Amaryllis glided into progressively denser areas of the forest, slipping between the trees like a dryad. Hortense crashed through the brush behind her, grimacing as the twigs scratched her exposed arms and face. Surely this was the largest forest in all England. Surely this was further than Uncle John, Amaryllis’s doting papa, would want them to venture. Just as Hortense opened her mouth to form these words, however, the trees miraculously began to thin, and shafts of sunlight shone down through the leaves. Silently giving thanks that their afternoon ramble was over with no more serious casualties than her scraped cheek and muddy hem, Hortense trailed Amaryllis into the clearing.
To be fair, Hortense admitted, the view may (only may, mind) have been worth the walk. Rolling meadows of green, green grass strewn with puffy white sheep stretched as far as the eye could see to the left or right. A lovely ornamental pond dotted the landscape a short ways ahead. And behind all rose an enormous stone castle (there was no other word for it) so forbidding, so imposing, as to impress and delight the heroines of those Gothic novels that Amaryllis so adored. Four large gray towers stood out starkly against the horizon and… yes! A drawbridge, an actual wooden drawbridge! Who ever heard of such a thing in this day and age? Hortense allowed that she might be just a smidgen impressed herself. The best view of all, however, was the carpet of purple blooms framing the edge of the forest. Violets aplenty – enough to satisfy even Ammy’s passion for them, and no more walking! For the first time in hours, Hortense smiled.
“Violets!” she said, gloatingly.
“Hmm?”
“Violets!” Hortense repeated, quite accustomed to pointing out the obvious.
“Mmm… no. No, I don’t think so.”
“Wha… what? Amaryllis, there are thousands here… millions, even. Surely there must be one or two among them perfect enough to sketch!”
“Hortense. Dear, dear Hortense. These aren’t violets. They’re monkshood. Surely you’ve seen them before, even living in Poorchester.”
“PORTchester. It’s Portchester. And as I’ve told you, Papa was quite ill for several years before he…” Hortense took a breath and released it quickly, suppressing the quick jolt of pain that thoughts of Papa always brought. “Died. Before he died. He hardly ventured out of doors, and I helped him with his research. We certainly didn’t have time to study flora.”
Amaryllis sighed. “And I don’t suppose your mother would have known monkshood, even if she’d been alive to teach you. Do they have monkshood in France? Well, no matter! You’re with me now, darling, and I shall teach you everything I know!”
Shouldn’t take long, Hortense thought uncharitably.
“In any case, I’ve decided that today, I shall sketch… a landscape,” Amaryllis pronounced gravely.
And, truly, it was a momentous decision. In all the months that Hyacinth had acted as companion to Lord Huntington’s youngest daughter, she’d never known Amaryllis to paint anything but… violets. Violets on china and violets on handkerchiefs, violets on canvas and violets on teacups, violets in groups and violets alone. The sudden decision to paint a landscape felt… portentous. As though the hand of fate had… No. Hyacinth shook off the thought and considered that perhaps she had read one too many Gothic novels herself.
“Quickly, Horry! Scurry down to the pond and stand just so in front of it.” Amaryllis demonstrated the perfect contemplative, melancholy pose.
Hortense did as she was bid, trying to coax her limbs into some semblance of melancholy contemplation.
Amaryllis surveyed her critically, a perfect crease appearing between her amethyst eyes. “Your arm, dear, a bit more… up… yes! Just so. Now move nearer that rock… to the right... no, your right, dear, and back just a bit so I can get the proper perspective with the castle… Almost, almost… Back just a little further… now hold…”
Except that Hortense couldn’t hold. The combination of her raised arm, her extended leg, and her old nemesis, gravity, proved to be too much for Hortense. She screamed, arms windmilling wildly, and fell backward into the pond… only to find that there wasn’t far to fall. The pond was no more than 18 inches deep around the edge. Enough to thoroughly wet one’s clothes, embarrass one to no end, and put one in the foulest of tempers with one’s cousin, but not nearly deep enough to drown, more’s the pity.
Hortense had just managed to sit up, and was drawing breath to calm her cousin’s hysterical cries when suddenly a horse and rider emerged from the forest several hundred yards away and galloped towards them at breakneck pace.
“Good Lud!” cried the man, reining to a halt and dismounting. “May I be of assistance, my lady?”
“Oh, thank Heavens! I know not what to do! My companion, Hortense, has fallen in the pond, and I’m concerned for her very life! Oh, dear sir, please save her! She is but a poor relation from my father’s side of the family and quite ignorant about everything important, but she is such a kindhearted girl, and if she dies I’m certain my dear Papa will make me go back to that horrid finishing school where they allow the daughters of tradesmen to be educated alongside daughters of the peerage, and I don’t see how I could bear it, I really don’t!”
“Good Lud!” was the man’s unoriginal reply. “Take heart! I shall save her for you, I swear it! And when a Peppercorn makes a vow, that vow is… sacred.” The man swept the hat from his head and pressed it to his chest as proof of his sincerity. “Please, madam, hold my hat,” he said, placing the hat carefully in Amaryllis’s outstretched hands. “And m’coat. Meyer, don’t you know? Brummel’s man. Finest in London.” After some contortions, the coat was also removed and given into Amaryllis’s safekeeping, and the man began striding towards the water.
“But, sir! Your boots!” cried Amaryllis.
“Good Lud!” cried the man, yet again. “Dear Lady, you have done me a great service. My valet would have my head if I’d ruined these boots. Hoby, don’t you know?” With an appreciative glance for Amaryllis, he carefully lowered himself to the ground and removed his polished Hessians.
By this time, Hortense had managed, with much floundering, to get herself up on her hands and knees and begin crawling toward the bank. Progress was slow, given that the bottom of the pond was coated in a thick sludge, her knees kept tangling in her skirts, and her hair was plastered across her face. Finally, she reached the edge of the water, and levered herself up to a half-standing position, her hands braced on her knees as she caught her breath.
“I’m coming, companion!” called the man, as he strode towards the pond barefooted. He approached Hortense, arms fully outstretched, as though ready to embrace her bodily and carry her up the bank.
“Sir! Be careful! The… the… the mud!!” Amaryllis exclaimed, gesturing vaguely toward Hortense’s sludge-covered form.
“Too right, too right!” he called cheerfully. Wrapping an enormous embroidered handkerchief tightly around his left hand, he gingerly grasped Hortense’s right index finger, and led her toward her cousin.
“At your service, My Lady of the Violet Eyes,” he proclaimed, presenting her to Amaryllis with a formal bow. To Hortense he added, “You can keep the handkerchief, what?”
“Oh, sir! You… you… you saved her!” Amaryllis’s voice quavered. Her lower lip trembled. Her brilliant amethyst eyes shone brighter than ever. A single, jewel-like tear tracked down her porcelain cheek. Truly, the effect was breathtaking. “Please, tell me your name! I must know to whom I owe all my happiness...”
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