WHEN THE FORGET-ME-NOT BLOOMS By Candance Vandermark
Crafted of the finest ivory and exquisitely carved with floral accents, the matching set was meant to be a gift to his bride on their wedding day. Only that day was not to come, as the bride disappeared the evening before their vows were to be exchanged and despite an extensive search, her whereabouts were never determined. Now an emblem of loss and sorrow, the items were hidden away and buried deep in the ruins of the past.
Now, ten years after the harrowing event, Charles Eveleigh returned to England after roaming the far corners of the world. From the volcanic shores of the Aleutian Islands to the frozen mountains of Greenland to the war stricken Gold Coast of Africa, he traveled great lengths in an effort to forget the void entombed in the center of his shattered heart. After quite some time away, and due to an urgent summons from his mother, he had returned to the country of his birth, the city where he had been raised, and where he’d become the broken man he was to this day.
As soon as his carriage came to a halt before the three-story brick townhouse on the west side of Belgrave Square, the front door was dashed open and a woman dressed in layers of white cotton and lace pounced from the front stoop in the most unbecoming manner and nearly knocked him off his feet as he descended from the conveyance. He hugged his mother tightly, glad to have this familiar woman in his arms. Always of a buoyant disposition, Adelaide Eveleigh, the Countess of Ravenshire, had been a delightful and attentive parent. Even on his darkest day, she had tried to find the silver lining, but at that time he had wanted none of it.
Before marching onto the deck of the clipper ship Attaway, he had been rather unkind to this selfless woman and he had regretted his curt words to her ever since.
“I am sorry, mother,” he whispered in her ear, tightening his embrace just a bit more.
A sniffle was his only response.
After several moments passed, she finally pushed away and took in the sight of him. No longer a boy of twenty but a man of thirty, he was taller and far more imperfect. His forehead was scarred from a brutal blow from loose rigging and his skin was ravaged by the sun and sea, but his form was solid and strong. He resembled more a fisherman’s son than the son of a delicate lady nurtured in a world of frivolous finery and pampered pedigrees.
“You look…” she began.
He presented her with a smile he hoped was charming. “Handsome?”
Her smile was bright. “That is a given, my darling. I was going to say that you look a bit peckish. When is the last time you had a home cooked meal?”
Charles chuckled. “I have been craving Mrs. Talbot’s roasted duck drenched in cranberry sauce for ten years.”
The joy in her eyes dimmed ever so slightly. “I am afraid Mrs. Talbot passed away some three years ago. But Mrs. Drye has all of her recipes and I am sure she will replicate your favorite dish as if Mrs. Talbot never left.”
The news dampened his homecoming somewhat, but he was determined to reunite with his mother on happier tones than when he left her. She deserved that and much more from him, her one and only son. “I am sure she will do just fine. Is father cemented in his study as always?”
The joy dimmed further. Charles’ could barely breath past the lump growing in his throat. Without a word, her features and body language made the truth painfully apparent. Every year he had remained away it had cost him something. Things that he could never replace.
Her dusky blue eyes glimmered in the early morning sunlight. “I sent the missive four months ago. I prayed it would find its way to you. He waited as long as his body would allow, but as of three weeks ago he could wait no longer. The angel’s choir called to him and he had no choice but to answer their summons. I am sorry, my dear. I should have sent word the moment he took ill. I simply thought it but a cold until the physician confirmed otherwise.” It was not her fault. He should have been home. His father was near sixty years of age in an era when life expectancy was just above half that, even for the rich and well-to-do. He had contemplated leaving again once his visit had come to an end, but now he was certain that he would not be boarding another ship for quite some time. His place was here with his aging mother and in the wake of his father’s legacy.
He was now the seventh Earl of Ravenshire.
“It pains me to know that you had to endure his demise on your own. I apologize for not being here, mother. I shall make up for all that I have put you through one way or another. I promise.”
Charles assumed his proclamation would have eased the uncertainty in her blue gaze, but instead she appeared more conflicted. “About that, my darling. I was not alone. Do you remember Lady Irene?”
“She was your closest friend, if I remember correctly,” he answered, unsure where this was going.
“Yes, she was my very dear friend.” She dabbed the corner of her eye with a lace kerchief she had conjured from the billowy sleeve of her dress. “She was widowed some five years ago and then passed on herself just about a year ago.”
“My condolences for your loss, mother, but I fail to see the relevance.”
“Lady Irene had a daughter. You knew her once. She was about eleven when you sailed away to wherever it was that you sailed away to.”
Charles did not recall the young girl she spoke of.
When he did not respond, his mother continued. “Her name is Miss Penrose. She is a delightful girl. I was lonely and so we took her in. She has been a splendid companion.”
“Mother, you do not have to explain yourself. I cannot blame you for desiring some type of companionship. I am grateful she was here to ease your grief upon father’s passing.”
By this time, the footmen had carried his trunks inside the townhouse and his coachman was waiting to stable the horses. Charles nodded his consent and the carriage and its team of greys were led away to the mews behind the row of residences. His mother took his hand and led him inside. The house looked the same as it did before his departure. Same old floral wallpaper that his mother fancied and various vases littered about filled with flowers from her precious garden. In the parlor that adjoined the entry, the drapes were a paler green, the carved walnut furniture was rearranged, and the green velvet upholstery looked new. And yet it all looked familiar.
