Juliana sat at the breakfast table, and attempted to convince herself that she was not, as her feelings were leading her to believe, Cinderella. Why, she had read the story written by the Grimm brothers only this year, and she did not fit the story at all.
You did not go to a ball last night, Juliana reminded herself severely as she picked at her ham and potatoes. You did not meet Prince Charming, and golden shoes would be far beyond her father's financial reach . . . and yet it was lovely to sit at the breakfast table and daydream about a young man who asked you to dance, beyond all others, and was so witty and so charming when -
"Good morning, my dear."
Juliana started, and yet she should have expected the voice at any moment. "Good morning, Father."
"You had a good day yesterday, I trust?" The Reverend Honeyfield seemed to his daughter almost entirely composed of trust: trust in the Lord, trust in herself, and trust that another day would come and go with little sadness. His sunny disposition made him a firm favourite with his parishioners, and Juliana doted on him.
Rising to pull out a chair for her Father, she said, "I am sorry that I missed you yesterday, but by the time that Audrey and I returned from the Duke of Daventry's party, you had already gone out."
"Indeed," said Reverend Honeyfield, "to see whether I could gain any support for my Michaelmas celebration - the 29th September is fast gathering towards us and as far as I can see, there will be no patron for our gathering this year."
"We worry about that every year," Juliana said patiently, pouring him a drink of hot chocolate, "and every year we find someone. Leonard Tyndale and the other missionaries in India will have the support they need, and we will raise funds for their good works out there - I read a letter from him only yesterday telling us about the new well that they have dug."
Yesterday - yesterday seemed so far away, and yet it was not even twenty-four hours since Mr Lovell had smiled when they spoke together, making their way through the dance. Was it only yesterday?
"I suppose you are right," sighed her Father with a wary smile, "but if you are wrong - "
Exactly what they should do if she was wrong she was never to learn, for a gentle cough in the doorway from the breakfast room to the hall announced the presence of their maid, Charlotte.
"Excuse me, Reverend, Miss Honeyfield, but there is a man here with a delivery."
The Reverend Honeyfield blinked. "Well then, send him to the deliveries entrance so that Cook can receive him - Charlotte, you know how things are done here."
Charlotte blushed, and Juliana noted a hint of curiosity in her voice as she replied.
"Yes sir, but the delivery isn't for Cook. It's for Miss Honeyfield."
Two pairs of eyes turned to look at her. Cheeks pink, Juliana said hurriedly, "A delivery?"
Another door opened from behind them, and Audrey walked in beaming, attempting to hide a yawn. "I do apologise, am I late? I stayed up all night reading and now I'm completely done in for the day, Juliana we'll have to stay at home. Is there anything we can help you with Charlotte?"
"Juliana has a delivery," the Reverend Honeyfield said blankly. "A delivery for Juliana."
Audrey threw herself into a chair and reached for a bread roll. "Goodness, for you my darling? What on earth could it be?"
Juliana turned to her cousin, and then to her father, with mouth open but no words appearing.
"Shall I send him in, Reverend?" asked Charlotte. "Only, he's been told that he must deliver them directly to Miss Juliana, in person."
"Them?" was the only word that Juliana seemed capable of saying, but Audrey clapped her hands in mirth.
"My word Juliana, what on earth are you to receive?"
Before any of the three of them could guess, a young man with reddish hair and a complexion of embarrassment that matched stepped in, his arms absolutely festooned with red roses.
"Ohhh," breathed Juliana, a sentiment echoed in Audrey.
The man bowed to all three of them, and then said in a clear voice, "For Miss Juliana Honeyfield: a field of roses from her greatest admirer, Rufus Lovell."
His arms outstretched towards Juliana, she felt beholden to take them immediately, and as soon as he was released from his burdensome task, the messenger left the room.
"My word." The Reverend Honeyfield seemed speechless, but Audrey, as Juliana knew she would be, seemed unfazed. Perhaps this sort of thing happened to her all the time.
"Not bad, Juliana, not bad," she said, taking a jar of preserve from the platter in front of her. "But it's hardly a field of roses, is it?"
It may not have been that Tuesday, but by the Friday, the daily delivery of roses was starting to fill up the house, large as the rooms may be. Every morning, without fail, the same delivery man (whose name they soon learned was Edwards) would arrive between the hours of nine and ten, arms laden with roses with the same or similar message, and then he would be on his way again.
"So, who is this Mr Lovell?" asked Reverend Honeyfield of his daughter when a full week had passed and the delivery of roses did not seem to be abating. "I have no wish to pry, my dear, but after a week . . . An admirer, young Edwards says?"
