Page 15 of Indebted (Hidden Gems #2)
“ R ose! Rose, you come out of that garden this very instant!”
Rose turned towards the sound of her mother’s hectoring voice. “I’m only pruning the roses, Mama.”
“A task that is only suitable on days when we are not receiving company. ‘Tis unfortunate enough that your father’s means are so small as to afford us few staff without Captain Bryce believing our daughters have to work like common scullery maids.”
Rose flinched as her mother seized her hand and promptly threw it back with enough force to knock the basket of flowers off her other arm. “Mother! You’ll spoil the look of them.”
“As if the look of a few flowers matters more than the look of your hands, Rose. They’re horribly stained!” Her mother sighed and pinched the crease between her brows. “I believe it is your father’s folly. He would insist on giving his daughters such lyrical but impractical names.”
“Papa thought they were charming names,” Rose defended her father—a quiet member of the Surrey landed gentry and a respected amateur botanist.
Her mother didn’t hear her, fretting away under her breath, “Rose for the eldest, Ivy for the middle, and Lily for the third.” Mrs. Lycombe shook her head and fixed a pointed gaze on her eldest daughter. “At least your younger sisters are sensible and attend more to their elocution and deportment than the garden. They are sensible of the fact that they are not actually garden plants! But, no, rain or shine, you will be out pruning and plucking, muddying your shoes and hems, coarsening your hands.” Mrs. Lycombe gathered her skirts in agitation before smoothing them forcefully. “And here you are, tarrying among the flowers still when your only suitor of any true means approaches! Captain Bryce sees enough men with dirty hands in the regiment, I daresay. He won’t want a wife who reminds him of his work.” Her mother’s voice modulated, and she repeated her favorite maxim, “A wife must be a gentle, helpful solace for her husband.”
“Yes, Mama. So you’ve often said.”
The soft voice vanished, and Mrs. Lycombe thundered, “Then, go! Into the house at once and make yourself suitable!”
Rose bit her lip to keep her vexation in. “Yes, Mama.”
That was all she ever dared to say.
She could have pointed out that it was her mother who had told her to arrange flowers cunningly so that Captain Bryce would comment on them. Rose could have pointed out that her mother’s request necessitated fetching flowers from the garden and that she had to be the one to get them since the gardener only came on Wednesdays, and it was Friday. She could have pointed out that Lily was too young to handle secateurs, Ivy too vain to touch anything remotely dirty, and Charles, her younger brother and the only son of the house, was not due home from his final term at Harrow for another two weeks.
But Rose didn’t do any of those things. Her father had adopted a willow-like disposition in the face of his wife’s tempestuous moods, and Rose had found it wise to follow his example. Forcing a smile, Rose followed her mother into the house.
Ivy gasped when she saw her sister’s hands and the basket of flowers. “For shame, Rose! Captain Bryce and Papa will be here any moment!”
“Your sister is ever heedless of the time when she is with her flowers.” Mrs. Lycombe shooed her eldest up the backstairs. “Ivy, will you do something with these? Something artful?”
“No, I shan’t! Mama, I’ll prick my fingers and bleed on my needlework. Besides, I bet Rose didn’t shake them properly. There will be ants and worms in them.” Ivy shuddered.
“I’ll do them quickly, Mama! You had best help Ivy and Lily with their hair. You want them to look presentable for our guest as well.”
Her mother gave her a shrewd look. “Your sisters are not yet out and most assuredly would not be courted while you were still unwed. It matters less how they look—but Captain Bryce has many connections with fine families in Surrey. Yes. Yes, we must all dress with care. Ivy, I think that you may wear your locket this afternoon.”
Ivy gave a squeal of glee and shot up the stairs.
“Make haste, Rose.”
“Yes, Mama.”
When her sister and mother had departed, Rose let out a deep, rib-shaking sigh and quickly began separating and arranging the flowers she’d so carefully selected.
Carefully, lovingly selected.
The same could not be said about her suitor. Captain Bryce was plucked up like a weed in an armful of wildflowers. He was a loud, hearty man in his late twenties, the son of a colonel. His familial connections allowed him to rapidly climb the ranks, as did his bravery.
An ardent suitor with fine connections and plenty of capital, although no land to speak of. His father’s property was in London, which was not too far away—but farther than Rose would have liked.
Her father said Bryce would like that Rose’s dowry included twenty acres of land. Charles would get the house and the rest, save for fifteen acres for Ivy and ten for Lily.
Her mother had said that Bryce would want to select a meek, quiet, competent-but-attractive girl to be his bride. Such a bride would not need to rely on her husband for every little thing and would manage his holdings while he was away on campaigns. He would want a modest and quiet woman who would not attract the leering eyes of the younger officers—but he would want her pretty enough to please his own tastes.
“Well. What about my own tastes?” Rose whispered, putting red roses amongst white and tucking in bits of fern. She added in long stalks of geranium, inhaling their sweet scent.
If I had my way, I’d not marry some London-born soldier. No, not even an officer who is stationed in Surrey and goes to all the best parties, charming all the ladies.
The thought of Captain Bryce dancing and flirting with all the women in their circle and then choosing to court her seemed unlikely in the extreme.
In fact, it made her feel quite ill. It was clear he preferred the glittering, fashionable beauties. If he did choose to marry her, Rose knew it wouldn’t be for love or preference. It would be to gain her as some utility, a useful tool in his arsenal, meant to bear sons and play hostess.
“I don’t even like London,” Rose whispered, tucking a few white floribunda roses in a third and final vase. “Oh, dear. That looks too plain. It ought to have something pink.” Rose looked up the stairs, then looked out the door that led from the rear parlor to the garden.
She fled through it.