Bed of Flowers

  Bed of Flowers

  Erin Satie

  Little Phrase

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Afterword

  The Secret Heart, Chapter 1

  Chapter 1

  Bonny Reed walked the main street of New Quay with a heavy basket in her arms. Pearl-gray clouds massed on the horizon and a salt-scented breeze rattled the shutters on the shops. The storm wouldn’t arrive for an hour or more, but Bonny quickened her steps all the same.

  Her best friend and partner in the venture that they optimistically described as a circulating library—optimistically being her preferred word because optimism was good and lying bad—cast her an irritated look.

  Cordelia, a tall woman with few curves to round out her slim frame, moved at an unhurried stroll no matter the occasion. Keeping pace with her meant slowing down or leaving her behind. Compromise was not an option.

  Cordelia was the sort of girl people called stubborn.

  Instead of slowing, Bonny nipped into the chandlery. A bell rang overhead, and Mr. Shaw, a retired seaman with salt-and-pepper hair and a leathery tan, rose from his desk behind the counter. The sweet scent of beeswax wafted up from the bundles of candles on the shelves, mixed with the bitter lye of soap.

  “Miss Reed!” The stern expression stamped into Mr. Shaw’s wrinkles melted away, replaced by something soft and dreamy. “Seeing you is always the highlight of my day.”

  Bonny blushed. Her parents didn’t care one way or another about the circulating library—“I’m glad you enjoy the project” was her mother’s ringing endorsement—but they did insist that she always look her best.

  That morning she’d put on a simple white gown so well-worn that it would have to be retired soon. But she’d tied a red silk sash around her waist and wrapped a fichu around her shoulders—she’d crocheted it herself—with the ends tucked into her décolletage.

  “You’re too kind,” she replied. “Is Mrs. Shaw upstairs?”

  “Here!” Mrs. Shaw brandished a book as she burst through the back door, pink-cheeked from exertion. “I saw you coming from the window and nipped upstairs to get last week’s novel.”

  The slim volume boasted a pretty cover of flower-printed cotton that Cordelia had cut from one of her old gowns. Bonny’s old clothes went to her sister; Cordelia’s went to her books.

  Bonny tucked it into her basket. “What did you think?”

  “Mr. Dickens has a sharp wit about him, doesn’t he?” Mrs. Shaw propped her hip against the counter, her shoulder just brushing her husband’s. “I like his sense of humor.”

  “Me too.” Bonny offered Mrs. Shaw a copy of The Luck of Barry Lyndon, sheathed in pink watered silk. “This is for you. I’ll mark you down for a return visit in two weeks?”

  Mrs. Shaw flipped the cover. Husband and wife bent their heads to examine the frontispiece, a watercolor of a sly young man in an ill-fitting officer’s uniform.

  “I can see he’s up to no good.” Mrs. Shaw traced the edges of the thick paper. “Is that Mrs. Henley’s work?”

  Bonny beamed. Mrs. Virginia Henley, the vicar’s wife, had given Cordelia the pages and contributed the watercolor. She subscribed to Fraser’s Magazine, where the novel had first appeared, and her gifts helped to keep their little library afloat.

  “You’ve a good eye,” said Bonny.

  “Tell her that if the title weren’t enough to make me want to read it, the picture would be.”

  “She’ll be delighted.”

  “Thank you, dear.” Mrs. Shaw beckoned Bonny close for a kiss on the cheek. “It’s always such a pleasure to see you.”

  Bonny returned to the street, where Cordelia waited on the pavement. “Mrs. Shaw liked The Pickwick Papers.”

  Cordelia already had her little black book open to Mrs. Shaw’s page, pencil at the ready. A neatly ruled grid listed the books Mrs. Shaw had borrowed, the dates given and returned, and a plus or a minus sign to indicate her opinion of it. The Pickwick Papers got a plus.

  “And you gave her the Thackeray?” Cordelia asked.

  “That’s right.”

