Page 34 of A Sense of Turmoil
‘The earl and the marquess both seem to like you very much,’ Ottilie said with no censure in her tone. ‘The marquess scares me but I am gradually becoming more comfortable in the earl’s company. He sometimes seems so remote though, and I struggle to comprehend his character.’
‘His grandmother is dying. He is very devoted to her and not ready to part with her. None of her grandchildren are. It is a difficult time for them all.’
‘Which makes me all the more grateful to be living in this house, but it is not our intention to become a burden at such a difficult time. I shall make sure we decide upon a place to live today.’
‘That might be for the best. But now, if you will excuse me.’
As she walked away from Ottilie, her interest in the earl so disingenuously articulated, she was at a loss to understand why Remus was so wary of the Flemings. Ottilie at least seemed amiable enough, with no hidden agenda other than to attract Luke. George made her uncomfortable, but only because of his presumptuous behaviour at table the evening before, and she had become adept at fending off unwanted advances. Since Remus had again made himself scarce, she had no way of knowing what it was that concerned him about the couple.
Flora let herself into her room, threw off her habit and replaced it with a day gown before returning to the countess to take up her duties.
Chapter Ten
Salisbury looked just as it always had. The cathedral was bathed in the glow of autumnal sunshine that reflected its status as an awe-inspiring place of worship and one of the earliest and finest examples of English architecture. And yet as Flora stepped from the cab that had delivered her there from the railway station, everything seemed different to the way that it had been eighteen months previously. She knew that it was she who had changed, certainly not the ecclesiastical backdrop, which had survived for centuries and looked as if it would continue to do so for centuries to come. She straightened her shoulders, confident that the fall of her smart walking gown, the last word in fashion in shades of russet and green twill, would turn heads. The matching hat sat at a jaunty angle on her for once perfectly coiffured head—a testament to Sandwell’s dexterous fingers.
She glanced up at the cathedral’s tall spire, afraid suddenly to step through the western door. It took a deep breath and an effort of will for her to move her feet, convinced that she would regret it. Flora became aware of others arriving for the investiture and giving her odd looks, as though they recognised the modern young woman who had arrived alone but couldn’t recall her name. Emboldened by the knowledge that she was unrecognisable as the once dowdy eldest Miss Latimer, she glanced up at the familiar stair turrets topped with spirelets. As always, her eye was drawn to the intimidating sight of the quatrefoil windows surmounted by a mandorla containing Christ in Majesty.
Why am I here?
But Flora was no coward, and anyway she had been seen, so it was too late for a change of heart. With head held high, she walked slowly down the aisle towards her mother and sisters, who were gathered in a forward pew. She noticed several faces in the crowd that were familiar to her but acknowledged no one, wondering for the hundredth time why she had agreed to come.
Her mother turned at her approach and offered her a guarded half smile. ‘You are almost late,’ she said by way of greeting. ‘Today we celebrate the pinnacle of your father’s career and you could not put yourself out to arrive on time. We waited for you at home until the very last minute.’
‘Good morning, Mama,’ Flora replied in an urbane tone, not bothering to remind her mother that she had specifically said that she would not come to the house. She nodded at her sisters. Pamela’s pinched features screwed themselves up into a look of extreme envy as she glanced at Flora’s fashionable attire. The younger three’s mouths dropped open at the sight of the prodigal daughter who had dared to return in such colourful style.
Mercifully, the inauguration ceremony started almost immediately, saving Flora from the trouble of finding something to say to a family that she felt totally detached from and little affection for. She turned to watch the stately procession make its way down the aisle; her father suitably garbed in a dazzling golden robe and mitre following the even more splendidly attired bishop.
The service passed in a blur. Flora followed it, making the appropriate responses by rote and without giving the proceedings the attention they deserved, such was her familiarity with high church ritual. Eventually it was over, and she followed behind her mother and sisters into the bishop’s reception room, where she was finally obliged to exchange a few words with her father for the first time since discovering that he had been responsible for the death of his own father, Flora’s beloved grandfather. It was a discovery that had vindicated her dislike of the man whom she should respect above all others.
‘Congratulations, Father,’ she said in a neutral tone. ‘You have finally achieved your ambition. I hope it gives you satisfaction.’
‘Thank you for coming, Flora.’ He took one of her gloved hands in both of his own and gave it a squeeze. She reclaimed her hand with a speed that made him frown. ‘I was unhappy with the terms upon which we parted and look forward to making matters right between us.’ An ambitious aspiration that he had little hope of achieving, Flora knew, but such was his heightened sense of self-importance that he probably believed he would succeed. He glanced at the line of people waiting to congratulate him and sighed. ‘I hope you will not rush off.’
‘I cannot stay more than an hour.’
‘But I was given to understand…’ Her father pursed his lips but had the good sense not to challenge her when so many people were within earshot. ‘I will come and find you shortly. Stay with your sisters until then.’
Flora walked away from him, conscious of the fact that he still appeared to think he could control her behaviour and tell her whom to associate with. She noticed Mr Bolton and defiantly turned to speak with him instead. It amused her to think that her father would have encouraged her interest in the clergyman he had tried to force her into a marriage with just prior to her leaving Salisbury. Nowadays, the two men were at loggerheads.
‘Miss Latimer.’ Mr Bolton smiled at her. ‘You are a sight for sore eyes, a beacon amongst all these dull clerical colours.’
She returned his smile, reminded that he was a handsome man and wondering why she hadn’t been able to warm to him when he had tried to make a favourable impression upon her. She knew that her sister Pamela had tried to console him but had failed in her efforts to attract his interest, which probably accounted for her resentment of Flora. ‘How have you been, Mr Bolton?’
‘I find solace in my new position. It is certainly challenging.’
‘You are still the bishop’s commissary, I assume?’ She accepted a cup of tea from a maid who was handing them round and thanked her for it. ‘I must say that your new duties appear to agree with you.’
‘I enjoy that privilege and cannot pretend to be sorry to have left all this behind me.’
Flora sipped at her tea. ‘You mean the eternal ecclesiastical infighting?’
He grinned, seeming less formal now that he was no longer jockeying for position amongst his fellow clergy. Flora like him much more in consequence. ‘Are you still the countess’s companion?’ he asked.
‘I am, but for how much longer I cannot say.’ Flora shook her head. ‘She is nearing the end.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. I know you are greatly attached to her. What shall you do when the time comes?’
Flora lifted one shoulder. ‘Everyone asks me that question, but I have no answer to offer. I cannot bear to think about it.’
