Blossom Time (3 page)

Lord Sylvester was silent a moment as his dreams crashed and shattered around him. A lady! He had been conned by a provincial miss! He’d be the laughingstock of London. His nose pinched. “I see,” he said, then added with a cool smile to Rosalind, “How delightful.”

“A misunderstanding,” Rosalind said. She decided it was time to unwrap herself from her shawl and let it fall around her waist. “My name is Frances, with an
e.
It must have been my handwriting— perhaps I inadvertently spotted the page above the
e.
I was thrilled when you accepted my poetry, Lord Sylvester.” Her eyelashes fluttered in double time. “Only a gentleman of your scholarly reputation would dare to praise a lady’s work, to place it on a par with gentlemen’s writing. But that is the sort of bold initiative we have come to expect from
Camena.”

This line of talk went down very well with Lord Sylvester, who had a taste for the butter boat. He began to think that he might make something of Miss Lovelace after all. She was rather pretty—that couldn’t hurt. He liked the notion that only he would be so daring as to puff up a lady. When the truth was revealed, he must let it be known that he had realized she was a lady from the beginning.

“Camena.
What does the word mean?” she asked. “I could not find it in any of my reference works.”

“You are not the first to inquire, Miss Lovelace,” he said, in quite a civil way. “It is the Latin equivalent of Muse. Muse, of course, is Greek. The word is done to death. I had thought of using the word Erato, the Muse of poetry, but then it tends to be confused with errata and, of course, Eros, laying the name open to coarse jests. I would not want my magazine to be mistaken for some bawdy thing. In the end, I went with
Camena.”

“Roz is greatly interested in such things,” Dick said. “A regular bluestocking.”

“Oh, hardly that!” she objected. “But I do feel I have learned a great deal from your critiques in
Camena,
milord. I was thrilled that a gentleman of your preeminence found my poems worth looking into.”

The more she talked, the better he liked her. The tea tray arrived and she poured, making a great show of asking how he took his tea, and would he care to try Cook’s pastries.

“Roz is up on all the latest writing,” Dick threw in, thinking to puff her off. “She’s not content with simple country pleasures. Quite the dasher is Roz.”

Lord Sylvester listened with rising hopes. He saw that Miss Lovelace was no deb. She had been out and about for a few years. The word “dasher” raised his hopes for some serious flirtation, preferably away from her home parish. London, for choice. He was soon “confessing” that he had suspected a lady was behind the poems from the beginning.

“Truth to tell,” he lied, “it is half the reason I came down to see you. I was hoping that you would have something we might put out in our autumn issue. After its publication in early September would be a good time to introduce you to the literati in London, when interest is at its peak.”

“Oh, I should like it of all things, milord!” she cried. Her cheeks were flushed with pleasure and her green eyes glowed.

Lord Sylvester drew out a cloisonné snuffbox, lifted a pinch between his thumb and forefinger, and applied it to his nose. He flickered his handkerchief over his nostrils to dispel any lingering residue but did not sneeze.

“And London will adore you, Miss Lovelace,” he said, gazing flirtatiously into her eyes. “One item is not yet clear to me, however. With such a charming and redolent name as Rosalind, why did you sign your letter Frances? I notice Mr. Lovelace calls you Roz.”

“Frances is my second name,” she said, racking her brain for a better excuse. “I thought it sounded more . . . er, serious than Rosalind.”

Lord Sylvester studied her a moment, then his thin lips opened in a conspiratorial smile. “You don’t fool me, Miss Lovelace,” he charged. “You were playing Ganymede.”

“Oh, indeed, I—” She stopped in confusion. What was Ganymede? It sounded vaguely familiar, but she could not recall where she had read it.

“And who else but a Rosalind should pose as a gentleman to gain her end?” Sylvester continued. “I am referring, of course, to Shakespeare’s As
You Like It,
in which the fair Rosalind assumes the guise of a man, Ganymede. It is an excellent jest. Superb. I shall mention our clever stunt, using a gentleman’s name to coerce my readers into taking your work seriously. We shall be quite open and honest about it. It was a hoax. Nay, we shall be aggressive in our attack. Ladies’ talents have been overlooked for too long. They will be green with envy at the
Edinburgh Review.”

