The Blossoming of the Wallflower

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Spotlight on The Blossoming of the Wallflower”

As a gardener, Merrilyn Parkham-Smythe, was happy to be called a wallflower. Wallflowers were tenacious, long-blooming, colourful and reliable plants, easy to care for as long as they had a fair share of sun. Like them, Merrilyn had no objection to providing background to the showier and more troublesome ladies of Society. She did object to being slighted and bullied by those highly-praised blooms and their male counterparts.

The gentleman next door, for example. What a pity such a fine looking man was such an ass. He had damaged her garden and insulted her. He richly deserved what he had coming. Didn’t he?

Sir Darius Finchwater hadn’t meant to offend the lady next door. He had acted on an assumption. He should have checked. And when he found out, too late, what he had done, he should have made a charming apology. Sometimes, when embarrassed, his tongue betrayed him. He was much better with reptiles than with people.

He could think of a better use for those perfectly shaped lips than to hurl abuse at him. Since he couldn’t be in her presence without thoughts that were inappropriate in the presence of an innocent lady, he had to ignore her. But would she ignore him?

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Extract from The Blossoming of the Wallflower

Dar was breaking his fast on bread and cheese in his uncle’s bed chamber. Uncle Jacob, still looking tired and frail, was nonetheless much improved over yesterday, when he had suffered a session of chest pains which the doctor, hastily resummoned, called angina pectoris.

By the doctor’s command, he was eating gruel, though he grumbled life was not worth living if he had to eat such pap. “I am only doing this because I wish to live long enough to see you married to that lovely girl next door.”

“She might not have me,” Dar warned.

“Ask her, lad,” Uncle Jacob advised. “Don’t leave it until someone else finds out what a treasure she is before you say anything. Perhaps she will say no, though I do not think so. I have seen the way she looks at you. But perhaps she will say yes. Perhaps, if you fail to ask, you will live with regret for the remainder of your days.”

He stared straight into thin air and Dar had the impression he had stopped thinking about Merrilyn or even about Dar. That he was looking into the past and seeing the inexorable march of the years. “Perhaps she will die before you ask, leaving you to wonder whether, if she had been married to you, you might have kept her safe.”

Had Uncle Jacob once been in love? Dar had always thought him a curmudgeon who had chosen to remain a bachelor. Yet the longing in his voice would appear to argue otherwise.

Uncle Jacob broke the silence that followed with a sharp look and the remark, “Perhaps someone else will snatch her up before you have the chance.”

Quite right. Dar had to ask her. The time was not yet—he had more courting to do first. But he was determined to ask. “Yes, Uncle.”

A knock on the door proved to be the butler, asking if Dar would step below stairs.

“I did not want to say anything in front of Lord Finchwater,” he confided as he and Dar descended to the kitchen, “but the maid from next door is here, and very distressed.”

Dar hurried his steps.

Sure enough, the girl was pacing back and forth wringing her hands, while Dar’s servants tried to comfort her. “I must talk to Sir Darius,” she kept repeating.

“I am here,” Dar told her, and she burst into tears.

“They have taken my mistress,” she sobbed. “She went out into the garden early, and she never came back inside. She is gone, sir.”

A moment of weakness was not permitted. Time enough to give into his feelings once she was safe. “Who are they? Who has taken her?”

The maid shook her head. “It must have been those men from the other day,” she insisted. “Nobody saw nothing.”

What of Dar’s footman, who had been set to watch the back gate? Dar had been maintaining an around-the-clock watch since the villains first tried to get into the house. He turned to his butler to ask for someone to be sent to the back lane to check on the footman, but one of the other men hurried into the kitchen, checked at the sight of Dar, then strode towards him.

“Sir! Fred has been hurt. I need help to carry him inside. Someone hit him over the head and tied him up.”

Dar nodded to the butler. “Get the doctor,” he commanded. “I will pay his fee. Have the man carried in on a board in case he has injuries we cannot see. I am going next door. Whoever did this has abducted Miss Parkham-Smythe.”

