The new book would be on giving up tomboyish habits. Rules for Young Ladies on Proper Decorum. Flora had decided this after a few days' reflection and began making notes on it almost immediately. She intended to pattern it after her own experience–and as a guide for correcting Marianne's behavior in a few more years. Beyond that, she had no other concrete plans.
Perhaps next she would write a novel. Something lighthearted to escape her heartache and its painful associations in the dreary winter of London. In only a matter of days, Roger would be far away from here, en route to France.
Hetta Harwick would also be gone. It was confirmed that the Harwicks were going abroad for a period. The expense of London life, it was rumored, was too much for his income and retrenchment was the only possibility if they wished to retain their carriage and the Paris fashions their wardrobes boasted.
Flora reflected on all these things as she sat before her dressing table, tucking stray locks of hair into her elegant winding crown above the shoulders of her white gown.
Tonight's concert was supposed to be an affair for music lovers. For her, it was only a temporary escape from her loneliness, courtesy of Mrs. Fitzwilliam's generous offer to escort her niece by carriage. Sir Edward was not inclined to appreciate long musical evenings.
"You look pretty tonight," Marianne observed, sprawled across the foot of Flora's bed. The notes for the new book were spread across the coverlet, where Marianne tossed each page as she read it.
"Don't get those mixed up," Flora said. "I shall be needing them in a day or two when I start the book." The very thought of it made her heart grow heavier.
I should be happy, so why am I not? Did it not turn out as I wished?
She adjusted the string of pearls around her neck. The white gown did not seem quite as elegant as she once thought; her curls seemed close and frizzy. With a sigh, she smoothed her skirts. Looking into the mirror again, she observed Marianne studying her with concern.
"You do not have to write another one if you hate it so," Marianne said. "We will be all right without it, won't we? I shall be grown-up enough to write them soon and I shan't mind doing it at all."
Flora shook her head. "I do not mind the writing," she said. "It is only society's feelings towards it that I dislike."
She turned and sat on the bed, drawing Marianne's tangled curls between her fingers to braid them neatly.
"I shall not let us starve or go to the streets, so you needn't worry about anything," she continued. "I promise that it will all be well. We shall have a pleasant life somewhere, you and I." She tied a piece of ribbon at the bottom of the braid to hold it in place.
"The carriage is waitin', Miss," Dill the maid announced, appearing in the doorway with a curtsy. Flora rose from the dressing table and smoothed her skirts.
*****
The hall was crowded, with Flora squeezed close to Mrs. Fitzwilliam in an effort to save her train from a misstep by the middle Miss Phillips. Mrs. Fitzwilliam had taken a great interest in the middle Miss Phillips lately, as she had revealed some days earlier. She planned to marry her off at the first opportunity to do so.
"Is it not stuffy in here tonight?" Flora's aunt declared, taking a seat near the middle. "Take care of your dresses, girls, lest you be forced to mend them later."
Mrs. Fitzwilliam surveyed the room in search of familiar faces, as Flora drew her fan and attempted to cool herself and Miss Phillips with its movement.
"Why, there is Miss Harwick!" exclaimed Mrs. Fitzwilliam. "She is with the Eastons– over there." Her fan indicated a row on the other side of the room, where Hetta's feathers were visible on the other side of Lady Easton.
"That is no surprise," said Miss Phillips. "For I believe she was escorted here in their carriage." She had drawn her fan out of hiding and was employing it with considerable speed.
"Oh, ho," exclaimed Mrs. Fitzwilliam, "so Miss Harwick did not give up so easily after she failed to make an impression. Perhaps she shall be delaying her trip abroad to make a bridal wardrobe after all."
Flora's fan had slowed to scarcely any movement. The heat washed over her face in waves, but it was not the heat of the concert room.
So Miss Harwick was yet pursuing Roger. And if she had procured such favor as a seat in their carriage, who knew how far her connections extended? Perhaps beyond Lady Easton's kindness to the son's own attention.
A pianoforte struck a chord at the front of the room. A soprano's voice sobbed a plaintive solo from Don Giovani as she clutched a long handkerchief in her gloved hands. Flora dragged her eyes away from the Easton's side of the hall to watch the performer.
She could not help but see the movement of Miss Harwick's hand. Her face inclined towards Roger's as she whispered something, then slipped a piece of paper between his fingers. Despite the dim light, he unfolded the square.
Flora's heart was pounding wildly. She could not bear to sit here for this, to watch their tete-a-tete taking place only a few feet away. Desperately, she rose and made her way from the room.