  Cordelia finished making her notes and tucked the book into the basket. They continued on to the salter’s, where Mrs. Andrews exchanged an older Ainsworth for The Pickwick Papers. Mrs. Bailey at the Black Lion got Jane Eyre.

  They visited fifteen homes on each delivery day and, by delivering two days a week—on Mondays and Thursdays—managed to cycle through all their members every fortnight.

  They reached the elegant townhouse Cordelia called home, just before the rain arrived. “I’ll see you on Thursday? You could come over a little bit early for tea.”

  Bonny bit her lip. The Kelly townhouse was beautiful and well kept, but she hated to accept invitations because she could rarely return the favor.

  “With cakes,” Cordelia added.

  “You know how I feel about cakes,” Bonny complained.

  “I’ll have Cook make the ones with raspberry filling and marzipan on top.”

  Bonny scowled. “Who taught you to be so cruel?”

  Cordelia laughed and gave Bonny a one-armed hug. “I’ll see you at eleven.”

  Rain began to fall as Bonny reached her own front door, only a few blocks down the same street as Cordelia’s. The two houses were superficially very similar. Both built around the same time, from the same materials, with similar floor plans. Only the Kelly house was prosperous and well maintained while the Reed house was… not.

  Mold blackened the mortar. The paint on the windowsills had begun to peel and the wood beneath to rot. Spots of rust mottled the brass lanterns bracketing the door.

  Once Bonny stepped inside though, there was nowhere else she’d rather be. Several of her sister Margot’s watercolors hung on the walls—mostly pictures of young people swooning tragically, plucked from the local theater productions her sister loved. Bonny, of a somewhat different temperament, had embroidered the runners and tablecloths in bright, cheerful patterns.

  Fresh flowers filled the cheap glass vases scattered around the house—a few fine bouquets from Mr. Charles Gavin, Bonny’s suitor, supplemented with simpler blooms collected during country rambles.

  Margot darted into the foyer. At fifteen, she was tall and gawky, all legs and knuckles and nose. In a few years, she’d be elegant. As a matron, distinguished—like their mother. But she didn’t have the temper to appreciate those reassurances, especially not from Bonny.

  Probably because, for all their differences, they looked very much alike. They’d both inherited their mother’s creamy skin, their father’s mousy-brown hair and pale blue eyes.

  “Bonny!” Margot whispered. “Bonny!”

  Happy to play along, Bonny lowered her voice to a whisper too. “What is it?”

  “Mr. Gavin is here.”

  “In secret?”

  “No, silly! With Papa! They’re alone!”

  Bonny’s heart skipped a beat.

  Margot leaned so close that her breath fanned the loose strands of hair floating around Bonny’s ear. “He’s proposing.”

  “Shush.” Bonny grabbed her sister’s shoulders and held her still, though it wasn’t Margot who’d begun to tremble. “We don’t know that.”

  She’d jumped to the wrong c
onclusion once before, two years ago. Her mother had been the one to whisper the news in the foyer: Mr. Gavin is speaking with your father! Alone! Bonny had been surprised, then delighted, then filled with a deep, glowing certainty. She’d been ready to become Mrs. Charles Gavin. She’d felt it down to her bones.

  Then her father had emerged from his study with Mr. Gavin, and it quickly became clear that they’d been making plans for a hunting party. Nothing to do with marriage.

  After that, Bonny had never quite regained her peace of mind. She had been ready. Ever since, she’d been past ready. If she’d seen any sign that Mr. Gavin’s delight in bachelor life had begun to pall, she would have tried to bring him up to snuff. But he seemed content, so she tried not to get her hopes up anymore. It hurt too much to have them dashed.

  But that was hard to explain to Margot.

  “Margot, go to your room,” said Mrs. Reed, bustling into the foyer. She had perfect posture and weary eyes, gray at her temples, and steady hands. Bonny admired her more than anyone else in the world.

  “Bonny, why don’t you come with me?” Mrs. Reed led the way. “We’ll have some tea in the salon.”