"And one that I am not interested in, Father," Juliana hastened to reassure him, her eyes purposefully ignoring the grin on Audrey's face. "He is a gentleman that Audrey introduced me to at the Duke of Daventry's May Day party, and there is an end to it."
And yet, that it would be! A second week, and then a third passed, and the roses showed no sign of abating. Juliana had purposefully not responded in the hope of dampening whatever ardour this Rufus Lovell had managed to convince himself into, but it did not seem to cow him - if anything, the roses started to become more plentiful, and more extravagant.
"I hope this Mr Lovell is not bankrupting himself to gain your notice, my dear," said Reverend Honeyfield eventually when, on the last day of May, no fewer than five men appeared with Edwards to lay roses down at her feet (something that Juliana had begged Edwards not to do the day before, to no avail). "It cannot be inexpensive, sending one lady so many flowers . . . unless you think that you are just one of many young women that he is courting?"
"He is not courting me, Father," replied Juliana helplessly, "and the Lord knows that I have done nothing to encourage him! This is a joke, surely, and he will grow tired of it eventually."
Audrey, sat opposite her at the breakfast table, raised a quizzical eyebrow, but said nothing.
Three days later, however, when no fewer than twelve messenger boys paraded into the breakfast room to lay down twenty-four roses each, all of different hues and shades, Juliana realised that enough was enough.
"Edwards: if you wait five minutes, you may take a message back to your Mr Lovell."
It did not even take her the five minutes allotted to write what she wished on the small notecard that she handed over to him:
Mr Lovell: you will drive me mad by Michaelmas! Impossible to ignore as you are, why not visit us in person instead of sending floral tributes. We are at your leisure this afternoon, June 3rd. JH
"Is that all?" Edwards asked, in a small voice, clearly considering the short note rather perfunctory considering the number of roses that he had walked into her home.
"He is lucky to get that," Juliana retorted, "and you can tell him that yourself."
The Reverend Honeyfield shook his head with a smile. "Juliana, one day that sarcastic tongue will come out and bite you! Poor Edwards, I suppose it is not his wish to play Cupid!"
"He is not playing Cupid!" Her indignancy showed in every syllable. "Mr Lovell is just a man who cannot take a hint!"
"What hint have you given him now?" Audrey's plate was empty and she was smiling up at her cousin who was standing resolutely by the window, watching Edwards and his messenger boys leave.
Juliana swallowed. "I've told him that if he wants to call this afternoon, then . . . he can. It is just a call, after all, and you two will be here."
Audrey laughed, and rising from the table
, shook her head with a smile. "Oh Juliana, you are the definition of a mixed message! Cannot you see that by ignoring him for over a month and now inviting him, this very day, to your home you could not have given more encouragement?"
She walked out of the room to complete her toilette, and Juliana turned to her father. "You do not think what I did was wrong, do you?"
Reverend Honeyfield stood up and went over to his daughter, clasping her in his arms. Whenever he did this, she never felt more safe.
"My child, what's done is done - and you have done naught that I would be ashamed of. Let us meet this Mr Rufus Lovell, and see what we make of him."
Rufus coughed. Then he coughed again. He had not expected Juliana's note, but he was starting to get a tad desperate; more than a month had passed since Nicholas had made the wager, and though Michaelmas Day was fast approaching, he had been making absolutely no progress with Miss Honeyfield. And yet today, her note.
Admittedly, there was not a huge amount of warmth in her words. If anything, he thought he could discern a little frustration, perhaps a little pique. What woman didn't like flowers, Rufus thought to himself ruefully as he stood in front of the Honeyfields' door on Cannon Street. Surely he had sent enough flowers to sink a ship - and finding so many, even in London, had been no easy feat. He'd had to send away as far as Maplebridge, to Baldwin Flowers, to find roses enough to turn what seemed to be a frosty reception into . . . well, a frosty invitation.
I suppose, he thought to himself with a smile, that he should be relieved that it was her and not her cousin, Lady Audrey, who had eventually taken a drink that day at the party - heaven knows but Lady Audrey was far too many leagues above him, even now he was fabulously wealthy, to even think about courting! But this Juliana: she shouldn't be too difficult. There's no money in this house, you could tell by the door, and the chances were that she would welcome the sort of marriage that would secure her for life.
He'd never really thought about his marriage too hard, but as the woman herself didn't bother him much, one way or the other, Rufus saw no harm in choosing Juliana for the reason of the wager. It was no better or worse than choosing another woman for beauty, or wit, or wealth.
But he wouldn't get anywhere near winning those twenty guineas until he knocked on this door.
Ushered into a parlour by a servant, the first person that Rufus saw was Miss Honeyfield herself, and he was remarkably surprised to see that she was prettier than he had remembered. Perhaps she had paled beside her cousin, perhaps the heat had caused her to droop like a withered flower, but she certainly shone here, in her own home.
