Page 3 of A Sense of Fate
‘You have already made up your mind to attend, I suspect.’
Flora flashed a rueful smile and spread her hands. ‘How well you know me.’
‘Not nearly as well as I’d like,’ he replied with a flirtatious smile. ‘Even so, I have no doubt that the occasion will shed light on your father’s latest stratagem. I look forward to hearing all about it when you get back.’
‘I don’t think I tell you frequently enough just how proud I am of you.’ Her father’s conciliatory tone recalled Flora’s wandering attention.
‘Thank you,’ she replied evenly, her suspicions on high alert.
‘I have underestimated you, I can quite see that now, but I hope that we can use this happy occasion today to mend bridges.’
Flora had absolutely no idea how to respond but thankfully the carriage ride was a short one and their arrival at the dean’s residence—now her family’s home—rendered any response unnecessary. Flora hadn’t seen the house before. It was considerably larger than the home she had grown up in when her father had been the canon chancellor. He couldn’t seem to prevent himself from preening when Flora dutifully expressed her admiration.
‘Our family is respected,’ he said. ‘I wish you had agreed to stay for a few days,’ he added, only just refraining from sounding judgemental. ‘We don’t see nearly enough of you.’
‘I am here, Papa. Let us not disagree about anything on this happiest of days.’
The door was opened by a servant she didn’t recognise and Flora walked into the house. Her mother emerged from the drawing room, looking tired and anxious, and astonished Flora by actually embracing her. Mama had never been demonstrative, and her willingness to make the effort increased Flora’s misgivings even further.
‘You look very smart,’ Mama said, leading the way into a spacious drawing room. Flora waited for a barbed criticism about the expense of her attire; money that could have been set aside for a more worthwhile purpose, but no such criticism was forthcoming.
Flora smiled and said all the right things, privately thinking that the same could not be said for her mother, or her sisters either. Mama wore an obviously new gown, but the colours were dull and the style outdated. Her three sisters, all bridesmaids, were dressed in lemon, which didn’t suit their complexions. Only Melanie, the youngest at just thirteen, seemed genuinely pleased to see Flora and threw herself into her arms.
‘I am so glad you have come!’ she cried.
‘You are all grown up since I saw you last,’ Flora replied, hugging her favourite sister.
Their reunion was interrupted by the appearance of the bride. It was all Flora could do to prevent herself from laughing aloud. The frothy confection of tulle and lace was far too elaborate to suit Pamela’s small stature, and made her appear dumpy. Something far less elaborate would have better served, but this was Pamela’s special day and she clearly thought the gown enhanced her appearance. Flora wasn’t about to spoil her moment in the spotlight. God alone knew, Pamela’s marriage to Mr Janson didn’t hold much appeal. Pamela would be going from one form of religious suppression in this joyless household to being the wife of an equally ambitious man in another.
There again, Flora mused, Pamela had always been devout. Perhaps marriage to a man of God held appeal.
Flora travelled with her mother and sisters to the west door of the cathedral in the same carriage, their father and Pamela following behind.
‘Have you invited many guests?’ Flora asked, to make conversation.
‘It is to be a modest affair—but naturally, given your father’s importance, there will be a number of senior clergy present,’ Mama replied, sounding distracted. ‘Don’t fidget, Melanie, you will crease your gown.’
‘Who chose lemon?’ Flora asked.
‘Don’t you think the colour suits the girls?’ Mama asked. ‘Your father wouldn’t countenance a brighter shade. This may be a joyous occasion, but it wouldn’t do to get too carried away and forget its religious significance.’
‘Heaven forbid.’ Flora bit her lip and adjured herself to behave.
‘Here we are.’
Mama fussed over the girls’ attire as they alighted from the carriage. Flora wandered into the familiar cathedral and waited until her mother joined her. Together they walked to the front of the side chapel and took their places in the front pew on the left. A surprisingly—or perhaps not that surprisingly—small number of guests had taken their seats, a number of clerical collars amongst them. Her father’s minions had obeyed his call to arms, Flora supposed.
Flora hadn’t formed any lasting friendships during her younger years here in Salisbury. None of the people she took a liking to were deemed suitable. Papa had a position to uphold and ambitions to fulfil. He had no time for connections to families unable to further the ambitions in question.
It seemed that her sisters had also been denied the freedom of choice, and had no friends of their own age. Flora felt a momentary pang of combined guilt and sorrow, aware that Melanie’s lively personality would be ruthlessly suppressed unless she followed Flora’s example and found the strength to stand up for herself.
The ceremony passed in a blur. Flora made the appropriate responses in the right places without conscious thought. And then it was over with and the Reverend Janson left the church with his euphoric wife on his arm. Janson had appeared bored with the entire proceedings. Not, Flora thought as she trailed behind the party and emerged into the cold drizzle of a February day, a terribly auspicious start.
Pamela knew what she had taken on, and Flora wished her joy.
Upon returning to the family home, Flora noticed Mr Bolton’s presence. He had been her father’s curate at one time, and the man Flora had left home to avoid being forced into matrimony with. Her father clearly had firm ideas about his curates marrying into his family, and had at least achieved that desire with Pamela. Flora had no intention of marrying anybody, least of all any of her father’s subordinates, but she and Mr Bolton had subsequently got to know one another a good deal better after he’d been appointed as the bishop’s commissionaire.
‘Good afternoon, Miss Latimer.’ Mr Bolton smiled at her. ‘I hoped I would have the pleasure of seeing you here today.’
