Page 36 of A Sense of Turmoil
‘A word, Flora, if you will all have the goodness to excuse us.’
‘Is that necessary, Father?’ Flora asked, not moving. ‘I cannot imagine what you could possibly have to say to me that anyone could not hear.’
‘Go with your father, Flora. Stop questioning everything he says to you,’ her mother snapped.
Flora went, mainly to avoid a parental confrontation. She didn’t think her mother was aware of the true nature of her dispute with her father. She had not enlightened her and was satisfied that her father would not have revealed the truth about his fight with her grandfather since it showed him in a less than flattering light. Without a legitimate reason to refuse to speak with him in private, she knew that her mother would brand Flora as being disrespectful and she simply didn’t have the energy to enter into a battle of wills.
‘What is it that you need to say to me, Father?’ she asked, walking with him into a quiet corner. The famous faceless Salisbury Cathedral clock struck the half-hour and Flora sent a pointed look in the direction of the resonant sound.
‘Your position with the countess will shortly come to an end.’
It was not a question and so she simply nodded, unsurprised that he knew. Her Machiavellian father had eyes and ears everywhere. ‘What of it?’
‘What do you intend to do afterwards?’
Flora sighed. ‘I wish people would not insist upon anticipating the countess’s death. And excuse me, Father, but I also fail to see what it has to do with you.’
‘You forget that you are my daughter.’
‘And you forget that I am of age, and free to please myself.’
Her father took a deep breath and swallowed back the acerbic response that would have sprung naturally to his lips. ‘I don’t want to be at odds with you, Flora. How can I make you understand that I would do anything to turn the clock back? I also have a natural fatherly concern for your wellbeing.’
‘Which is appreciated but unnecessary.’
‘Come back to Salisbury. I have a much larger house and more authority now. I shall not try to control your behaviour. You have my word on the point.’
‘I fail to understand why you are so determined to have me back,’ she said, frowning. ‘We have never seen eye to eye, and frankly I cannot look at you without being reminded of what you did to my grandfather. The unnecessary suffering you caused my beloved grandmother.’
‘I don’t think you realise how attractive you have become with maturity. It is neither safe nor seemly for a young woman to live alone.’
‘In other words, it would reflect badly upon you if you are unable to control your unmarried daughter, regardless of the fact that she is no longer your responsibility.’ Flora sent him a scathing look and shook her head. ‘You have attained the deanship, but that is not the end of your ambition, is it, Father? And you cannot risk anyone connected to you being in a position to embarrass you. What in heaven’s name is it that you imagine I might do?’
‘Ah, Latimer, congratulations.’
‘My lord.’ Flora’s father lowered his head in meek submission as the bishop joined them. Flora curtsied but ignored the bishop’s extended hand. She would once have bent and kissed the ring on his finger, but the idea repelled her now, thinking of the innumerable lips that had touched it before, and the characters of many of their owners.
‘This cannot possibly be little Miss Flora,’ the bishop said, beaming at Flora, not seeming to realise how patronising he sounded. ‘I clearly recall bouncing you in my knee when you were no more than five years old.’
‘I regret to say that I do not recall the occasion, my lord,’ Flora replied, wondering where this was leading. It was all a contrivance, she sensed. Her father had enticed her here and then cornered her for a reason.
‘Ah, here is my nephew,’ the bishop said.
A surprisingly handsome and fashionably dressed young man with a shock of blond hair joined them and Flora’s heart sank. Her father had yet to master the art of subtlety.
‘My nephew, Jacob Yardley,’ the bishop said, beaming. ‘Jacob, this is Latimer’s eldest daughter, Miss Flora.’
Flora gave a miniscule curtsey as Yardley took her hand in his and subjected her body to an insolent once-over. Not a man of the cloth, he was nevertheless clearly a favourite of the bishop’s, which explained her father’s clumsy attempt to interest her in the man.
‘I am told you are no longer a resident of Cathedral Close, Miss Latimer,’ Yardley said, appearing to stifle a yawn. At closer quarters she noticed that his eyes were bloodshot and detected a faint whiff of whisky on his breath.
‘And it appears to me that you never have been.’
‘Well said,’ Yardley replied, looking a little taken aback by her off-hand response and marked lack of interest in him. She sensed that he was accustomed to securing the complete attention of any female he spoke to.Not this one.‘I have independent means and an estate in the country,’ he said, probably attempting to impress her.
‘I couldn’t persuade the boy to take holy orders,’ the bishop said, affecting regret.
‘Probably just as well, since Mr Yardley appears to have no taste for sermonising,’ Flora replied. ‘In order to be a true saver of souls, I have always thought that one must feel a calling.’
