“Would you like some refreshments? Some tea, perhaps?” Sedgewick offered.
Before Lydia had a chance to refuse, Emily took a seat, mentioning that would be quite the thing. As Jonathan asked Mrs. Baker to bring the tea tray, Emily thought furiously for an excuse to leave Sedgewick and Lydia alone together.
“Mr. Williams, Lord Wesleigh asked me to relay a message to you,” Emily began.
“Yes?” Alexander responded.
“Well, actually, it was more something he wanted me to show you.”
“Really,” Alexander replied, “How peculiar.”
Emily swallowed bravely, and continued. “Yes, he was quite sure you would appreciate the daffodils growing in the graveyard. He noticed them when he passed the church on his way to Smithfield House, and he thought you would appreciate the sight.”
“And so I would.” Alexander was beginning to realize what Emily was attempting to do, although he felt her pretext for leaving the two alone was rather a poor one.
“Perhaps we could go look at them now.”
“The very thing,” Alexander agreed.
Emily and Alexander rose to leave the room, but Lydia protested. “Emily, I am sure Mr. Williams can look at them at his leisure. The church is not so close as you might think.”
“Nonsense, it is not that great a distance. And Lord Wesleigh told me particularly to observe Mr. Williams’s reaction and report it back to him. Apparently he and Mr. Williams are staunch admirers of Mr. Wordsworth, and the sight of the ‘host of golden daffodils’ in the graveyard put Lord Wesleigh in mind of Wordsworth’s poem, ‘I Wandered Lonely As a Cloud.’”
Lydia and Sedgewick were looking at Emily as though she had sprouted another head, but she hurried from the room with Williams before they could protest further.
“So where is this ‘host of daffodils’?” Alexander asked Emily as they walked toward the graveyard.
“I am not sure there are any. It is now the end of May, and I believe they begin blooming in March. We had better begin looking for some, however, in case Sedgewick or Lydia asks us when we return. I think they are already questioning my veracity, if not my sanity.”
“Well, I must admit that your excuse was rather uninspired.”
“Contrary to what you may believe, I do not have much practice in the art of deception and intrigue. And I also had very little cooperation. You would almost think they do not want to be alone together.”
“Yes,” Alexander agreed, “it is quite unnatural for two people supposedly in love to have such an aversion to each other’s company. I, on the other hand, am quite appreciative of my good fortune.”
Emily was embarrassed by the remark, as she could not miss its implication, and tried to change the subject. “Well, whatever you may think of my excuse, I thought the Wordsworth bit was quite good.”
Although Alexander might find fault with the excuse itself, he could not fault its results. It was a beautiful, sunny day, with only a light breeze, and he was entirely at peace with himself and the world. Emily made a charming picture in her sprigged muslin dress and gypsy bonnet, and, though they saw no daffodils, there were alyssum, columbine, and hyacinth in abundance. It appeared, in fact, as if all of Kent was in bloom, and, although nothing was more natural than for flowers to bloom in the springtime, especially in a part of the country termed the Garden of England, at that moment Alexander felt it as a particular compliment to himself and the lady.
The church itself was situated in a pleasant aspect, it being nearly the highest point in the parish; the village, with its charming half-timbered houses and shops, was spread out below them. Alexander thought himself at the top of the world, and it was obvious that Emily shared his delight in the day and company.
They finally reached the graveyard and began wandering rather aimlessly among the headstones. They paused here and there to read an epitaph, but there was no morbid sense of death and depression. Alexander picked some daisies and presented them to Emily with a flourish, and she thanked him prettily, but promised to leave them at the grave of a Mary Simpson, whose epitaph they had just read, before they left the graveyard. In her present guise, Alexander thought her the quintessential country maiden and could not picture her hobnobbing with the bored and sated nobility in London. But perhaps he was mistaken in thinking that light in her eyes would ever be extinguished by ennui. Alexander stopped walking, and Emily turned to face him, still grasping her daisies. They had continued discussing poetry after Emily’s mention of Wordsworth, and, after a long pause, while the air around them seemed to crackle with tension, Alexander resumed the conversation. “I prefer one of Wordsworth’s other poems: ‘She Was a Phantom of Delight.’ Are you familiar with that one?” he asked.
His voice had grown softer, and there was a tender look in his eyes as he regarded her. Emily could only nod, her breath caught in her throat. He began to recite softly,
She was a Phantom of delight
When first she gleamed upon my sight;
A lovely Apparition, sent
To be a moment’s ornament;
Her eyes as stars of Twilight fair;
Like Twilight’s, too, her dusky hair;
But all things else about her drawn
From May-time and the cheerful Dawn;
A dancing Shape, an Image gay,
To haunt, to startle, and way-lay.
He paused, and drew her gently into his arms, leaning closer and closer until he was just a breath away from her lips. “‘A perfect Woman, nobly planned, to warn, to comfort, and command,’” he finished, the last word barely distinguishable as their lips met.
Emily could no more resist his kiss than she could fly to the moon. His words had turned her insides to mush, and she felt herself returning his kiss with a passion she did not know she possessed. Time was suspended, and nothing else existed except her and Alexander. The moment was over far too soon, and Alexander raised his head, still holding Emily in his arms.
“Obviously you are not an admirer of Marvell,” she said, when she could speak again. Even then she did not recognize her own voice.
Alexander could only look at her in confusion. Whatever reaction he had expected, it was not this. “What?” he asked.
“‘The grave’s a fine and private place, But none, I think, do there embrace,’” Emily recited.
Alexander laughed. “I do not think that is a proper poem for you to know, my girl.” He lowered his head as if to kiss her again, but she evaded him. “Someone might see us,” she protested.
“You are right. Marvell was wrong about graveyards. This is far too public a place to share an embrace. I seem to lose my head whenever I am with you,” he said, reaching for her hand instead and placing a kiss inside her palm. He closed her fingers over the kiss.
“We should probably return to the vicarage,” Emily suggested shyly, afraid to meet his eyes. She was quite embarrassed at her lack of decorum, and was even more humiliated to discover the daisies she had been holding were scattered about their feet, apparently dropped by her during their embrace, though she had no recollection of it.
Alexander nodded, gave her his arm, and they turned to walk back. “I can only hope that Sedgewick and Lydia have used their time alone to such advantage,” he said, smiling at the thought.
Try as she might, Emily could not imagine the so-proper Lydia and Sedgewick exchanging the searing kiss she and Alexander had just shared. Perhaps there is something to be said for propriety, Emily thought, as she realized she might live to regret her actions if Alexander were really the fiend she suspected he was.
After Emily and Williams left, Lydia and Sedgewick were left looking at each other in uncomfortable silence.