  “In the salon?” That did sound serious. They reserved the salon for special occasions. With one exception, it didn’t look much different from the rest of the house—a few pieces of simple furniture made locally. A few of Margot’s paintings on the wall.

  The exception was a large antique sofa. Made of heavy mahogany and upholstered with emerald-green silk brocade, a master woodworker had carved leaves and vines into the arms and legs.

  It didn’t belong in the room. It looked like exactly what it was: an artifact of another life. A relic from the years when the Reeds had been wealthy and accustomed to luxury.

  Those days were over—a devastating fire had brought them to an abrupt end—but before they’d sold all their fine things, everyone in the family had been allowed to choose one item to keep. Any item, though just one.

  Bonny had chosen the painting that hung in her bedroom. Margot, who’d been five at the time, had decided on the sofa because she’d been convinced that fairies lived inside the carved foliage. Their father wanted the desk behind which three generations of Reeds had once helmed a thriving shipping concern. Their mother, exercising more sense than the rest of them combined, had safeguarded the house.

  “You’ve been out all morning.” Her mother gestured to the sofa. “Have a rest.”

  Bonny hesitated. Nobody ever sat on the sofa—they couldn’t replace the silk, after all. Usually they maneuvered around it as though it were a sculpture in a museum.

  Mrs. Reed gave Bonny’s rear a gentle swat. “Don’t be a goose.”

  The springs in the seat creaked as they sat, stiff from disuse. The family kept one servant, Emma, who handled the rough work, mostly cooking and cleaning. She wheeled in a rickety tea cart, and Bonny busied herself with measuring out the tea leaves, waiting for them to steep, and then pouring. She served her mother first.

  Bonny’s cup rattled in its saucer. She felt ridiculous and sick and terrified and tried for her most quelling tone. “It could be another hunting party.”

  Her mother smiled contentedly. “I put my ear to the door this time.”

  Bonny’s breath caught in her throat.

  “Breathe, dear,” her mother prompted. “And drink your tea.”

  Bonny promptly scalded her tongue.

  Mrs. Reed laughed. “Try again. By the time you’ve mastered the subtle art of sipping, I imagine we’ll have company.”

  Just then the door to the salon opened. Her father and Charles Gavin entered. They made quite a contrast, standing side by side. Her father had heavy jowls and a shock of white hair, bright blue eyes and a deep, hearty voice. He’d been built stocky and thickened with age, his big barrel chest expanding in every direction while his legs remained stubby and short.

  By contrast, Charles Gavin looked like he ought to be posing for a fashion plate. Tall, broad shouldered and trim waisted, he devastated the local tailors—each of whom longed for his patronage—by making periodic trips to London to outfit himself in the very latest fashions.

  He’d been graced with fine features too, a high forehead and strong nose, a square jaw and perfectly straight teeth. He’d been the prize of New Quay since he was a boy: the handsomest, the best liked, and—since fortune had turned on the Loels—the richest.

  He was everything a girl could want in a husband.

  “Bonny dearest, Mr. Gavin would like to have a few words with you.” Mr. Reed smiled at his wife. “Perhaps we should allow them a moment of privacy?”

  “Just this once.” Her mother stood and smoothed her skirt. She carefully positioned the door as she left, leaving it half-open. “We’ll be in the next room.”

  “Miss Reed.” Mr. Gavin strode to her. He took one of her hands and swallowed it in both his own. “How you dazzle me.”

  Bonny blushed. “You’re too kind.”

  “You know that I’ve seen a bit of the world. I travel a great deal. I’m often in London.” Mr. Gavin dropped down on one knee. “But I have never met another woman as beautiful as you.”

  “That can’t be true.”

  “I assure you it is.” Mr. Gavin squeezed her hand. “I confess, even a man who has everything feels the lure of a wife who will bring wealth or property to a marriage. It’s not easy to turn away from the temptation. But I’ve given serious thought to the matter, and time after time, I reach the same conclusion. A woman who’s beautiful and kind and rich will, quite rightly, set her sights on a man of higher rank than I. Though my family is good, my income excellent… I must sacrifice.”