It did not seem the proper moment to mention that
Miss
Lovelace’s poems had been rejected by
Camena,
as well as other literary magazines. Rosalind noticed that her stunt had become our stunt, and as the visit continued, it became entirely Lord Sylvester’s stunt. She was so relieved he had accepted her that she just smiled her agreement with everything he said until the tea was consumed. She noticed that Lord Sylvester ate practically nothing, perhaps to allow his tongue freedom to wag.

Rosalind enjoyed the visit. The corner of Kent where she lived was thin of literary folk. Lord Sylvester knew everyone famous and had amusing anecdotes about them to relate. He was also undeniably knowledgeable about literary matters. He was a great talker, but a fatiguing one, for he expected praise for his ideas, laughter for his slightest jest, and scorn to match his disparagement of any other literary review than
Camena.

He had been in the saloon for only forty-five minutes, but it seemed longer. When he mentioned leaving, Dick leapt from his chair like a grasshopper to accompany him to the door. Rosalind did not urge Lord Sylvester very strenuously to remain, although she had enjoyed his company.

“Must you go so soon?” she said politely, assuming a positive answer.

Before Lord Sylvester could reply, the door knocker sounded, and before Rucker, the butler, could get to the door, Lord Harwell’s hearty voice was heard. After one knock, he had let himself in. “It’s only me, Roz. I’ve brought Sukey’s kitten.”

Of all the people who might have called, Harwell was the last one she wished to present to Lord Sylvester. At no point did their interests meet. Lord Sylvester’s only concerns appeared to be literary, while Harwell thought less of literature than of a spot of lint on his sleeve. It would be like struggling through a bramble bush to make conversation with the two of them at once. And on top of it, she did not want Harwell to know she had turned poet. She clenched her lips into a tight smile and waited.

Chapter Three

The white kitten Lord Harwell held cradled in his arms was strangely at odds with his rakish appearance. “As if Zeus came calling with a rose in his hand in lieu of a thunderbolt” was Lord Sylvester’s first impression. Harwell’s opinion of Sylvester was equally unsettling. Surely this male milliner was not the gent who brought that glow to Roz Lovelace’s face? He was too young, too foppish, not up to her weight—though a very pretty fellow, to be sure. Rosalind’s obsequious behavior toward the young whelp left no doubt this was the man responsible for her new glow. Neither gentleman betrayed any of his feelings when Rosalind introduced them.

“I believe we have rubbed shoulders at Brooke’s, milord,” Sylvester said, making an exquisite bow.

“Very likely,” Harwell agreed. He switched the kitten to his left arm and pumped Sylvester’s hand. “You are Dunston’s younger son, if I am not mistaken?”

“Just so. I believe my older brother, Lord Moffat, has the honor of your acquaintance.”

“Indeed, I have known Moffat forever. We were at Eton together a hundred years ago. How is he? I haven’t seen him about London recently.”

“He is married with two sons now, living at Astonby. He is gradually taking over management of the estate. Papa is poorly, you must know.”

“I am sorry to hear it.”

Rosalind was glad that Sylvester acquitted himself creditably in this exchange. She wished he would now rise and leave, before anything was said of the reason for his visit. What excuse could she give Harry for it? Lord Sylvester lost his way and stopped for directions was the best she could come up with. She was aware of Harwell’s dark eyes raking her. That frown growing between his eyes indicated curiosity.

Harwell’s frown had less to do with Lord Sylvester than with Rosalind’s appearance. When had she begun sticking flowers in her hair and wearing low-cut gowns? Even at the local balls and assemblies she was always very modest in her toilette. In her new style, and with that simpering smile on her face, she reminded him of a light-skirt. It annoyed him to no small degree. It seemed inconceivable that this young popinjay had made her so far forget her sensible self.

These thoughts flashed through his mind in seconds. When he spoke, he said, “I didn’t realize you knew Miss Lovelace. I haven’t met you here before, have I?” His friendly tone encouraged Sylvester’s confidence.

“Until today, our acquaintance has been by correspondence only, purely professional,” Sylvester said, with a conspiratorial smile at Rosalind. “I dare to hope we have taken the initial steps toward friendship over the past delightful hour.”

Harwell’s eyebrows rose an inch. “In what field of endeavor have you turned professional, Roz?” he inquired. “Setting up as a mender of prayer books?” His curiosity was rampant, and his speech, which always bordered on the brusque, sounded more angry than curious.

