Chapter One
Iknowcabbage.
Ask me anything about the hardy, versatile plant whose smooth leaves are covered in a waxy coating—anything at all—and I will respond with a lengthy dissertation on optimal growing conditions and popular varieties.
Truly, you would be astonished by the extent of my knowledge, by the discernment and wisdom on display, and you would lean in a little closer, confounded by your own impulse to underestimate me, before thinking, Goodness gracious, isn’t that Flora Hyde-Clare a young woman of substance? She is not a lovely bit of fluff after all.
(Well, lovely, yes. Let us not throw the baby out with the bathwater.)
But not too much substance, of course.
There is nothing so unattractive as an excessively erudite female.
Bluestockings—brrr!
The trick to presenting an intelligent demeanor that does not teeter into aggressively intellectual is sprinkling your conversation with just a few cabbage tidbits at a time: one or two per response, three if the listener holds a degree from Oxford orCambridge or is a member of Parliament. Also key is delivering them with airy nonchalance. Ideally, you want it to appear as though the thought has just occurred to you.
I know everything about cabbage because I studied cabbage in anticipation of meeting Sebastian’s father, whom I am desperate to impress. The Holcroft patriarch is all that stands between me and eternal bliss, and I am determined to overcome the obstacle with grace, charm, and tenacity.
If that means engaging in lengthy discourse about boring old vegetables, then let us embrace tedium in all its tedious forms.
I will do anything to earn his approval so that he will give his son permission to marry me and then Sebastian will finally confess his love and seek my hand and we will settle into wedded bliss like a pair of cooing turtledoves and the world will be golden and heavenly forever and ever.
It will happen.
It is the only acceptable outcome.
I have been waitingweeksfor Sebastian to declare himself.
We met in April, had a horrible falling out in May (all his fault!), and enjoyed a gorgeous reconciliation in June.
And now it is July.
July is declaration time.
Actually, the third week in June was declaration time, but when Sebastian remained silent, I realized he could not speak without gaining his father’s consent.
A dutiful son, he would never defy his sire.
Filial obedience is part of Holcroft the Holy’s rigid code of honor, and I have too much respect for him to wish for him to renounce long-held scruples just to please me.
Do I sound stoic?
I hope I sound stoic, because I have worked very hard to maintain the facade of stoicism when inside I am raging against his stupid integrity. The number of times I have had to curlmy hands into fists to stop myself from grabbing him by the shoulders and shaking him and demanding he confess his love is well into the double digits by now.
Impossible man!
Holding my own emotions in check has grown increasingly difficult, but I will make no admission where I am uncertain of its reception. In my head, I have a wretched image in which I boldly proclaim my love and he nods politely and asks if he may give his reply in a week or two.
Brrr.
And that is a real shudder, not an affected one like for bluestockings.
You see now why I prepared so diligently for our visit to Red Oaks, the Holcroft family seat in Lower Bigglesmeade in Bedfordshire. It is my one chance to amaze his father, a challenging proposition made even more difficult by the presence of my parents and brother, Russell. Together they are a motley assortment, and I am not so naive as to expect them to go an entire two weeks without embarrassing me. Mama cannot go two hours without stumbling into a verbal briar patch.
By necessity, then, I have to win over Mr. Holcroft without delay.
He must find me so delightful that he does not care what faux pas my relatives make.
