Free Flowers Stained With Moonlight by Catherine Shaw

Camilla a little truculently. ‘Jealous for her own daughter, I mean. I think she invited Sylvia like a poor little country cousin, as a foil for Helen. I can understand it, because Sylvia is pale and fragile, and Helen was a great strong healthy girl with a loud voice and red cheeks. But everywhere they went, everybody was always more interested in Sylvia. Yes, it’s true, Syl – don’t glare at me! I can’t help it if that helpless look of yours drives people – men – mad! All right, I’m just teasing you. But Mrs Clemming wasn’t always very nice to you.’
    ‘No, it’s true,’ admitted Sylvia. ‘She seemed tired of having me after just a couple of months, and as I was just as tired of her, I came home.’
    ‘I can’t imagine living in London during the season,’ I mused. ‘It’s strange to me that you should view my work as something exciting – though indeed, it is in its own way – but it doesn’t have much glamour compared to London parties!’
    ‘London parties for eighteen-year-old girls are stupid!’ exclaimed Sylvia animatedly. ‘Perhaps later, when people grow up, they can meet and dance and talk and eat together in a happy, amusing way, like Mrs Clemming does now. But not when you’re eighteen – then, all a girl is supposed to do is listen to the advice of her elders on which are the most eligible young bachelors, and spend the evening angling to have a dance or a word with them. Oh, I had no talent for it! I hated them all. I was bored silly, while Helen was always busy. Thank goodness, I met Camilla at one of those parties. Then we arranged to meet again and became friends … best friends. I was such a failure in every other way! I didn’t find a husband there and I wasn’t even interested!’
    ‘Yet just two years later, you were married,’ I remarked.
    We had reached the lake as we spoke, and were following a path along the shore. The sun shone through the merest wisps of clouds, the path was bordered by great bunches of tall grasses among which grew wild flowers of all descriptions, delicate-petalled on long, fragile stems. Bees buzzed happily amongst them, and as we crossed an occasional mud-patch, a small frog was to be seen hopping away hastily towards the water, its tiny body stretching out longer than one would have believed possible. The lake shimmered beyond us, flat and greenish-grey, its glassy surface barely rippled by the almost imperceptible breeze. The air was mild, and the mood was generally uplifted and communicative; otherwise, I think that my remark might have risked sending Sylvia scurrying back into her protective shell of silence. Her expression darkened, but Camilla picked a spray of cornflowers and pulling Sylviaclose to her, she tucked them into her hair. Smiling down at her – Sylvia is of normal height, but Camilla is quite tall and very gracious – she said,
    ‘Oh, don’t let’s talk about marriage now!’
    ‘No, don’t let’s!’ agreed Sylvia, touching the flowers and allowing herself to be cajoled. ‘Vanessa, do be careful whom you marry!’
    ‘I shall be,’ I laughed. ‘As a matter of fact, I am already engaged.’ I do not know why I mentioned it, for there was certainly no need and perhaps my maiden state was even a kind of encouragement for Sylvia’s confidences. But mentioning Arthur suddenly seemed to bring him closer to me, and goodness knows how I missed him.
    ‘Engaged! Oh! What is he like?’ said Sylvia with a mixture of interest and vexation.
    ‘Oh …’ I reflected for a moment without speaking. I found it most difficult to describe Arthur.
    ‘Big? Small? Old? Young? Foolish? Intelligent? Strong? Weak?’ Camilla said jokingly.
    ‘In a few words: thoughtful, serious, dreamy and—’ I meant to say tender, but felt too shy ‘—and kind. He is six years older than I am. We have been engaged for four years already, but must wait to be married until he has a better position.’
    ‘Four years! Then you became engaged