That sense of familiarity made it feel good to be home at last. It far surpassed the cramped quarters he occupied upon the Attaway. As he took in his surroundings, he was vaguely aware of his hat being taken or his overcoat being pulled from his shoulders. Charles turned to face the person disrobing his person.
“Yardley?”
The aging butler greeted him with not so much as a smile. “Welcome home, my lord.”
There was no trace of emotion evident on the old servant’s withered face. Charles could not call to mind a single instant when the man had betrayed his thoughts or feelings, not even a twitch of an eye or a tremble of the lip. Yardley took his esteemed position far too seriously and even in his advanced years he showed no sign of a weakening resolve to maintain his intense professionalism.
When he had been younger, Charles would do all that he could to provoke his father’s favorite manservant with callow antics that never garnered any result. Yardley had a will of steel, which is more than likely why his father had cherished his service so. Charles only hoped that he could earn the man’s respect and loyalty as he assumed his new role.
Once all his outwear had been collected, Yardley gave a brief bow to both Lord and Lady before taking his leave. As he made his way down the hall beside the staircase, the Countess called after him to have tea brought to the conservatory before he departed.
Since when did they have a conservatory?
As if privy to his thoughts, the Countess answered. “Your father had it built for me last year. I must admit that I am a little in love with it. Such a wondrous place, especially when the sun is low on the horizon and the sky is enflamed with so many breathtaking colors.”
How could he have ever left this woman? Guilt, regret, and something more desolate flooded throughout him mercilessly. Grief. As he seized every adventure offered by the sea and its exotic promises, as he continually tested the boundaries of sanity, as he toiled until his limbs were numb from exhaustion…none of it could replace what he had left behind in a rash decision to free himself of the agony that had tortured him once upon a time. The sensation of being home.
At the back of the ground floor, Charles was led into a glass encased room stuffed full of striking plants tucked securely in colorful ceramic pots. The rays of the morning sun gleamed cheerily across the masterfully crafted mosaic floor of blue and green glass tiles. For a brief moment, Charles felt as if he were back on the shores of the Caribbean.
“Isn’t it a beauty?”
He nodded, rendered speechless by the room’s exquisite charm. Memories of salt water mist and the haunting calls of the conch shell overwhelmed his senses. Charles imagined many afternoons lounging in the room’s cozy bamboo furniture, the plump cushions beckoning one and all to enjoy their comfort, enjoying his memories of his days abroad. He could understand his mother’s infatuation with her recent addition to their London townhouse.
“I can see why you have fallen in love with your enchanting conservatory,” he finally replied after several minutes of contemplation.
The Countess happily clasped her hands before her breast. “I truly have. Miss Penrose was indispensable in its design. She devised the glass tile at our feet. The girl has an impressive knack for such things.”
He had nearly forgotten about her. “When do I get to meet the elusive Miss Penrose?”
Yardley arrived with the tea service which forced Charles to have to wait for his answer. As they settled into a matching pair of bamboo settees, he took a second to appreciate the luxurious pliability of the crimson cushions. His mother poured the hot beverage from her prized hand painted bone china teapot into two matching cups. The Countess moved to drop a lump of sugar into his cup, but he stayed her hand with a wave of his own. “No cream or sugar, I’m afraid. I have long since relinquished such extravagances. Not common fare upon a ship, it seems.”
“Oh,” she replied, her disappointment poorly concealed.
So many things had changed here, that was undeniable, but so had he, that had been inevitable. He was no longer that round faced boy searching for his worth and place in the world. Now thirty years of age, he had triumphed over countless challenges which made him confident in his capabilities. Charles Eveleigh, seventh Earl of Ravenshire, was a man worthwhile. Or so he had thought before his feet had touched land. As welcoming as it was to return home, he almost felt as if he were in uncharted waters.
“Lady Ravenshire? Are you here?” a pleasant voice asked from somewhere.
“Oh! Miss Penrose! Over here, my dear,” the Countess answered cheerily.
A young woman dressed in cerulean silk rounded the corner, batting a broad palm leaf away from her lovely face. Pale blue eyes found them at the far west corner of the room. Sweet heart-shaped lips curled into an alluring smile as she made her way to them. Dark tresses the color of ground cloves was gathered in a complex coiffure that left one to wonder how far those tresses reached when not confined by pins and combs.
Miss Penrose was a stunning beauty.
Once she was nearly upon them, his mother shifted aside and with a pat of her hand, invited the girl to join her side. Miss Penrose did as she was bid while the Countess poured her a cup of tea complete with two lumps of sugar and a dash of cream. Those forget-me-not blue eyes curiously glanced his way, but she did not speak.
Finally, the Countess freed them from the restrictions of propriety. “Charles, may I introduce the elusive Miss Penrose. Miss Penrose, my son, Lord Ravenshire.”
She tilted her head ever so slightly. “Elusive?”
