Bed of Flowers Read online

  “Honestly? If you’d let me tell them all what you did aboard the Incitatus—”

  “No.” Loel interrupted.

  “Because you obviously haven’t,” Jacob finished. “Why not?”

  Loel was saved from answering by a commotion at the door. It swung wide, and Charles Gavin paused in the threshold, the lingering light of dusk silhouetting his tall, well-built figure. A dozen men who’d been ranged around a trestle table already groaning under the weight of all the tankards and bottles arrayed across it stood in unison. They raised their glasses high.

  “What’s that I hear? Are the church bells tolling?” cried Freddy Morgan, a thoroughly despicable man. As best Loel knew, he worked at the brine pits—his father had been foreman for decades now. The Gavins owned the brine pits, and judging by Morgan’s toadying, he hoped to inherit the job. “It’s a black day, lads. Someone’s passed from this earth. Who could it be?”

  Charles Gavin whipped off his greatcoat as the door clunked shut behind him. “Quit your yapping, dog.”

  “Hark, I hear a voice!” Morgan cocked his head. “The ghostly timbre of a man I once knew. He was a dear friend to me…”

  “When’s the funeral?” demanded one of the other fellows at the table.

  “You mean the wedding,” corrected another.

  “Same thing!” Morgan exclaimed.

  Loel’s stomach sank. “Oh, hell.”

  “What’s the matter?” Jacob asked.

  Loel shook his head. He’d hoped that Gavin’s endless delays would allow Bonny Reed to realize the man was an ass.

  “It will be soon.” Mr. Gavin took a full, frothing tankard from Mrs. Bailey and shouldered a spot for himself at the center of the trestle table. “And none of you are invited.”

  The table erupted in raucous laughter.

  “To a son in a year!” called one of the revelers, raising his glass again.

  “Better yet—in six months!” added another.

  “Now, now.” Gavin winked broadly at his fellows. He stood out from his companions in every way—he was taller, for one, and much fitter. He fussed over his tailoring, making regular visits to London for fitted coats and snug trousers that flattered his admittedly enviable physique. “You know I have too much respect for the fairer sex to tolerate such talk.”

  The laughter this comment provoked drowned out all other conversation in the tavern.

  “I’d sooner toast a swine,” muttered Loel.

  “So long as you don’t expect me to eat it afterward,” replied Jacob. He’d paid extra to bring his own rations aboard the Incitatus—tinned parsnips and thick stews, potted mutton and diced beef—in order to abide by Jewish dietary laws, which proscribed, among other things, the consumption of pork.

  Jacob’s eyes brightened when Mrs. Bailey brought the promised steak, pink at the center and crisped brown along the edges. Buttery roasted potatoes and a few boiled carrots filled what was left of the plate.

  “Wine too,” Loel told Mrs. Bailey.

  Mrs. Bailey sniffed and flounced away.

  “Now would you look at that.” Jacob reached for his knife and fork. “How did the last auction go?”

  “Not bad. I have your cut.” Loel slid an envelope full of banknotes across the table. Once or twice a year, Jacob sent him shipments of orchids that he collected during his travels. Loel covered the cost of shipping, nursed the orchids to health, and sold the ones that survived at auction. He paid Jacob a percentage of the proceeds. “I’m breeding most of my own stock now, but I wouldn’t be nearly so far along without your help.”

  The envelope quickly disappeared into Jacob’s coat. “Every collector I meet these days knows your name—you’re gaining a reputation.”

  “Good. I’ve been working hard enough.”

  By the time Jacob had forked the last carrot from his empty plate, the tavern had quieted. Gavin’s group had left, and the few new arrivals hunched into their tables, talking quietly.

  “I’m about to start a lecture tour. I loathe England because if I’m here, I’m raising funds—if not to organize my next expedition then to have color plates printed for my next book…” Jacob sighed. “I hate dancing for my dinner, but what choice do I have?”

  “It would be a shame to let your talent go to waste. One of my buyers, a man with a more broadly naturalist bent, attended one of your lectures. He couldn’t say enough good. Albert Hennig?”

  “I know the name—he’s a donor,” Jacob acknowledged. “If I have time, I’ll visit again before I leave the country.”

