There are times when I must confess I have grown tired of all the discussions surrounding this book of mine. Its constant debate leaves me torn between the pleasure of being its author and the pain of being its defender. What a tiresome chore it is! I believe it was much easier to write the advice than to listen to it being discussed day after day after day...
She tucked her pencil into her journal and closed the volume. The seam which bound its pages together was splitting apart from too much use. She supposed the only volume she had seen lately to rival its wear and tear was Miss Catherine Barton's copy of Advice for Young Ladies.
Across from her, Eliza Barton was clutching a basket of fancy work on her lap, doing her best to avoid jostling Mrs. Fitzwilliam, who had fallen asleep beside her. Each time the carriage rolled over a particularly bumpy spot in the road, the lady awoke and complained loudly that the coachman must be laboring to find every hole between here and Five Acre field, the intended site of the picnic.
Flora smiled. "The field is not so far, Aunt," she answered. "It has a lovely view on the hill, which I suppose only Colonel Miles's sheep enjoyed in the past."
"How exciting this all is!" declared Miss Catherine Barton. "I did not sleep a wink last night for thinking of it."
Nor had Marianne, apparently, for she had appeared before breakfast, fully dressed and armed with her lopsided butterfly net. With a jar tucked beneath her arm, she had gravely inquired of her Uncle Miles if he had a strong objection to the presence of a few butterfly "specimens" being brought back from his fields. While the good man had no objection, his wife had several strong ones regarding the plan.
Marianne and her net were aboard Colonel Miles's carriage, along with his wife and the Miss Phillips. The rest of the party rode in a second carriage which the Colonel thoughtfully provided.
Except for Miss Harwick, that is, for Mrs. Fitzwilliam had offered her a seat in her carriage. Where the young lady was now pressed beside her hostess, endeavoring to avoid the gaze and conversation of the youngest Miss Barton.
"I find the scenes of the country are rather dull," Hetta replied to Miss Catherine. "I see nothing except the monotony of trees and livestock." Her tone was bored as she glanced out the window.
Perhaps things had not gone as well as Miss Harwick hoped last night? Flora had been rather curious about their conversation after her abrupt exit, but had resisted the temptation to press Mrs. Fitzwilliam on the subject, to avoid the exciting the lady's curiosity.
Colonel Miles had already instructed his servants to take the baskets of food and blankets to the site of the picnic. By the time the carriages arrived, their occupants were greeted with cloths spread upon the ground and hampers of food awaiting hungry picnickers. The groundskeeper and his men waved hello to the carriages as the party arrived.
"What a pretty sight," said Mrs. Fitzwilliam as she stepped out of the carriage. "I daresay, it's better than a dull afternoon spent in the morning room, eh?" She shook her skirts out and inspected the setup with a critical eye.
Flora turned in a slow circle, surveying the beauty around her. With a sigh of contentment, she wrapped her shawl closer and wandered across the grass. Marianne was already free from the carriage and struggling to unfurl her butterfly net.
"I shall be able to find ever so many!" she called to Flora. "Look at all the flowers that will draw them here!" She was already rushing towards a cluster of flocks blooming nearby.
Flora was tempted to follow her into the meadows, but hesitated, remembering her resolution. After Roger's cutting remarks, she was torn between her resentment and her resolve to help him. But was not a promise a promise? Even if she was fast losing heart for following her rival in such a setting.
She spotted Roger alongside her father, the two of them engaged in conversation. Just beyond the Miss Bartons and her hostess, she caught a glimpse of Hetta's gown in a crowd of the Miss Phillipses gathering flowers with their baskets.
"Join us for a walk, Miss Flora?" asked Colonel Miles. "Lord Easton has a free arm, I'll wager. And everyone is welcome to follow." He motioned in the direction where she knew the ruins of an old stone barn lay. Already, her father had offered his arm to Mrs. Miles.
She could join them. And her resolution to keep her friend from temptation should make her a willing party. But the beauty of the scenery was drawing her away from the crowd, towards the uncut field beyond. Wildflowers and grass fluttered in the breeze, sweeping against the hem of her skirt as she moved through them.