The Countess giggled. “From an earlier conversation, my dear. As you can see, my Charles has returned home after ten years abroad. Is it not grand!” Her greyish-blue eyes widened with delight. “We should celebrate, you know. A dinner party, perhaps?”
Her young companion nearly spewed her tea. She looked as horrified as he felt. Charles appreciated her shared concern. Still somewhat choking, Miss Penrose said, “He has only just arrived. I am sure he would appreciate some time to reacquaint himself before being thrusted into the attentions of society.”
Charles could not agree more. He studied his mother’s young companion more intently. The daughter of a Viscountess, she was most certainly well-mannered and exuded civility. He knew why he loathed the idea of twenty or so people invading his home and pressing him for information about his whereabouts, but why did she? The thought took root and intrigue blossomed.
“Besides, this household is in mourning, is it not?” he asked. After his mother had told him about his father’s passing, how had he not noticed the lack of decorum in the wake of such an event? “And why is it that you do not wear the required black garb prescribed to those that have lost a loved one?”
The dismissive wave of the Countess’ hand sparked his temper, but then she said, “It was an order of his will. Is it not strange? His precise words, and I never shall forget them, were ‘My wife made me the happiest man while I lived, and so it is my dying wish that she not mourn my passing. To my wife, I demand that you not shroud yourself in black in an effort to display your sorrow that I am no longer by your side. Instead, be happy, be free, and celebrate the memory of our life together.’ Is he not a romantic? Took us all by surprise, it did, but I love that man the more for it!”
The Countess retrieved a kerchief from her sleeve once more and dabbed the corner of her dewy eyes. Miss Penrose put a comforting arm around her drooped shoulders and whispered consoling words that seemed to help his mother regain her composure. After a few more sniffles, the Countess put her best smile forward and faced her son. “That is why we do not wear black. Some disapprove, but they are no concern of mine. I will honor my husband’s request. There is a request of you as well, you know.”
Charles leaned forward, elbows firmly balanced upon his knees. “Is that so? Care to share?”
The Countess shook her head. “That is between you and your father. A copy of the will is on your desk in the study.”
His desk. The reality of what had occurred during his absence hit home right then. All that had been his fathers was now his. Even his oversized oak desk with the absurd griffins carved into each leg. He had very few memories of his father where he was not behind that monstrosity of a desk. How would he be able to sit behind it and not think of his deceased parent? Not be forced into a perpetual state of bereavement by those recollections?
“Lord Ravenshire? Are you well?”
The softly spoken question brought Charles out of his reverie. He only nodded in reply, his gaze settling on hers. She was by far the most beautiful woman he had ever bore witness to. But she was hiding something and he pondered its severity and how it could affect his mother. “My condolences about your parents. It must be hard not having either parent present to fuss over you.” She bestowed him with a small, sad smile. “If not for Lady Ravenshire, I do not know what would have become of me.”
“Oh! The thought of it is unbearable, girl!” the countess intervened. “More than likely you would have been forced to seek employment as a governess…or much, much worse!”
His mother had not lost her flare for the dramatic. In spite of its annoyance, it was one of her many endearing qualities. Even when she was being flippant, the Countess of Ravenshire could brighten a room. Children adored her, women admired her, and men appreciated her. She had a way of twisting the few flaws she possessed into a commendable advantage. Her husband had been a very lucky man and from the sound of his will he had been very much aware of such a fact.
If he had not been raised by two parents so obviously in love, Charles would never even consider such a thing possible. A fallacy spread by some wistful scribe needing to enliven his poetic prose or lyrical ballads. When his heart had been broken, one would think such bitter justifications would be was easy to believe. It would have been easier if not for the constant reminder that it most certainly did exist. Maybe that is why he had left. To get away from the undeniable truth that devoted affection did occur, just not for him.
Miss Penrose stood. “I should give the two of you some privacy. A decade is a long time not to see one’s son, or mother for that matter. I will find Mrs. Drye and ensure all is ready for this evening’s supper.”
“Nonsense!” the Countess exclaimed, putting a hand on her companion’s arm and pulling her back down into her seat. “You may not be my daughter, but I think of you as such! We have shared much over this past year or so, and it is my wish that you share in my revelry. My son has returned from God knows where and I am beyond the moon in joyous elation. To think that you should not be a part of this is simply shameful!” She looked about the conservatory. “Where is Yardley? We could do with more tea.”
Charles shook his head. “I think I will excuse myself from this gathering and freshen up. I smell of dust and horseflesh.”
The Countess was not pleased, but conceded nonetheless. “If you must, darling. Supper is at five o’clock. We are to have your favorite.”
Charles stood, bowing down briefly to place a kiss upon his mother’s cheek. “I would not miss it for the world.”
He made his way to the glass twin doors that led back into the townhouse. Before he was out of earshot range, he heard his mother say, “I am so very glad he is home, but I worry that he will run again once he read’s the will.”
“I am sure that is not true at all,” was Miss Penrose’s reassuring reply. “He is no longer a heartbroken young boy, but a grown man. Men do not abscond from their problems. They conquer them.”
Charles grinned. He did not know who this young woman was or what it was that she was hiding, but he did hope that he could live up to her expectations. He didn’t understand why, but for some reason or another, it mattered that he did.