As he left, he heard the footman explaining how he had searched when the man he had come to relieve was not in position, and had found him shoved into a wood shed at the side of the lane. At the moment, that was not Dar’s concern. Finding Merrilyn was.

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Danger and determination on WIP Wednesday

This is from The Blossoming of the Wallflower, which I wrote The End to an hour ago.

Merrilyn recovered consciousness slowly. Her sense that something was wrong first focused on her aching head, then she became aware that the room about her was not her own, then the assault in the garden returned to her memory, and she was suddenly awake.

She sat up and paused for a moment while her head stopped reeling, then looked around. She was chained by the ankle to the iron frame of a bed in a room that had a bedside table, a washstand, and nothing else. No other furniture. No paintings on the wall. No drapes.

The room was dingy with age. Dirt, too, though it showed signs of recent inexpert cleaning. What had she been taken for? Some of the more lurid possibilities from the scandal rags and gothic novels sent panic surging.

She swallowed it down. Panic would not help. She returned to her catalogue of the room’s contents, hoping to find something she might use as a weapon.

The washstand held a bowl and a jug of water. Either might work to hit someone with, though the jug would be better, since it had a handle. On the bedside table was something covered by a napkin. She lifted it to find a glass of drink and a plate of food—all items that could be picked up with the fingers. No utensils.

That was it. But she had not checked in the cupboards. The chain was long enough that she could get to the floor on either side of the bed. She opened the cupboard under the bedside table first. It was empty. While she was there, she looked under the bed. Nothing but dust.

Rather than clamber over the bed, she went around it, lifting the chain to clear the bed end. The washstand held a chamber pot, thank goodness. She had an immediate and urgent need for it, and it would also be another weapon if required.

After she was comfortable again, she resumed her seat on the bed—for lack of any other—and thought about her options. One of the heroes in a gothic novel she had read had picked the locks on his shackles and on his cell door with a pair of hairpins that the heroine managed to send to him tied with ribbon around the neck of a rat she had befriend.

There had been an entire page given to the scene in which he tempted the rat close enough to be caught using scraps from the stale bread that was his only solid food. The whole concept had been ridiculous, but Merrilyn was willing to try anything.

She pulled out a couple of the pins with which she had fastened her night-time plait in a coronet around her head, and set to work. Each time she felt something within the lock move, her heart lifted. And fell again a moment later. After a long frustrating time—in which the sunbeam from the window had discernably moved across the floor—she had to conclude that either the use of hairpins to unlock shackles and cell doors was as mythical as tame rats who obediently carried keys to neighbouring cells, or the skill required a knack she simply didn’t posses.

The pins had just been returned to her hair when she heard a noise from the door. The handle was moving. She reached out for the jug, which was now only half full. It was the weapon most readily to hand, but rather cumbersome.

She relaxed as soon as the man entered the room and spoke. He was masked, and his voice was a hoarse whisper. “Ah. You are awake. Good. I have brought more food. You do not need to be afraid. I will not hurt you, and you will be returned home as soon as your trustees have paid the ransom.”

Silly man. Did he think she would not recognise her own father? She gave him a curt nod, and was grimly satisfied when he collected the contents of her chamberpot, rinsed it out with the water in the bowl, and then left with the bucket before saying, “I shall be back shortly with a cup of tea. You would like a cup of tea, would you not, Mer— Miss Parkham-Smith?”

Silly, silly man. She gave him another curt nod.

After he had returned with a tea tray and left again, she sat back against the pillows to consider this latest development. Given that he had served her himself, it seemed likely that he had no henchmen lurking around the corners. If she could once get out of the shackle, surely she would be able to sneak out of the house without attracting his attention?

She examined the shackle again. It did not fit tightly on the ankle. Might it be possible to force her foot through it, and gain her release that way? She removed her shoes and tried, but could not get the heel through.

The chain was the next possibility. She examined every link, but all were solid, with no sign of any weakness.

The foot it would have to be, then. She removed the relevant stocking and the top of her foot and her ankle. Even with her foot pointed to be as straight as it could be, the heel was still an obstruction, but not as much of a one as before.

