Brian Andrews
Ring of Flowers
From the Author
Note to the reader: Ring of Flowers was originally a historical subplot that wove throughout The Calypso Directive. At first blush, it was meant to be an origin story for my protagonist Will Foster. Also, I had hoped for it to function allegorically, reinforcing two of the novel's main themes: (1) the costs associated with the morality of serving the "greatest good for the greatest number of people", and (2) the hardship of being forced to choose between a path of self sacrifice and one of self-interest. As the backstory blossomed to 40+ pages, it became clear to both me and my editor that this tragic love story deserved to be a stand alone novella. I hope you enjoy it, and if you do, please consider reading about Paul and Kathryn's progeny, Will Foster, in the 21st century thriller: The Calypso Directive (available on Amazon in hardback and Kindle editions).
CHAPTER 1
Ethan Cromwell walked with purpose, like men with testosterone-laden agendas typically do. In three days’ time, he would propose to Kathryn Vicars, the most beautiful girl in the Derbyshire village of Eyam. No matter that she was the seventeen-year-old daughter of a lowly tailor, with no dowry to speak of. For Cromwell, she was desire incarnate. If he could combine all of the most delightful experiences from each of his five senses, and flood his brain with that pleasure in a single instant, the cumulative bliss would still fall short of how he imagined it would be to ravage her.
Cromwell rapped vigorously with gloved knuckles on the wooden door of George Vicars’ modest stone cottage. Inside, he heard the unmistakable cacophony of a stack of pots and pans accidentally knocked to the floor. This calamity was followed by an unholy expletive, and then the sound of shuffling boots.
“I’ll be right there … just a second.”
“Vicars! What on Earth are you doing in there? I don’t have time to wait for your fumbling and bumbling,” Cromwell barked. He raised his fist to pound again, but the door flew open instead. George Vicars, Eyam’s only tailor, stood in the doorway with a flushed face and eyeglasses sliding down the bridge of his nose. He pushed the spectacles back up to their rightful perch with a long, delicate index finger. Although he was thirty-nine years of age, his wrinkle-free, freckled complexion and full head of reddish-brown hair made him look like a man ten years younger.
“Good afternoon, Mister Cromwell. Please do come in,” said Vicars.
Cromwell stepped across the threshold and surveyed the tailor’s shop with smug disinterest. The expression, when combined with Cromwell’s meaty jowls and broad flat nose, made him look to Vicars like a bipedal Bull Mastiff, in expensive clothes.
“Vicars, have you finished with my breeches?”
“Yes, of course. I finished them in the Rhinegraves style as you requested, very loose in the thighs with both black ribbon and white lace at the knee. Let me fetch them for you.”
Vicars scurried around Cromwell, who was blocking the main walking path through the tailor’s shop with his considerable girth, and hurried over to a simple wardrobe constructed of unfinished English pine. He opened the right-hand door and retrieved a pair of breeches.
Cromwell rolled his eyes. “Vicars, those are not my breeches. Look at the tag, for heavens’ sake.”
A paper note fixed to the waistline seam read “Earl of Devonshire” in black ink. Vicars mumbled an apology and hurried back to the wardrobe.
“Here you go, sir. These are your proper breeches. Would you like to try them for fit?”
“I don’t have time. I’m a very busy man, you know. Besides, if you did your job right, tailor, then there should be no need,” Cromwell said, taking the breeches in hand. He paused for a moment to eye the tailor. After reaching some unspoken conclusion, he turned up his nose and continued. “I’m off to London this afternoon to buy an engagement ring for Kathryn. I will propose to her when I return, on Friday evening. I will send my carriage to fetch her at four o’clock sharp. Make sure that she is ready and dressed her finest.”
“Yes, Mr. Cromwell, you can count on me. Oh, before you go, I have something special I want to show you.”
Vicars was a man of modest means. As a tailor, he would never be anything but a man of modest means. When Cromwell had asked for his daughter’s hand, Vicars had no money or land to give as a dowry. Cromwell was of noble birthright and did not need either of these things, but that didn’t change the fact that a dowry was expected. So Vicars had offered the only thing he could, his services as a tailor. In place of a traditional dowry, Vicars had extended to Cromwell a lifetime of free tailoring. Cromwell had snickered at this gift, but accepted it. While he would never admit it, Cromwell quite liked the idea of this gift. His ever-increasing waistline required the frequent loosening of nearly all of his garments.
Vicars was no fool; he knew exactly why Cromwell wished to marry his daughter. He decided that his real wedding present would be Kathryn’s wedding dress. He would pour all his skill, and all his soul, into crafting a wedding dress worthy of Kathryn. A dress more beautiful than any the village of Eyam had ever seen, or would hope to see again.
From a rectangular wooden chest under a window, Vicars retrieved a bolt of fabric, measuring one yard long, by one-half yard wide, by one-eighth yard thick. The exterior of the parcel was wrapped in brown burlap and secured with twine.
“Here ‘tis,” Vicars said, holding up the package for Cromwell to see. “Direct from London. The finest white linen and lace that money can buy. Only the best for our Kathryn on her wedding day. Isn’t that right, Mr. Cromwell? This wedding dress will be my crowning achievement as a tailor. The finest dress anyone in the County has ever seen.”
“It looks to be damp,” Cromwell interrupted.
Vicars frowned. “I’m sure that’s just the wrapping. Not to worry.”
Vicars cut the twine with a small paring knife and unwrapped the burlap. Cromwell was right. The linen inside was wet. Not dripping wet, but clearly it had been soaked through during the carriage transit from London to Eyam.
“Oh, damn it, Vicars. You bumbler. It’s ruined!” Cromwell chastened, as he stepped in for a closer look.
“Not to worry, Mister Cromwell. I’ll just unwind the material and let it dry by the fire. Tomorrow ‘twill be as good as new,” Vicars replied.
Cromwell scowled and watched with growing agitation as Vicars began to unwind the bolt of fabric.
“It’s ruined, Vicars. Look there, the mildew has already set in. I see black spots. They’re everywhere.”
Vicars bent down and squinted to inspect the damage. The black dots were not mildew stains. He was certain of this because … they were moving.
Fleas!
The fabric was infested with black fleas. One of the little creatures sprang up, struck Vicars in the forehead right between the eyes and bounced off.
“Filthy vermin!” Cromwell bellowed. How something as perfect as Kathryn Vicars could have sprung from George Vicars’ loins was beyond comprehension, Cromwell thought.
Vicars shrank. The color drained from his face. It had cost him three months’ wages to procure linen and lace of this exquisite quality. There was no return policy on such things, and he could not afford a second purchase. He contemplated what to do, but no ideas came to him.
Then, as if on cue, all the fleas began springing up from the folds of the fabric. They hopped in every direction, dispersing quickly and wildly, each tiny parasite voraciously seeking its next blood meal. Vicars felt a prick on the back of his neck — an introductory bite — and smacked the spot with his palm.