22nd December 1815,
Honey Lane,
Cheapside,
London.
Annette was surprised at the level of activity in the city before breakfast time. It was fortunate no one from the ton rose this early to witness her attempts at toil. She’d slipped out of home with admirable stealth, though it was unlikely her mama might hear. The countess’s dawn return after wreaking heaven-knew-what disasters at the gaming tables had roused them all, though there was only Millie and Horace, Ryeland’s faithful butler.
Annette had a shameful feeling her mother talked the old man into staying for half wages on the promise of more, which could not happen unless Annette found the funds. Or married Lord Grantley. Even then she’d have her work cut out keeping monies from her mother’s hands. An odd suspicion grew in her belly as she walked. If Mama was stealing scent, what else had the countess taken? Annette wished for courage to ask. And breakfast. I wish for breakfast.
She reported to Saint Germaine’s rather more worn than she wished. It was a long walk to Mayfair and she daren’t spare funds for a hack. Miss Ryan let her in and led her round to the back part of the shop, where a large apparatus took up most of the floor area.
“I hope you’re comfortable getting your hands dirty, Lady Ryehurst.”
Annette unbuttoned her gloves and flexed her fingers. “It’s not a common experience for me, Miss Ryan, but I’m here to learn.”
Her companion nodded, passing across a sturdy apron to pin over her gown. “Excellent. I believe we’ll get along well. The first thing I’m going to show you is how we select our ingredients. Come, let’s examine my receipts.” She ushered Annette over to a large ledger.
“These are receipts I make up by rote for clients who have a favourite. Perhaps you’d like to try a simple concoction from the order book?” She tapped a finger beneath a short listing. “The oils to blend are over there.” She waved an arm towards an array of neatly labelled flasks. “Fixatives are there.” She indicated another wall of packed shelves. “This order’s not due for today, so take your time. Parfumerie is as much art as it is chemistry.” The bell jangled out front and Miss Ryan moved around the screen. “That’ll be the flower merchant. Let me know if you’ve any questions.”
Annette nodded, her spirits lifting at the prospect of meaningful work, or perhaps the scent of sage in the room. It was a better way to spend her day than avoiding morning calls while her mama slept off the previous night’s excesses. She held her breath as she poured in fixative and placed the flask to one side to settle, keeping an eye on the clock as she straightened up some of the labelled flasks. After the allotted time had passed, Annette sniffed the concoction she’d been working on all morning, nodding to herself.
“If this doesn’t delight Lady Graves and her mother, I don’t know what will,” she said to Miss Ryan, offering her work for inspection.
Miss Ryan lifted the flask in one hand, while herding the scent toward her with the other. She inhaled deeply, smiling at Annette.
“Lavender and oranges, just as the lady requested. Well done, Lady Ryehurst.” She beamed at Annette before crossing the room to check on the petals squeezed into the glass press. “Do you have any more ideas regarding the scent you wish to create for your earl?”
Annette suppressed a shudder. “Please, Miss Ryan, do not call him that. It perturbs me a good deal.”
Miss Ryan’s face fell. “Forgive me, my dear, if I’ve misunderstood.” She appeared genuinely distressed.
“The fault is mine,” Annette hastened to explain. “I’ve not wanted to admit how affected I am by Mama’s—” She hesitated.
“Ambition?”
Annette nodded, unable to help the sheen of tears in her eyes. It occurred to her that she knew nothing of Miss Ryan’s own affairs. If Annette was on the shelf at twenty-five then Miss Ryan must be well beyond this. She blinked in sudden sympathy. “I do not mean to cause offense,” she said quietly.
Miss Ryan laughed. “I am not offended, my lady. I’m not marriage material, you see, but I do not let that stop me from participating in society. I refuse to be one of those old maids no one remembers to invite to dinner.” She smiled suddenly. “There’s something comforting in not having to worry too much about what others think of me. I am not of the ton, after all.”
Annette snorted. “I’m certain you’re a charming dinner guest, Miss Ryan.” The weight of her life bore down on her again. “I am equally certain the ton has forgotten me entirely.”