Sylvester blinked in astonishment. “Milord! Don’t tell me you are Miss Lovelace’s neighbor and are not aware that we devoted four pages of the current issue of
Camena
to her works! She is the next poet laureate. I use the word in its true sense of being wreathed in laurels, honored above her peers, not appointed by His Majesty to spin off court odes on order, like that doddering fool Southey. Walter Scott had the good sense to turn the post down.”

Harwell’s jaw fell open. “Roz, a poet?” he exclaimed, and stared at her as if she had been pronounced a contortionist, or a bearded lady. “What do you write about? Mending the seat covers in the church? Stirring up the annual batch of marmalade?”

Green fire shot from her eyes, glaring him to a stunned silence. He hadn’t seen her so angry since the day he jokingly accused her of trying to seduce the vicar.

Before she could retaliate in words, Sylvester took up the cudgels in her defense. His chivalry sent a little thrill through her, and created a new sort of interest in this young dandy. He was not all that young either, to judge by his speech.

“The mind needs ease for contemplation to create great literature, milord,” he said, with an air of gentle reproof. “It has been my experience that it is those engaged in simple pursuits who create the true masterpieces. Wordsworth, for example, strolling through the woods with his sister, and enlightening us and posterity as to his sublime feelings. Think of Thomas Gray. The greatest excitement of his mature writing years was his remove from Peterhouse across the street to Pembroke Hall— and it took a fire to move him that far. Yet there are lines in the
Elegy so
beautiful they make grown men weep.” He gazed into the distance and blinked away an unshed tear.

“If a dull life is the prerequisite for great poetry, then I am sure you will do admirably,” Harwell said with a mocking bow in Rosalind’s direction.

“The hurly-burly of a Season would only dilute Miss Lovelace’s originality,” Sylvester insisted. “She does plan to visit London soon, however. The other poets are on thorns to meet her, since her triumphant appearance in
Camena.”

Harwell’s sharp eyes turned to Roz at this announcement. “Indeed! I have heard nothing of this visit,” he said.

“We have just begun to discuss it,” she replied.

“Ah yes, a week in London will require a deal of discussion,” he said, chewing back a grin.

“Longer than a week, I hope!” Sylvester exclaimed. “I am anticipating a month at least, perhaps two. I shall begin looking about for a flat for you as soon as I return to Town, Miss Lovelace.”

“My London house is empty in the summer, except for a few servants and Aunt Margaret. Oh, and Uncle Ezra at the moment,” Harwell said. “You are welcome to stay there, Roz. Aunt Margaret can accompany you about.”

“That’s very kind of you, Harry,” she said, with a thin smile, “but I am hardly at that age where I require a chaperon.”

“I have been anticipating the pleasure of being Miss Lovelace’s cicisbeo,” Sylvester said with a glinting smile at Harwell. Why was the fellow jealous of him? Was there something afoot between this unlikely pair?

Harwell’s frown grew deeper at every speech. “When are we to see the magnum opus?” he inquired.

“I believe I have a spare copy of the current issue of
Camena
in my rig,” Sylvester said. “I shall give you one before I leave, but we do not call the
Blossom Time
poems Miss Lovelace’s magnum opus, merely a prelude to greater things to come.” He went on to speak of
Camena,
and his stunt in pretending Miss Lovelace’s poems had been composed by a gentleman.

Lord Harwell had only a minimal interest in the details. When Sylvester stopped to draw breath, Harwell said to Rosalind, “Where is Sukey? As you see, I brought Snow Drop for her.”

“Snow Drop?” Sylvester said. “Snowflake, surely. Raindrop but snowflake is the usual terminology.”

Harwell’s sigh suggested his lack of interest in semantics.

Before long, Sukey came barreling into the saloon. Her hem had torn loose once again. A sun-bonnet hung down her back, held on by its ribbon. Her tousled curls bounced in all directions. The soiled condition of her pinafore suggested that she had been playing in the stable, or perhaps in a ditch. Ignoring everyone and everything else in the room, she bolted straight for Snow Drop and snatched her into her arms to kiss her.

“Thanks, Harry!” she exclaimed. “Did you bring the sugarplums too?”

“Er . . . not yet,” he said, darting a guilty look at Rosalind.

Sylvester watched with his eyebrows lifted to his hairline. Once Sukey had examined the kitten’s entire body and said in an accusing way that the kitten wasn’t perfectly white, her feet and belly were gray, she deigned to look around the room and discovered Lord Sylvester.