  Loel scattered a few coins on the table and mimed a hat tip in Mrs. Bailey’s direction. She pretended not to see, of course. He whipped his cloak around his shoulders, hefted the crate, and let Jacob hold open the door. The sky had cleared, leaving a sweet scent and slippery, rain-washed cobbles in its wake.

  Jacob clapped him on the shoulder. “Be well.”

  “You too.”

  The two parted ways, Jacob toward the train station while Loel started the long walk to Woodclose. His route took him past the whorehouse, a tidy, two-story building on the outskirts of town, isolated as any slaughterhouse or tannery. Thick curtains drawn over every window muffled sound and blocked even a trickle of light from escaping around the edges.

  The front door opened, and Charles Gavin stood in the threshold, naked from the waist up, his trousers unfastened and hanging loose around his hips. A shadowy figure scurried past him and began retching noisily into one of the planters.

  Gavin laughed, a deep basso roll. Behind him, candles and lamps blazed on gilded furniture. Gaudy paintings hung on the walls.

  Bonny Reed had the kind of beauty that ought to have rendered her ancestry, her finances, even her character irrelevant. Looks alone could have won her a titled peer, a titan of industry, and she had chosen this man?

  Loel had no right to judge. But he’d also, in a roundabout way, sacrificed to ensure her well-being. He had circled the globe. He’d known hunger and thirst, illness that dragged him right to death’s doorstep and stopped just short of ringing the bell. Aboard the Incitatus, he’d faced trials he wouldn’t wish on anyone. All ultimately at her command.

  Bonny Reed’s suffering—and with Charles Gavin, she would suffer—would cast a pall over his years at sea. Make all that he’d endured just a little more futile. But while he couldn’t regret his choices aboard the Incitatus, he’d also discovered that heroism wasn’t all it was cracked up to be. Right now, he saw no reason to interfere.

  In any case, he needed to get the crate he carried out of the cold as soon as possible. So he put Bonny Reed out of his mind and walked on. He had work to do, and the most beautiful girl in New Quay didn’t need his help.

  “I have news,” Bonny announced, mouth watering and fork poised. Three thin layers of cake sandwiched thick lashings of rich buttercream and tart raspberry jam, all robed in marzipan. The flavors were so varied and well-balanced that every single bite was a meal, an experience, a delight.

  She could not, for the life of her, resist this cake.

  She was sitting at a dainty sofa in the Kellys’ formal salon. The figured silk curtains had been tied up to let the morning sunlight in, though the ample light didn’t bring with it sufficient warmth.

  The salon, like every room in the Kelly house, was tasteful, well-appointed, and fundamentally unwelcoming. The same could be said of Mr. and Mrs. Kelly, though Bonny would never say anything so awful to her friend.

  “And judging by your expression, it’s good news.”

  “The best.” Bonny released the giddy smile that she’d had poor luck restraining ever since Mr. Gavin’s visit. “Mr. Gavin proposed!”

  “He proposed!” Cordelia leaped up from the table and held her arms out. “Finally!”

  Bonny jumped up to give her friend a hug. They held each other, arms clasped tight, before Bonny skipped back and began to dance Cordelia around the room.

  “I’ll be married!” Bonny cried.

  �
�To the handsomest man in town.”

  “I’ll have a house!”

  “A big one!”

  “You can come visit me!”

  “How often?”

  “Every day!”

  “Will there be cake?” Cordelia asked, a sparkle in her eyes.

  “All you can eat!”

  They laughed and broke apart, both a little breathless.

  “All right.” Bonny returned to her seat, still grinning so hard her cheeks hurt. “Now that my news is out of the way—you’ve brought me here to discuss something important, haven’t you?”

  “I have,” Cordelia acknowledged. “We started this project a year ago, and since then we’ve acquired about one hundred books and more than sixty members.”

  “Isn’t it wonderful?” said Bonny. “I remember, at the beginning, we’d hoped for twenty or thirty at most.”

  “We’ve done well—but that’s part of the problem. We can’t keep adding members without expanding our catalog.”