“Nonsense,” Miss Ryan responded briskly as she tightened the keys on the flower press. “You’re the daughter of Earl Ryehurst. No one can forget that. You’re courted by his heir. Everyone expects he’ll declare himself at the Christmas ball.”
“Oh yes.” Annette spoke without enthusiasm. “Lord Grantley is my cousin, Miss Ryan, and the new Earl of Ryeland Abbey. He’s danced me through five seasons now, with no sign of coming to the point at all. I truly would rather remain here creating scents, than attend another ‘will-he-won’t-he’ ball at the Huntley’s. May I?”
The parfumiere laughed. “My dear Lady Ryehurst, this is an offense I cannot afford. Your mama will accuse me of materially harming your prospects.”
“What prospects there are,” Annette said.
The other woman wisely did not comment. Perhaps Miss Ryan knew how to avoid becoming tangled in a gentleman’s moustaches. The bell jangled sharply into their conversation. Claire’s wide-eyed alarm mirrored Annette’s own. “I thought you were closed at this early hour, Miss Ryan.”
“We are,” her friend replied.
“Shop!” called a familiar voice, and both women smiled in relief. Claire untied Annette’s apron before removing her own.
“Doctor Eversfield, we are not open to patrons,” Miss Ryan chided politely as she came round to the front of the shop. “Though celebrated clergymen are always welcome.”
The vicar bowed. “Much obliged, Miss Ryan, I’m sure. I only stopped in to inquire whether Lady Ryehurst wishes my escort home today?”
“H-how did you know I was here?” Annette asked.
“A vicar is more observant than many give him credit for,” Doctor Eversfield replied airily. “Perhaps I didn’t observe you walking the entire way from Cheapside to Mayfair as I returned from early service. Then again, my dear,” he fixed her with his clear-eyed stare. “Perhaps I did.” He sighed. “Though your mama may never agree to visit with me again, do allow me to assist you as I’m able, Lady Ryehurst.”
“I beg your pardon, Doctor Eversfield.” Annette’s cheeks flamed scarlet. “Mama is…she is—” she ran entirely out of words.
“A countess,” the good vicar reminded them all gently. “This does not make her immune from other human failings, my dear.” His voiced firmed and he seemed to decide for her, addressing Miss Ryan. “What time shall I call daily for Lady Ryehurst?”
“We open at eleven,” the parfumiere replied. “It’s time now, Doctor.” Turning to Annette, she smiled. “You’ve completed excellent work today, my lady. They’re simple receipts, but you saved me the effort and I’m grateful. Did you enjoy it?”
“You know, Miss Ryan, I did.” Something heavy slid away from Annette’s shoulders then. She stood quite still a moment, taking in the newer, lighter sensation. Her mouth turned up at the corners. “Thank you both.” She looked from one friend to the other. “Truly.”
“What are friends for?” the vicar responded jovially. “I shall have to alight before you to call on an elderly acquaintance but until then my dear, we’ve ten years to catch up on so come along.”
The vicar was true to his word, leaving Annette no time for miserable reflection as he peppered her with questions regarding her mama. Finally, he seemed to arrive at the matter he wished most to discuss.
“I should like to meet the new earl.” The vicar’s kindly eye grew shrewd as well. “I understand you’re to be betrothed.”
Annette’s cheeks pinked. “It is Mama’s wish,” was all she could say to this man. Not because he was a vicar, or her late papa’s oldest friend, or because he’d known her as a girl and watched her grow. She couldn’t discuss the new earl with Doctor Eversfield, because he was Lionel’s uncle and there had never been any man to compare with Lionel. She stared into her lap, hardly noticing their carriage had reached a full stop in the mews behind a well-looking house in Chelsea.
“What is your wish?” the vicar inquired with gentle solicitude.
Annette turned her head, staring at her father’s oldest friend through a sheen of tears. “It’s foolish,” she whispered.
“It’s Christmas,” the vicar countered. “This is the time for wishes, Annie.”
She started. “Only you and Papa ever called me that.” She tried not to care about the tear spilling down her left cheek. “You, Papa, and L-lionel.” Her voice broke then and she sobbed into her hands.
