He has resumed his practice of walking up and down the shrubbery with her, and I suspect that she would like to fix him before he goes away—but of this I will say no more, for a great deal may happen between now and then. I can only hope that he will see in Miss Vernon’s want of elegance and sophistication all of the neglect and selfishness of the mother.

             Your affectionate daughter,

             Catherine Vernon


Reginald did not share his sister’s opinion of their young guest. Though he had not allowed her to be pretty when she first entered the house, he now conceded that it was only the difference between Miss Vernon and her mother that had biased his judgment. Indeed, she was pretty, nay, beautiful, her figure and carriage were graceful, her manner unassuming, and her patience and good humor toward her young cousins were highly to her credit. Once or twice, Reginald believed that her pensive expression brightened when he approached, but she invariably hurried on before he could utter anything beyond a “Good morning.” This piqued Reginald more than any outright flirtation could have, and his remorse at having misjudged her developed into a keen interest in knowing her better.

He resumed his habit of walking the grounds with Lady Vernon solely to engage her in conversation on the subject of her daughter. Lady Vernon did not spare herself in addressing Frederica’s amiable qualities, but always with such a tone of discouraging Reginald’s interest so that, though once inclined to regard a union with Sir James Martin as highly advantageous to Miss Vernon, he now began to think that it was she who was too good for him.

When he ventured to give a hint of his opinion to Lady Vernon, she would observe that a young woman’s ability to attract a suitable match would always be hindered by indigence, and that an offer of marriage from any gentleman in possession of a good fortune was not one that a poor young woman could easily dismiss. “The matter of our poverty is one that I cannot address with equanimity—it is too closely united with my husband’s passing. Perhaps, after his injury, I ought to have pressed Sir Frederick to make those amendments to his will that would have confirmed his intentions regarding our fortune, but I always believed that Charles would honor them—no less than you would if your sister’s fortune had been left to your discretion—and at the time I was reluctant to introduce any subject that would suggest that I anticipated anything but my husband’s complete recovery.”

“But what of Miss Vernon’s happiness?” he replied with some warmth. “Surely that must be a consideration in marriage?”

“Happiness will always be a consideration among those who can afford it,” replied she, with a gentle smile. “But for a young woman who has been left with nothing, to be both unhappy and poor is far worse than to be unhappy and rich.” 

chapter thirty-five

One morning at breakfast, about a fortnight after Miss Vernon’s arrival, Catherine had been perusing a letter from her mother, which was a reply to her most recent communication.


             I would be happy to think that the arrival of Miss Vernon will expose Reginald, at last, to all of Lady Vernon’s failings and vanity, but I dare not be easy until he returns to us. Continue to urge him as much as you can and discourage Mr. Vernon from any sort of family feeling that would have Lady Vernon prolonging her visit. He must know that you cannot come to us while she is with you, and we are both very eager to see our dear grandchildren once more.


“Reginald,” said Catherine as she laid down her letter. “Our mother expresses a wish to have you at Parklands. When you write to her next, you must assure her that you mean to go to them before you settle in town.” She then recited several extracts from the letter, punctuating these with pointed observations that he had been with them “so very long” and that “it has been above six weeks since you came to us,” which were meant to remind Lady Vernon of the duration of her own visit.

Reginald did not hear above two words; he was engaged in observing Miss Vernon’s pensive countenance as she gazed out the window at the barren flower beds. “I think,” he said to her in a low voice, “that you find Churchill Manor very much changed, Miss Vernon.”

He was doubly rewarded, for not only did she turn her expressive eyes upon him but she replied as well, though only to say, “Yes, sir.”

“‘Changed’?” Catherine exclaimed. “We have done nothing at all but put a carpet and some shelves in the nursery.”

“I suspect that Miss Vernon does not address what has been altered but what has been neglected.”

“Neglect?” cried Charles, with an uneasy glance that comprehended both Lady Vernon and her daughter.