  “But books are so expensive—you know I can’t be buying any new,” said Bonny. “And we agreed not to charge subscription fees.”

  “Which is why we’re going to solicit donations instead,” said Cordelia.

  Bonny wrinkled her nose. “You mean I need to solicit donations.”

  “I do mean that, yes.”

  Bonny squirmed. Her family wasn’t poor… but they were close enough to make this assignment an awkward one. “I don’t think it will look quite right.”

  “It’s a good cause. You needn’t be ashamed.”

  “I know, but…” Bonny searched for a less embarrassing—if slightly less honest—explanation. “We’re not exactly handing out improving tracts.”

  “We’re encouraging women from all walks of life to read,” Cordelia said firmly. “We’re showing them that books can be entertaining instead of a chore.”

  “If you explained, our prospective donors would gain a better understanding—”

  “And if you explain, they’ll empty their wallets before they’ve quite figured out why.” Cordelia interrupted. “Bonny, you know it’s true.”

  Bonny scowled and forked up a large bite of cake.

  Mrs. Kelly interrupted the tense silence. She murmured, “Sorry to interrupt, dearest, but I wanted Bonny’s opinion.” She laid two fabric swatches on the table next to the tea things—a blue silk and a yellow. “I’m having a new evening gown made, but I can’t make up my mind. What do you think?”

  Bonny considered the two colors. “You have the complexion to carry off yellow, but I’ve never seen you wear it.”

  Mrs. Kelly grimaced. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

  “You’ll look beautiful in the blue,” Bonny assured her.

  “But you’d pick the yellow.”

  “I think you’d be stunning in it.”

  “I suppose it’s yellow—but you’ll hear about it if I look sallow.”

  Bonny grinned. “And I’ll deserve it!”

  “You’re always right about these things.” Mrs. Kelly looked to her daughter. “You ought to take a few tips from Miss Reed yourself.”

  “I do,” said Cordelia.

  “A few more tips.”

  Cordelia’s level brows and cool gaze were all the reply she made. She didn’t like to repeat herself—a trait that aggravated her mother to no end. Bonny too, occasionally.

  “The young men would like it,” tried Mrs. Kelly.

  “I’d rather a young man who likes me as I am.”

  “Why must you be so difficult?” Mrs. Kelly picked up the swatches. “Thank you, Bonny. It’s always so nice to see you.”

  “I’m sorry,” murmured Bonny, once Mrs. Kelly had gone.

  “It’s not your fault. Let’s not talk about it—that’s what she wants, after all.” Cordelia tapped her fork against the porcelain plate. “So can I draw up a list of likely donors?”

  “You’ll do it no matter how I answer.”

  “True.”

  “And I’ll give in eventually,” Bonny admitted.

  “So why wait?”

  “Why indeed?”

  Bonny finished her cake—and even asked for another slice—to reward herself in advance for her good deeds.

  She was grateful for her indulgence later that evening, when there was only enough meat at supper for her father and the rest of the family had to make do with gravy.

  She sewed for a few hours while her sister read aloud and her mother did the accounts. Margot liked to dramatize her readings, giving each character in a novel a unique voice and acting out the dialogue.

  “I heard Lord Loel was at the pub again last night,” said Mr. Reed, during a pause.

  “What’s he up to now?” asked Mrs. Reed.

  “Something suspicious?” Margot asked eagerly. She’d be a horrible gossip one day—she couldn’t resist a good story, either projected on a stage or whispered in a drawing room.

  Bonny listened too, the muscles in her back and shoulders tightening in apprehension. She wished Lord Loel had never returned from his travels. He’d been back for a few years now and every time his name came up in conversation, her conscience twinged.

  “What else?” Mr. Reed grunted his disapproval. “He brings disreputable characters to New Quay. Lures them right into the center of town, on the main street, where decent people ought to feel safe.”

  “He puts all of us in danger,” Mrs. Reed murmured.

  “He collected another strange package,” Mr. Reed continued. “Who knows what’s inside those great big boxes; there’s never any explanation.”

  “It could be anything.” Mrs. Reed fretted.

  “Like bars of pure gold.” Margot bounced in her seat. “Or mummies!”