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Tea with the donors

This is a piece of description from The Blossoming of the Wallflower. The Venetian Breakfast is a significant event in the past for Caroline Warfield’s character, Belinda Westcott. Her Wallflower story is coming out in December.

I’ve made it an event in my story, too, and what will happen next will focus my hero’s mind on romance.

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He returned upstairs to his valet, who was on his mettle, since Uncle Jacob and Dar were going to the Duchess of Haverford’s Venetian breakfast, and the valet had never before prepared his employer for an event with such an august hostess. Dar shared the valet’s excitement, not for the same reason. Miss Parkham-Smith was also invited.

But would she attend after her upsetting morning? He wanted to rush next door and check, but then he would be late for the breakfast, and what if she was going after all? She would be, he was sure. Miss Parkham-Smith was no wilting violet. 

It was a benefit event, with the price of the tickets going to help one of the duchess’s many charities, but Dar had been told to take a full bill-fold, for there would be raffles and contest to separate the guests from more of their money in order to support the cause.

Miss Parkham-Smith would not miss the opportunity to help others, he was sure.

Haverford House was outside of London up river, a twenty-minute carriage ride from Mayfair if the roads were quiet and in good repair. The second was true, but the first—half of polite London seemed to be on the road that afternoon. It was a good forty minutes before they turned into the great courtyard formed by the main house and its wings, but Miss Parkham-Smith’s carriage had been within sight for most of the journey, so Dar was able to be patient.

Indeed, the ladies were descending from their carriage when Dar and Uncle Jacob arrived, and by mutual consent, they hurried to offer their arms, Dar to Miss Parkham-Smith and Uncle Jacob to Mrs. Olsen.

Several footmen hurried from Miss Parkham-Smith’s carriage down the steps to the mansion’s basement, carrying large baskets. 

“Many of us have contributed to the meal,” Miss Parkham-Smith explained. “My cook has made several bowls of salmagundy. They are packed in ice in the baskets, together with jugs of salad dressing.”

They were ushered up the steps to the grand entrance and then straight through the spectacular entry hall, with its domed ceiling five storeys above, its sweeping staircases, and more priceless artwork than Dar had ever seen collected in one place before.

They went with a stream of other guests down one side of the staircase and through double doors into another more homely hall, this one with ceilings no more than sixteen feet high and sized not much larger than half the ground floor of Dar’s townhouse. 

A bank of french doors stood open to a terrace, and beyond that was a magnificently manicured garden that stretched down to the river.

Dar remembered reading that the Duke of Haverford had a pied a terre in London for nights when Parliament sat late or he lingered with his latest mistress, but that the duchess and her son, the Marquess of Aldridge, were prone to using the river, timing their travel to take advantage of the tides to sweep down to London or up river to their magnificent home.

They were both there to welcome guests, standing at the top of steps down into the garden. On the lawn at the base of the steps, several marquees made a bright splash, and men and gaily clad women strolled to and fro in the cheerful sunlight or under the shade of the trees that lined a walk down to the river.

Miss Packham-Smith sighed with pleasure. “What a beautiful garden!”

They were close enough for the duchess to hear her, and she beamed. The Marquess of Aldridge also looked pleased. “My mother redesigned the gardens when she married my father,” he said. The duchess explained, “They were in the formal French style, and much neglected, so that many of the plants were overgrown and others had died.”

“You have done a wonderful job,” Miss Parkham-Smith said. “Everything I can see from here is in perfect balance and harmony.”

“You must explore them all,” the duchess insisted. “I am so glad you have come, Miss Packham-Smith. I trust you and your companions enjoy yourself.”

Uncle Jacob said that his old legs would not carry him to every corner of the garden, and Mrs. Olsen felt that there could be no objection to Miss Parkham-Smith walking unchaperoned with Dar, given that it was in the middle of the afternoon and there were so many people. “Lord Finchwater and I will sit on that bench in the shade,” she proposed, “and gossip about all the people.”

Uncle Jacob said that was a perfect recipe for his enjoyment of the afternoon and they left Dar and Miss Parkham-Smith to their explorations.

