Page 45 of A Potion for Passion

Chapter Twenty-One

Flora hadn’t seen Lawrence for a full three weeks, but the pain of his betrayal was still agonizing. It hurt immeasurably that he’d deliberately concocted a special potion to prevent her from falling in love with him. That he disliked the idea of being with her that much.

Did it feel worse because she really was in love with him? Surely not. How could she be in love? He was the very opposite of a gentleman. There could never be any future for them. If she’d given herself to him, as she’d sorely wished at the time, she’d be facing total ruin right now. Lawrence Campaign was not the marrying kind. And even if he were, Lucinda and Charlotte would have apoplexy if Flora ran away with a traveling showman.

She had cried herself to sleep the night Lawrence gave her his potion. She couldn’t tell if it was effective or not… Certainly, she hated him for it, but her reasons for doing so owed nothing to the nostrum. In fact, she couldn’t believe any potion existed that could have made her hate him more.

But as the weeks rolled by, her hate turned to regret, the regret became love, and the love turned to despair. But she refused to let her feelings show, knowing that by appearing not to suffer, she’d eventually convince herself she no longer cared.

Now that she was back home in Fortuneswell, she was desperate for distraction. Which had finally come in the shape of an invitation to a masked costume ball in Dorchester. Though it meant revisiting the place where she was known as Madame Julietta, she was confident she could make herself look so different, not a soul would recognize her. Her red hair had still not been revealed to friends or family; she’d worked hard fashioning a large lacy cap to conceal it, and the result was extremely pleasing.

Such a pity she’d not been able to find anyone to go into partnership with. She really was genuinely good at making hats and bonnets. She’d even received some grudging praise from the ever-present Mrs. Daniell. Perhaps, in time, Sally Matthews would soften and be more amenable to the idea. So long as Lawrence didn’t intrude upon the scene and stir things up like a bear in a beehive.

Flora was just putting the finishing touches to her toilette when the jingle of harness presaged the arrival of the Reverend Daniell’s carriage. Her heart leaped in her breast. Really, there was nothing better than a ball to deliver one from the deepest melancholy. It would be wonderful to dance, and she’d enjoy catching up with all the latest gossip.

When she opened the door, however, she was greatly surprised to see, not the reverend, but a small brown packet on the doorstep. It was addressed to her.

“Well, I never!” she exclaimed and picked it up. The approaching carriage was forgotten as she retreated indoors and hastened up to the privacy of her bedroom to open the package.

It contained a bundle of silk ribbon, and also a lady’s lace-edged handkerchief, knotted together. It was bulging with coins. A message had been scrawled on a piece of paper torn from a notebook. The writing was as familiar as her own. It sent a thrill through her body.

Lawrence.

He was here? She dashed to the window, but there was nothing in sight but the newly-arrived carriage and its occupants. Why had he not knocked on the door? Why hadn’t he tried to attract her attention? How long ago had he been there?

Disappointment washed the sudden elation away. Coward! The man was afraid to see her after what he’d done. Or, rather, what he’d tried to do. She slumped down on her bed and ran the ribbons through her fingers.

It was a fine gift. And the money was, presumably, the wages he’d promised her for being his assistant.

So much for the ball lifting her spirits. Lawrence’s parcel had just sent them plunging again. She’d nursed a secret hope, which she’d hardly dared admit, that one day he’d see the error of his ways and make it up to her by coming back, maybe settling down somewhere in the area so, they could see more of each other, explore their mutual attraction, and work out if they’d suit.

Clearly, a futile fantasy.

Stuffing the coins and silks in a drawer, she checked herself in the looking glass, then pinched her cheeks to dispel her pallor.

“Miss Hartington, are you ready?” called a male voice from below. “I don’t want to keep the horses standing.”

She peered through the milky glass panes to see the Reverend Daniell advancing up the path. Flinging the window open, she cried, “Yes! Just a moment!”

Her heart ached. Lawrence had finished their story. He’d paid his dues, but he hadn’t the courage to see her in person and, doubtless, she’d never see him again. Even if he came back to Fortuneswell or East Town with his show, she wouldn’t go to see it. It would be too painful.

Pah! If she were a man, she’d get drunk tonight. But a respectable lady never did such things. If only she weren’t so damned respectable! The disreputable Madame Julietta had enjoyed far more fun.

She scouted through her reticule. Gloves, handkerchief, dance card—unlikely to get much use at her advanced age—smelling salts, fan. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached under her bed and pulled out a small bottle of Dr. L. E. Campaign’s Patent Pick-me-up. That, too, went into her bag.

Blinking away the threatening tears, she scurried downstairs, let her maid, Jenny, help her on with her cloak, and stepped outside to greet the cleric with a determined smile pasted on her face.

She would find a way to enjoy herself tonight and quash her dismal thoughts. There would be food and drink of the highest quality, and the music would be of the very best.

What did it matter if few gentlemen chose to dance with her? She didn’t need a man. In fact, she’d rather have nothing more to do with them.

“Good evening, Miss Hartington. You look splendid!”

She gave Mrs. Daniell and Thea her best smile as the reverend handed her up into the open carriage.

“I may have to put the top up later,” he said as soon as she was settled. “There’s a real wind blowing up and, judging by the color of those clouds, a storm’s on its way. I wouldn’t fancy being out at sea tonight.”

Flora repressed a shiver. Frank Mullen had met his end on just such a night, his ship much too far out from land for him to have any chance of surviving. As she always did in bad weather, she turned her head toward the sea, hoping there would be no ship’s lights visible.