"Thank you, but I shall enjoy the scenes here, sir," she answered. As they made their way towards the fields beyond, she turned and walked in another direction.
After what transpired last night, she supposed there was nothing wrong with ignoring the plight of young Lord Easton for a little while. Or perhaps for the rest of this holiday entirely.
"Flora, where are you going?" asked Marianne. She was untying the piece of cloth around the top of her jar.
"I am going to have fun wherever I please," Flora answered. "Wherever there's a sunny patch of ground and a wild tangle of weeds."
"You could come and help me catch butterflies for my collection," said Marianne. "There are some splendid ones, all different."
"You cannot bring any of them home, Marianne," Flora called in reply. "Remember that when your crock is full." She moved towards the gradual incline of the neighboring hill.
This portion of the field had not been mown for some time, whether because of some wish of Colonel Miles or the nature of the hill itself. Either way, Flora waded through the tangle of dried weeds and wildflowers until she reached the top.
Sprawled on the grass in the sunshine, she drew her journal from beneath her shawl and opened it. Her fingers flew over the paper, a page fluttering loose as its threads broke free of the spine. Another followed, but she chose not chase them for the moment.
Selecting a blank page, she placed the pencil against it and began a quick sketch of the scene below. A grassy hill, a field marked by a stone, a house visible in the distance behind a row of trees.
It was a pretty scene, to which she could have done justice if only her drawing instructor had lasted longer than a few weeks. But Flora's fingers were adept at making the most of a few small details to capture the feel of the scene. It would be all she would have to remember it by, when London's dreary skies surrounded her the rest of the year and for many years to come.
Would it not be her luck to have someone stumble upon her at this moment, lying on the grass in an unladylike pose? Her pencil carefully formed the shape of the clouds. Beyond them, the stick shape and branches of the poplar grove which blocked all but the roof and chimneys of the manor behind them.
She paused, in the midst of shading the house's walls. Her eyes sank closed in the pleasant warmth of the sunlight. For a moment, she imagined she was a little girl again, lying in the sunshine with a crown of flowers around her hair and telling stories to others.
"Once upon a time," she would begin, "there was a lovely stone castle on the hill. And in that castle lived a little girl. Only she wasn't really a little girl, she was a princess turned into one by a sorceress."
"Was she pretty?" Lucy asked. "The princess, I mean." She lay with her head on Flora's lap.
Flora lay on her back in the meadow, staring up at the clouds. "Of course she was pretty," she answered. "All princesses are pretty." She reached up to adjust the crown of wildflowers around her head, woven from heather and daisies.
"No she wasn't. She was ugly," Roger interrupted. "Like a big hairy troll."
"She was not!" Flora scolded. "I'm telling this story so I know. She was pretty, although some people couldn't tell." She stuck out her tongue at Roger, for there was no grown-up present.
"One day, on the doorstep of her castle, a servant found a great big basket. And what was inside? It was a talking fish! Only he was inside a bucket of water to keep him from getting all dry. He told the servant–"
"There aren't any talking fish," Roger scoffed. He climbed to his feet and brushed the grass from his trousers. "Now you're just being stupid."
"I am NOT stupid!" Flora shouted. She scrambled to her feet, letting Lucy's head tumble to the ground. Despite Lucy's wail, she faced him, her cheeks hot with rage.
"They're always about lovely ladies and princes falling in love," he said. "Who wants to hear about that, even if there are pirates involved."
"Because that's how the story is supposed to turn out," she replied. "The two of them fall in love and live happily ever after. If you don't like it, than you can go away."
"Fine," said Roger. He turned and ran down the hill, disappearing into the tall grass below.
Grown-up Flora opened her eyes. The loose pages of her journal were scattered across the grass. She reached over to snatch them as they fled in the breeze. Cramming them inside, she closed its cover to hold them there.
The grass rustled behind her as someone approached. Marianne, no doubt coming to persuade her again to help with the butterfly hunt.
"Unless you have come to bask in the sunlight with me, the answer is still no," she said, without turning around.
"I have yet to ask the question," said a male voice. Flora whirled around.
It was not Marianne standing behind her. It was Roger.