She was entrancing in her enthusiasm, Dar decided. In fact, she was altogether entrancing. The garden was laid out in rooms, with hedges, shrubs, stone walls, pergolas and other features used to divide one small garden area from another. They walked all the way down one meandering path to the wall between the garden and the river, along the wall past the river gate, up the central path, which was equally rambling, and back to the lawn. 

There was still a great deal to explore, but the first of the raffles had just been announced, and Dar and Merrilyn—somewhere in the last hour they had moved to first-name terms—joined the queue to sign up for an enormous basket of fruit that they would have to give away if they won it, for no one could eat so much before it began to spoil.

By the time they were done, footmen were beginning to circulate with trays of drink, and tables of food had been set out in the marquees.

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A gardener’s nightmare in WIP Wednesday

Another extract from The Blossoming of the Wallflower, for publication in July.

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Dar was beginning to question the competence of his gardener.

When he first arrived home, he put in the order for more vegetables of all kinds—he was not quite certain what his reptiles might prefer, coming as they did from the Far East.

The gardener had responded by insisting that the shade of the trees next door would prevent him from fulfilling the order. So Dar had suggested cutting back the trees to allow more sunlight into the garden.

The garden worried out loud about the anger of “her next door”, which was when Dar committed the error of assuming that the man he had seen coming and going from the house was the owner, asked permission, and arranged for the trees to be pruned, under the supervision of the gardener.

He hadn’t watched, and he hadn’t checked the results. Not until after Miss Parkham-Smith visited to acquaint him with his mistake. Then he had walked the length of the garden to see what the men had done, and had been forced to agree with her. The trees had been crudely hacked back in a sloping line from the wall between the properties. Far more than necessary. Far more than the gentle trim he thought necessary.

Remorse and embarrassment kept him nervous around Miss Parkham-Smith and made him brusque with his gardener.

In the days after the pruning, the gardener reported planting out rows of lettuces, cabbages, carrots, turnips, and other vegetables from his seed frames. So far, so good. But when he asked for progress, he was informed that an invasion of what the gardener called ‘nasty little critters’ had eaten all of the tender young seedlings.

Dar told the man to replant. The same thing kept happening. The gardener swore none of his usual traps were working. The gastropods and larval insects feasting on the young seedlings were also turning their attention to the more mature plants, so that the gardener was subjected to bitter complaints from the kitchen, and Dar to equally bitter apologies when a rather large specimen of larvae—stewed and buttered—made its way onto his dinner plate as part of a dish of stewed cabbage, apple, and onion.

Everyone in the household had an opinion of what might deter the creeping and slithering menaces. The gardener, at his wits end, tried them all. Dried and crushed eggshells. Wilted wormwood, mint, and tansy. Dishes of beer. The tiny monsters kept munching.

One recipe was to creep down to the garden in the early dawn to catch the villains at their work. Apparently, snails and slugs were like the aristocracy—out dancing all night and then gliding back into their dark refuges to sleep away the daylight hours.

Dar was awake early one morning. He had had yet another unsatisfying encounter with Miss Parkham-Smith the evening before, and yet another dream of her which would have been entirely satisfying, had he not woken, hard and yearning, before it was fully consummated.

Since he saw no likelihood that he would sleep again, he decided to get up, dress, and embark on his own gastropod hunt. The sun was far enough up for good visibility, but the air would still be cool and moist.

He had always enjoyed this time of the morning, especially on a gorgeous day as this one promised to be. The constant busy roar of London was muted in this short interlude when the roads were empty of the home-going carriages of the ton and had not yet seen the first of the carts and drays that would soon pour into London to service the markets and warehouses.

He spent a few minutes peering into his terrariums, though the glass was misted and he could see little. The fountains would be ready soon, but in the meantime, the servant he had hired to look after the reptiles was misting the water dragons enclosure four times a day.

They, at least, had enjoyed a few slugs with their chopped lettuce.