“I refer to the greenhouses, Charles, which I think might be almost as fine as the ones at Parklands, if they were brought back to use.”

“Oh, the greenhouses,” rejoined Catherine. “Mr. Vernon’s grounds man left us, and those who worked below him in the greenhouses are better off tending to their own fields and farms. Hothouses are good for nothing but growing melons and strawberries and the like, and Cook may get those from the village or the farms. I am not in favor of the current notion that everything put on the table must come from one’s own orchards and gardens. To be sure, it is very useful to have a cook who can keep a kitchen garden and to grow a few herbs for one’s own use, for one cannot forever be calling upon the apothecary. I daresay Mr. Lavery nearly poisoned little Charlie with his receipt when our dear boy had a congestion of the chest.”

“Miss Vernon’s interest goes beyond a few herbs.” Reginald smiled. “I believe that she has made a serious study of botany. You might allow her to take a few liberties with the plant beds and the greenhouses, I think. Would you not like to look forward to a few plants and flowers in the spring?”

“Oh, I am as fond of plants and flowers as anybody who ever lived! Miss Vernon may explore the plant beds and the greenhouses as much as she likes. I am sure that no harm can come of it—there may be some way to turn the beds into sandboxes! And perhaps she may show the children how to make a few sachets or mosaics.”

“Are you a simpler,” Reginald inquired of Miss Vernon with a smile, “or a sampler?”

“I cannot lay claim to either talent,” she replied. “My own handiwork might pass for that of a five-year-old child, and I have never poisoned anything beyond a rat. But that,” she added, “was only out of some childish experimentation with woodruff and sweet-root. I do not think that I am inclined to poison anything now.”

Lady Vernon checked a laugh. She perceived that Reginald was diverted by the reply, though Catherine declared that it was “a very odd subject for the table.”

Frederica begged her aunt’s pardon and asked if she might examine the greenhouses. Catherine readily gave her consent, and when Frederica withdrew, Lady Vernon said, “You must forgive Frederica. Her pursuits have always been solitary ones—gardening and books and music—excellent pastimes in themselves, but they do not promote ease of conversation.”

“Miss Vernon is musical?” Reginald inquired. “Why does she not play? The instrument in the drawing room is a superior one and will likely go out of tune if it is not used, as Catherine does not play at all.”

“Frederica always preferred the little pianoforte in the dressing room that Mrs. Vernon now occupies—I am certain that it will be a very convenient arrangement when the children begin to play.”

“But as they do not play, I can see no reason why Miss Vernon may not use it for practice—Catherine is not always in her dressing room. You would not object, would you, Catherine?”

Catherine was not entirely happy with the proposal. She liked to have her mornings undisturbed so that she might write her letters and then proceed to do nothing in peace and quiet. “I shall have the instrument moved to your apartments,” she said. “The furnishings in your dressing room can be arranged to make a place for it by the window. My niece may practice as much as she likes in that part of the house.”

Lady Vernon thanked her sister-in-law, yet when she withdrew Catherine declared, “You are very generous with my instrument, Reginald.”

“You would not deny her the occasional use of what had been hers,” replied the brother. “She can do no more harm to the pianoforte than to the gardens, as both have been allowed to lie fallow. And while she is with you, you will have the enjoyment of a little music and Churchill will be free of rats.”

chapter thirty-six

Upon entering the greenhouse, Frederica experiences an equal measure of happiness and dejection; the place must always hold happy associations for her, and yet she saw at once how far five months of neglect and disuse had annulled all of her effort.

The enclosure was still sound, and the rows of forcing beds in good condition, though the earth was dried up and covered in desiccated vines and leaves. Still, Frederica thought that something might be done with it, that the leaves and dried vines could be cleared away and the soil properly worked so that something might be planted. At the end of one of the long enclosures, several bundles of herbs had been hung to dry for the kitchen and for various eaux de toilettes and balms, which Frederica had tied upon the very morning of her father’s death.