it from the back.

  “I found it on a visit to one of those subantarctic islands Mr. Withersby has written me so much about. Dreadful weather. Went to terrible lengths to get it, and then nearly broke my neck on the way out of the valley in which I found it.”

  The flower was like nothing I’d ever seen before.

  “. . . can see that my exploits impress you very little.”

  I straightened. “Pardon me. What was it you were saying?”

  He was regarding me with a rueful smile. “Nothing. I was wondering if Mr. Andrew Withersby happens to be in. I should very much like to see him, if it’s at all possible. I feel as if I already know him through our correspondence.”

  Something he’d said worked its way to my consciousness. “You found this specimen?”

  “Yes.”

  That changed everything. “I took you for a delivery man, and . . . I’m very sorry.”

  “I take no offense. But if Mr. Withersby is in, might you tell him Mr. Edward Trim—” He bit off the end of his sentence. “That is, I suppose you might recall me to him by the name of Mr. Edward Trimble.”

  “You are Mr. E. Trimble?”

  “Yes. Is he here, then? I should truly like to see him.”

  “You can’t be Mr. Trimble.”

  One of those thick black brows of his rose. “I can assure you he knows me by that name. We’ve undertaken the most marvelous correspondence about—”

  “But you’re not . . .” Of middling years or wiry or . . . or anything like Mr. Trimble was at all. “You just can’t be.” He didn’t look at all like a sheep farmer.

  At that moment, my father came in from the lane, tin vasculum slung over his shoulder.

  “Ah! My fine young fellow.” My father never forgot a face, though he could never remember a name.

  The fine young fellow, who seemed in fact both fine and young, strode over to my father and offered his hand. “It’s so good to see you again, sir.”

  My father took up the hand Mr. E. Trimble offered. “How long has it been, then?”

  “Three years since I met you in Liverpool.”

  “Three years.” Father transferred his gaze to me. “Imagine, Charlotte.”

  I was. I was remembering all of the correspondence that had passed between Mr. Trimble and me. And all of those times I had imagined him a thin, nondescript sort of man. All of those times I’d written to him of my hopes and dreams, the times I’d argued with him about one botanical theory or another. With any sort of luck it would never become known that it was me with whom he had corresponded.

  Going to the sofa, my father began to empty his vasculum of specimens, placing them atop the stacks of papers. Indicating a chair with his chin, he spoke to our guest. “Come over here, young man, and tell me about New Zealand.”

  Mr. Trimble tried to do just that, but soon my father was interrupting with questions about lilies and whether he had gotten to Australia yet and if the Alps of the colony were as barren of flora as had been written up in the journals.

  I ought to have been gratified that my father’s questions echoed those I had already asked in my letters. I couldn’t help but feel a pinch of unease, however, when Mr. Trimble seemed puzzled by my father’s failure to recollect those things of which he’d written in great detail. Feeling the need to cover for my subterfuge, I interjected. “You must remember, Father. He did indeed journey to Campbell Island. And he wrote of it to us, to you, in great detail.”

  Father had installed himself in a chair, and now his brow furrowed as he looked toward our guest. “I suppose I should just read your letter, then.”

  Our visitor had screwed round in his chair to look at me. “Father? Mr. Withersby is your father? I had assumed from the way . . . well, from the way you . . .” He closed his mouth with a frown and then tried again. “I don’t believe we were ever formally introduced.”

  The way in which he said it made me wonder why he seemed to think that was my fault. “I’m Charlotte.” The one who had sympathized through that first hard year he’d had in establishing his farm. The one who had consoled him when he had lost his first ewe. The one who knew he hoped to one day add thousands more sheep to his flock and a textile manufactory for the benefit of the colony to his holdings. But, of course, he attributed all that correspondence to my father.

  “I seem to have gotten everything wrong. I beg your pardon, Miss Withersby.”

  Father had been watching us, and now he gestured to the piles of paper mounded on the floor beside his feet. “Where is that letter to which he was referring, Charlotte? That one about Campbell Island?”

  I went to retrieve it from its place in the cupboard, where it was still filed among old tax notices and discourses on taxonomy.