In the entrance hall, she paused and leaned against a pillar to compose herself. She was being childish, jealous–all because a young woman had outwitted her and her silly little book.
She felt a hand on her arm and turned to find Roger facing her.
"Tell me what it means," he said. His voice was urgent, strained. In his hand, he held the piece of paper from the concert hall. "Explain it, Flora. Tell me I am mistaken in assuming it is yours."
He pushed it into her hand. She unfolded it to reveal a creased, torn piece of paper marked with stains of earth and grass. Waves of handwriting appeared.
I am resolved to do it. I am resolved to try my own advice against the charms of one Miss Hetta Harwick, as clever and beautiful as she may be. For it would be only too wrong of me to let Roger Easton suffer such a match–with a young lady of such reputation–after the friendship that was once between us long ago.
Is it possible to secure a man's attention without touching his heart? I hope so. And I think it must be, for a man can enjoy a woman's company and find her charming without feeling any desire to propose matrimony to her.
I am not as charming as Miss Harwick ... and certainly not as pretty. But I believe that I can be every bit her equal if I keep my wits about me and keep my head engaged. And since I have no fortune at stake, what possible reason can I have for failing?
It was her own penmanship. A page from her journal. As the blood rushed from her face and hands, she felt a sense of horror stealing over her.
"It is your handwriting, isn't it?" he said. "She said she did not know who wrote it, but when she showed it to me, I thought as much."
She? In her mind, Flora saw Hetta on the hillside the day of the picnic, the piece of paper in her hand. Not a personal note, but a page that escaped the journal's broken binding.
"Roger," she began. A sob caught in her throat. "It is not...it is not how it seems."
"It is yours, then," he said. The final gleam of hope vanished from his eyes. "So all this time, your company, your words ... it was all a game, a diversion? All because you disapproved of another woman's character?"
"It was more than that," she pleaded. Tears were stinging her cheeks now. "Please, you must understand..."
He shook his head. "I think there is no more to be said, Miss Stuart." His voice was cold. "You have your note returned to you; and I have my answer." With that, he turned away and strode towards the door.
Desperately, she wanted to follow him–but how would it look, a young woman pursuing a man into the streets of London? She blinked back the tears that were blurring her vision, her fingers wrapped tightly around the torn piece of paper that destroyed even the hope of friendship.
Through the haze, she glimpsed Hetta Harwick in the door leading to the concert, a smile of triumph evident on her face.
*****
Curled in the chair before her bedroom fire, she allowed herself to sob openly. No doubt Roger would feel gratitude towards the young woman who proved the false side of his friend. By comparison to her actions, Hetta indeed looked innocent in the whole affair.
None of it mattered to her, since after tonight the truce between her and Roger was at an end.
It was all her fault; she had broken her own rules and now paid the price. Write nothing inappropriate in one's correspondence, be it letters or notes, to avoid revealing one's feelings or faults by accident, should they be read by a third party. If she had taken her own precautions, then her journal page would not exist to make Roger think she was a deceitful flirt.
In a way, she was. It was true that she had done her best to destroy Hetta's chances by using her own charms. Perhaps she was no better than the page's words implied.
"Oh, what have I done? " she murmured brokenly. "Now I have lost everything in my foolishness."
She crumpled the note in her hand and let it drop to the floor. Her eye fell upon the copy of Advice for Young Ladies on the Subject of Proposals. Seizing it with one hand, she tossed it into the fire.
The flames licked the cover and pages slowly, causing the paper to blacken and curl. She watched it burn as a lump of anger and sorrow rose in her throat.
Better to be done with it. To forget all about what happened. Soon enough there would be no reminders left–for even if Miss Harwick was successful in the end, she would depart for Donnelly Hall as a bride.
Burying her face in her hands, more hot tears coursed down her cheeks as her hopes and self-pride curled to ashes. The folded list of rules for engagements fell into the flames and vanished.
*****
I have been wrong, wrong, wrong in my actions and now I pay the price. My work and my silly plans are consigned to the flames, as is my heart. How can I ever take up my pen and write another book, knowing that this one had such dire consequences? How can I ever face Roger, who sees me only as a cold-hearted, meddling girl? I have never been so ashamed of anything in my life as when he showed me those lines in my own handwriting. And even if I could explain the meaning behind them, I do not think he would care. For it is the same as is written, except the true feelings of my heart. If only I had listened to Papa and been content to be a poor dependent with Marianne!