“I wish to be not quite so alone,” she hiccoughed. “I w-wish I were wrong about Mama. How many earls pay addresses to a woman with no dowry?” she blurted before she could stop herself.
“But your papa left—”
“My dowry in the hands of my mama.” Annette sniffed and sat up, gazing straitly at the vicar. “An action more creditable to dear papa’s heart than his sense. Mama has spent—”
“Your dowry,” her friend finished for her. “This is why you are working with Miss Ryan.”
“Not exactly.” Annette took a deep breath. “I had to make it right, Doctor,” she pleaded. “Mama took something, and we cannot—” She fumbled her words and could not speak it.
The vicar patted her shoulder. “If I were to call on your mama tomorrow morning, Annie, will she be at home?”
Annette shook her head sadly. “She will be at home, Doctor, but not to you. She goes out at night and sleeps most of the morning.”
“Then I shall dine with her at the ball,” he replied. “I shall speak with her, if I have to fill her dance card to do so.”
Annette smiled at this image. “She’ll not thank you for it, and she’ll not be scolded by Papa’s friends, you know.”
The vicar raised his brows in mock-innocence. “I did not mention scolding. I’m equally adept at the waltz.” He winked at her, taking her hand. “Lady Ryehurst, I wish you to hold your focus on the things in your life that bring you joy. The parfumerie, if you delight in it. The Christmas ball you shall attend.”
“I do not wish to attend.” Annette shook her head.
“Nevertheless, you shall,” the vicar intoned firmly. “You say you do not wish to be alone. Very well, you must begin somewhere. You’ve an invitation, so you shall go. Drink, dance, eat, laugh. Be young, my lady. Leave the rest to me.”
“The rest, sir?”
“They don’t call me a devious cleric for nothing.” He peeked into her face the way he used to when she was a child.
“I’ve never heard you called that.” Annette offered a small smile.
“You’ve been gone from Ryeland some years, my dear. Now, is there anything else you wish for this Christmas?”
Annette sniffed, accepting the kerchief he pressed into her hand. “I wish Lionel in London. He is so very skilled at helping me find joy in dark times.” She studied the vicar. “Will you tell him so, when you next write to him, sir?”
“He may be in town sooner than you think. Shall I bring him to see you?”
Annette nodded, feeling better than she had in years.
“I beg your pardon, my dear. I must alight here but Francis will see you home.” The vicar exited the carriage, charging the young coachman not only to drive the lady all the way home, but to see her to her door and await her steps safely inside. Annette shrugged inwardly – it was barely noon. There were few roughs bold enough to waylay a lady on a busy main street at such a time. Still, it was nice to feel protected, if only for a moment.
Placing her feet over the hot box, Annette relaxed back against the carriage seat with a huge sigh. Something in her peripheral vision fluttered on her breath. She shot out her hand to catch it before it reached the floor. It was a paper rose, labelled very distinctly with her name.
“What’s this?” Annette murmured. With fumbling fingers she unfolded her flower, revealing a poem:
Et exortum est sagitta in aere,
Cecidit in terram non cognovi ubi;
Nam tam celeriter volabat visus
Non sequitur in fugam.
Longa, dum post, in quercu
Inveni meum sagitta adhuc unbroke;
Et amica mea ab initio usque ad summum:
Inveni in corde amici.
Could the good vicar have left it behind? Shaped like a rose? Only one man knew of her lost arrow in any case. Her Latin was rusty but her blushes were not. Annette’s heart lifted as though it had wings. Lionel, Lionel was home and he’d left her this message. He’d left her a rose.
Lionel Eversfield, you always know how to make me smile. She jumped as a knock came at the carriage door.
“Thank you, Francis.” She beamed as the boy escorted her to her door. “Is Captain Eversfield likely to call, soon?”
The boy-coachman shook his head. “He doesn’t pay calls, my lady. Can’t, really.” The boy looked startled then, as though he’d betrayed a confidence. “Good day,” he muttered and jumped back towards the coach as though accused of a crime.