  Mr. Trimble raised a hand. “Please don’t trouble yourself. There’s no need. I’m sure you must get reports from your correspondents by the dozens. And I’m happy to speak of my journey to the island. I’ve never seen anything like it.”

  They went on to speak of the topic at length, and it was with some relief that I worked on my illustration, consulting my microscope once or twice to be certain of the structures I was coloring. I had almost finished with it when I realized their conversation had stopped. I glanced up to find the pair of them staring at me.

  “Don’t you agree, Charlotte?” My father asked the question in such a way that I was quite sure I was to answer in the affirmative.

  “I should think so, yes.”

  “Good!” A healthy color suffused his cheeks, and he looked quite content. “It’s settled, then. We’ll have this fine young man stay for supper.”

  I wished I had not been so hasty in answering, for I feared our cook would have an entirely different opinion of the matter. “I’m not certain Mrs. Harvey will allow it.”

  Father took a big bite of his mustache, nearly pulling it into his mouth. “Will you please . . . could you warn her while I show this fine fellow the proofs of my first volume?”

  I nodded in agreement. But still, I paused as I approached the kitchen door.

  I could hear Mrs. Harvey humming some tuneless song.

  Really, I wished I didn’t have to consult with her. She considered the kitchen her private domain, and since the time she had caught me plumping up my dried specimens in one of her kettles, I had earned myself no favors.

  As I entered, she was pulling a tray of blackened biscuits from the oven. When she turned to place them on the sideboard, she saw me.

  I nodded. “Mrs. Harvey.”

  “I suppose you’ll be telling me you want fancies like butter with your biscuits. And after I’ve already cooked up your supper!”

  “No. I wanted no such thing.”

  She speared me with a look as though she didn’t quite believe me. “Then you’ll be after a cake or hot tea for your breakfast.”

  “No. The tea you leave on the stove at night is quite adequate.” I’d become almost used to drinking it cold in the morning. I found the bracing chill of it refreshing. In the summer months, at least.

  “Heaven knows you plague me with demands!”

  “It’s just that . . . you see, one of father’s correspondents is come, and we were hoping . . . That is, Father is wanting to know . . . if it is at all possible, could the man stay for supper?”

  She took the biscuits from the tray, one by one, and slammed them down into a bread bowl. Then she threw up her ash-blackened hands. “Isn’t it enough that I work my fingers to the bone?” She stomped over
to the cupboard, pulled forth some salt pork and hacked off several pieces of it with the big knife she liked to stow in the waistband of her apron. “But to be put upon like this? An honest outrage is what it is!”

  “I’m truly very sorry. We didn’t know the man was coming.”

  “And that’s supposed to make it all fine? I suppose you’ll be wanting to invite the whole town over next!”

  “Of course we won’t. It will be just this one man.” I took up the bread bowl and went with it through the other door into the dining room.

  The conversation between the men had moved from the parlor to the dining room table, and Mr. Trimble was seated in my chair, with Father across from him. They were still discussing father’s book.

  Mr. Trimble stood when he saw me.

  I nodded as I put the biscuits down on the table, and then I moved a stack of specimens from a chair and began to draw it toward the table. Mr. Trimble took it from me and set it into place. “Pardon me. I ought to have done that for you.”

  I would have replied, but Mrs. Harvey stalked out just then and banged the tray of salt pork and a dish filled with what could only be spinach onto the table. I waited until she left before I sat and helped myself to a biscuit and a piece of pork.

  Father took some food as well, and then Mr. Trimble did the same. He brushed a bit of ash from his biscuit and took a bite. When it failed to yield, he looked at it with no little astonishment.

  I made a point of lifting my cup of tea and dunking my biscuit into it.

  He followed my example, though I noticed he took only one bite before he put it back down on his plate. He didn’t eat his salt pork either.

  “Does the food not suit you, Mr. Trimble?”

  “The last time I had such fare was on my voyage to New Zealand three years ago. We were blown off course and had to make do with our provisions for an extra month.”

  Father smiled broadly. “Mrs. Harvey, our cook, was married to a navy man. She’ll be glad you find the food so authentic.”

  “Indeed, I do.” But contrary to his words, he had set his fork down and did not seem as if he intended to use it anytime soon.