  Bonny blinked. Was he admitting that, during the years when she’d patiently waited for his proposal, he’d been considering other options?

  While down on one knee?

  “I don’t mean to be vulgar,” Mr. Gavin continued, “but the fact of the matter is that I can make money without any help from a wife. Whereas I cannot make a woman more beautiful or teach her the exquisite feminine manners you display on every occasion.”

  “It’s wonderful that you’re so thoughtful and cautious,” said Bonny, trying to believe her own words. “It’s wise to consider all your options.”

  “Just so.” Mr. Gavin smiled gently. “I want you to understand my thinking. It’s important that we’re of like minds. After all, we’re talking about the rest of my life—or, should I say, the rest of our lives?”

  Bonny pressed her fingers to her lips to stifle a startled, joyous cry. She blinked moisture away from her eyes, though the tears spilled over anyhow. Finally. Finally.

  “Miss Reed, will you make me the happiest man in the world?” Mr. Gavin pressed his lips to the back of her hand. “Will you marry me and be the mother of my children?”

  “Oh yes.” Bonny threw her arms around Mr. Gavin’s broad shoulders. “A thousand times, yes.”

  Chapter 2

  Baron Orson Loel peeled off his wet cloak as he entered New Quay’s best pub. Located near the water, on the main street that connected the quays and the railway station, it attracted patrons from all over town. Before the fire in ’45, it had been the Red Lion—but the flames had reached the pub’s grounds and no farther, charring the western wall and leaving the rest of the building intact. The owners had bought a new roof and rechristened their establishment the Black Lion.

  Mrs. Bailey, the publican’s wife, bustled past with a tray crowded with frothing tankards balanced on one arm. She was an attractive woman in her thirties, comfortably plump, her reddish hair loosely pinned at her nape. She had a knack for keeping a room full of drunk men in line without ever losing her smile.

  She glared at Loel with open hostility.

  Loel ignored her. He approached a thin man who, despite the mild weather, had taken a seat as far away from the door as possible and huddled at the table in a thick coat with a wool scarf wrapped round and round his neck. He’d lost weight since Loel had last seen him, and
the tropical sun had darkened his skin. He looked like an artist’s sketch of the man he’d once been, his features exaggerated for effect.

  Jacob Benjamin stood in greeting. Loel clapped one hand on his shoulder and pulled him close for a quick, firm embrace.

  “It’s been too long,” said Loel.

  “Three years now? And you’ve been here the whole time?”

  “It’s dull, but what can I say?” Loel gestured for Jacob to sit and took the chair across from his. “I had enough excitement aboard the Incitatus to last a lifetime.”

  “How fortunate that you can decide when you’ve had enough,” Jacob murmured, resettling himself.

  “You know you have a place here if you need it,” Loel said. “Whenever you choose and for as long as you wish. I’d love to have you.”

  “Peace, Loel. I can’t even stay the night—I have to catch the eleven o’clock train.”

  “Where to?” Loel signaled to Mrs. Bailey. “At least let me feed you.”

  “With pleasure.” Jacob’s smile was lopsided and easy as he toed the large wooden crate resting at his feet closer to Loel. The glass case inside rattled. “Direct from the high Andes. My notes are inside. All I’ll say now is that you should order me the steak. I’ve earned it.”

  Mrs. Bailey sauntered up and directed her gaze at a point approximately an inch above Loel’s head.

  “Steak for my friend,” said Loel. “Best you’ve got.”

  Mrs. Bailey nodded curtly and turned on her heel, skirts swishing.

  Jacob’s gaze drifted from Mrs. Bailey’s handsome rear view to the charred western wall. “You’re not very popular here, are you?”

  Loel laughed without humor. “Were you hoping I’d introduce you around?”