  “I don’t think the packages are big enough to be mummies,” Bonny murmured. “Not if he can carry them away himself.”

  “Pieces of mummies!” Margot suggested. “Mummied cats!”

  “There’s nothing wrong with mummies anyhow,” said Bonny. “We put them in museums.”

  “These are probably cursed.”

  “How do you think of these things? Margot!” Bonny shuddered. Her sister had a flair for the theatrical, but this image fit almost too well: Lord Loel, lean and dour, wandering his great empty house surrounded by desiccated corpses.

  She tried to lighten the tone. “I doubt Lord Loel can afford a cursed mummy. They’ve got to be more expensive than the regular ones.”

  “That’s why he only buys them in pieces!”

  “It’s not funny,” warned Mrs. Reed. “One of these days, something terrible will happen. I can feel it.”

  “I fear you’re right,” agreed Mr. Reed. “I really do.”

  Bonny didn’t have a mirror in her bedroom. It was one luxury that she didn’t miss at all. There was a mirror on the ground floor, by the door, and she glanced at it on her way in and out. No more.

  Instead of admiring—or critiquing—her own face, she did her toilette while contemplating her painting, her one thing. Bowl of Cherries. It depicted, as described, a bowl of cherries. A glass of water sat to one side, with a butterfly perched on the rim.

  The dealer who’d sold it to her father had said, “We call it a still life, but nothing changes more. It will mean different things to you at different times.” She’d adopted the painting as her own before she really understood what the dealer meant. She’d liked it, that was all. She didn’t need to know why. But over the years, she’d figured it out.

  The painting didn’t change, but her preoccupations did. She paid attention to different details depending on her mood—today it was the butterfly, its buttery-yellow wings a vivid contrast to the ruby-red fruit.

  She often felt like the butterfly. Buoyant, letting her spirits lift her, giving her a light touch. And sometimes, like today, she felt beautiful but useless.

  Her hand tightened on the brush. Not useless. She would prove it later today when she visited the first person on Cordelia’s list: Mrs. Lucy Twisby,
a wealthy widow who lived alone a few miles from town. They’d been acquainted in the days when the Reeds had been more prosperous and Mrs. Twisby younger and more active. She’d always had a generous disposition. Surely Bonny could coax a donation out of the old woman.

  It was a fine spring day, cool enough that she could set a quick pace without worrying about arriving with a glowing red face. Inland, the scent of manure and hay replaced the coastal breezes. Curious cows ambled over to the fences enclosing their pastures, lowing warnings to one another as she walked by.

  Mrs. Twisby lived in a fine old house built from ruddy-red local stone. The Twisbys were new arrivals, by New Quay standards—Mr. Twisby had bought the property some fifteen years before upon his retirement from the East India Company.

  He’d arrived with his Indian wife and their three children, two girls and a boy. All three children had been baptized by Mr. Henley, given Christian names, and sent away to school. Mr. Twisby had died not long after that, so Mrs. Twisby had been a widow for as long as Bonny could remember, living alone and not much seen in town.

  Though Bonny didn’t blame her for keeping to herself. Mrs. Twisby had long been a target of Mrs. Henley’s ire. The vicar’s wife considered it an outrage that the three Twisby children hadn’t been baptized at birth—and she held Mrs. Twisby responsible. “You know Mr. Twisby never attended church,” she’d say. “Why do you think that is? I’ll tell you: he wasn’t a Christian. Too many of our young men lose their way, tempted by heathen women… but to bring that blasphemy here? We must draw a line, I’m afraid.”

  Of course, the vicar’s wife would be strict about such matters. Bonny had met Mrs. Twisby after the fire. She’d visited several times, always with gifts of food—including a sweet carrot pudding that stood out in Bonny’s memory like a single ray of sunshine in a sky full of thunderclouds—and spent several afternoons with Bonny and Margot while her parents were out. Her kindness had made a lasting impression on the Reeds and many others in New Quay.

  A stout, balding manservant answered the door and showed Bonny upstairs. Most of the furniture and fixtures were English, though some of the smaller and lighter items—small paintings in the Oriental style, exquisite carpets—had obviously come from abroad.