He was smiling at the thought as he stepped through the gate and into the vegetable garden. He did not at first focus on the figure bent over the lettuces in the far corner, but something teased at the corner of his mind. Surely that was not his gardener? The shape was all wrong. Too tall. Too slender.

Whoever it was had not noticed his arrival. Whoever it was? Dar knew perfect well, at some level too primitive for him to deny. Every stealthy step of his approach only confirmed that instinctual knowledge. What was Miss Parkham-Smith doing in his garden?

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Another new beginning in WIP Wednesday

This is the first scene in The Blossoming of the Wallflower.

Spring was when the social life of the London upper classes upped its pace from a few insipid entertainments to the full gallop of the Season. Merrilyn Parkham-Smith, in other words, suddenly had to make room for engagements she would have paid to refuse, and to be (at least publicly) polite to the cruel diamonds and sarcastic rakes who had made her first three seasons miserable.

Not that they annoyed her as much as they used to. Not since she and her friends had formed the Nemisis Collective, and devoted themselves to the principles of artistic revenge. The last two seasons had, she supposed, been tolerable.

But spring was also the time when her garden burst into life. Since Merrilyn loved her garden above all things, every minute that she had to spend doing something boring instead of gardening was pure torture.

In the summer and autumn, when much of the Polite World made their exodus to the country, she could spend all day in her garden, if it pleased her to do so. It usually did. Winter was for reading (nurserymen’s catalogues, but also fiction, biology, poetry, and much more). Summer and autumn were for gardening. And spring was to be endured, with moments in her garden as her reward for doing her duty.

She was stealing one such moment this fine June morning. Her liriodendren tulipipefera—the tulip tree she had planted with her grandmother when she was eight years old—had finally produced buds, and when she had checked that end of the garden several days ago, the first of the bracts that enclosed the flowers had begun to open.

By now, perhaps she would find twenty or more fragrant flowers! Pretty six-petalled cups in yellow or green with a stripe of orange at the base and a coronet of stamens around a cone of pistils. How she wished her grandmother was here to see these first flowers!

Merrilyn had three gates—and four gardens—to walk through to reach the tulip tree near the wall that sheltered the compost heap and other garden utilities at the far end.

Grandmama had designed the garden when she first came to this house as a young bride. One in a terrace of townhouses, it and its companions were distinguished from others in the area by the size of the gardens, or rather the length—the width being constrained by the width of each house.

The area closest to the house, which Merrilyn quickly traversed, was designed for viewing from the terrace or from inside the house. The plants had been chosen to fill the space year round with colour, texture, shape, and pleasing scents.

Beyond the first gate was the vegetable garden, designed like a French potager with flowers, herbs and vegetables mixed, and berry cages around the walls.

Then came a modest orchard, with a dozen trees that kept the household supplied with fruit from spring until autumn. Through the third gate, and Merrilyn was in her favourite part of the garden, which she had, as a child, dubbed ‘the Forest’. Grandmama had created a little fairyland of trees, shrubs and forest wildflowers.

Merrilyn left the straight path that led on to the utility area and took one of the forest paths that wandered between the trees. At the far end of this path on the edge of a little glade was her tulip tree.

She had taken no more than half a dozen paces down the path before she saw the carnage. Freshly cut branches covered the walkway and clogged the undergrowth—what was left of it. Horror rose as she saw the mess someone had made of the growth along the wall—trees and shrubs her grandmother had planted. Someone had cut them down to just above wall height. Sliced them off at an angle, right through the trunks, and left the evidence on the ground.

Her liriodendren! She hurriedly retraced her steps to the main path and rushed to the end of the forest section, turning into the path next to the dividing wall with the utility area. It was really no more than a space, three feet wide, kept trimmed to allow access to the wall, but it was clear no longer, since the felled part of the tulip tree had dropped into the space and reached almost to the central path.

She put out a hand to the top of her tree, which only a few days ago had been a brave twenty-five feet above her head. The desecration had happened long enough ago that the leaves were wilting, the buds that had given her such joy were limp and shrivelled.

Tears rose to her eyes. Who had done such a dreadful thing? And why?