She rose from her seat, curtsied gently, and gestured to - to the clergyman, Rufus saw with surprise, who was seated beside her.
"Mr Rufus Lovell, may I introduce you to my father, the Reverend Honeyfield."
The two men bowed to each other, and Rufus tried desperately to hide his confusion. Trust him to get a woman with a vicar for a father, he thought dismayed. This wager was going to be a lot more difficult if Miss Honeyfield turned out to be a staid and joyless woman outside of a party.
His fears seemed realised as they sat down; he had hoped that she would lead the conversation, but she picked up - was that embroidery? Sitting with her head down, she seemed completely unaware that he was even there.
This was not to be borne. "Miss Honeyfield, I am glad to see you in so much health; it has been a good four weeks since I have seen you."
The response was slow, and it was not warm. "Five weeks," said Miss Honeyfield, without looking up from her embroidery.
Rufus swallowed, and smiled. "Why, of course. And have you enjoyed the opera since we last spoke - I know that there are a few tickets that are left for next week's performance."
"None within my reach," was the curt reply. Rufus could not tell, but there seemed to be a curve of a smile hinted at along one corner of her mouth . . . but then it was gone.
Rufus coughed. "That is indeed a shame; perhaps Lady Audrey and yourself could attend?"
Now her eyes were raised, but they were flashed with anger. "I do not require familial handouts to enjoy myself, thank you Mr Lovell. I am quite happy here, with my sewing."
Where did these feelings of nerves come from - and whoever invented such a loud ticking clock? It sat above the mantelpiece and demarked the time deafeningly, pointing out the silence far more than it did the time.
The Reverend Honeyfield seemed oblivious to the awkwardness, and smiled inanely at him. Rufus tried a different tack.
"Are you aware, sir, that your daughter is a very accomplished dancer?"
The Reverend Honeyfield blinked. "I was not aware that you had been dancing with my daughter at all, Mr Lovell. I was not aware that anyone from your family was proficient as a dancer - although I only know your brother by reputation, of course."
Shame burned through Rufus as he sat there, but he attempted to keep it as hidden from the Honeyfields as possible. Of course, his brother would be the one to lose this wager for him, even from the grave. Could the stain of his infamy ever be removed from the Lovell name?
"I cannot say whether my brother was a good dancer, sir, but I hope to one day give you the pleasure of viewing my own, should you wish it," was the response that he managed to put together, but there was an excruciating gap whilst he gathered his thoughts.
Another silence followed this, and it was not one that Juliana was going to assist him out of. My word, she thought, it is funny watching him squirm; not so collected now are you, Mr Lovell, with your roses and your messenger boys? And yet it was difficult not to be impressed; even when her father raised the topic of Hubert Lovell, the man that disgraced his family name, Rufus Lovell did not seem to be too concerned.
And yes, he was still managing to continue the conversation. One that was admittedly more one sided than was preferable in good society, but the awkward gaps were evidently not fazing him.
The clock chimed four, and just as Rufus was beginning to think it was hopeless to even conceive of staying a moment longer, the door opened and Lady Audrey walked in. He hardly noticed - except for the effect that it immediately had on Miss Honeyfield. She shrank, she visibly altered her seating and became, somehow, less present in the room. Was that really how she felt when compared to others, Rufus could not help himself thinking? Does she not see how her beauty - for it was beauty, he could not deny it now that he had sat for half an hour in her presence - did not diminish even if different beauty was placed alongside it?
"Oh," said Lady Audrey shortly. "You're still here."
She had clearly thought he would have left by this time; the chiming of the clock and her statement were too coincidental. But Rufus, ever the gentleman, rose and bowed to her.
"I am afraid you are close to the truth; sadly I must leave," he said smoothly taking two steps towards her. "There is but one thing for me to do and I can now complete that task now that you, Lady Audrey, have joined us."
Out of the corner of his eye he could see Miss Honeyfield lose herself even more in her embroidery purposefully, as if wilting at the very thought of his disinterest in her. This woman, he thought, I cannot make her out. She is a puzzle and one that eludes me, despite myself.
"Really?" Lady Audrey went to sit down in the seat that he had just vacated so that he had to turn to face the three of them again. "And what is that?"
Rufus swallowed. It was now or never if he wanted to win that wager. "I leave you with an invitation: to you, Miss Honeyfield, and to your cousin Lady Audrey if she is willing. I have three tickets to the opera for next week, and I would be humbled if you would graciously accompany me."
Juliana's eyes lit up. "I have never been to the opera." The words had tumbled out of her mouth before she had been able to stop them.
Rufus took a step towards her, hesitated, and then took another, a genuine smile on his face. "Then let me open that world up to you."