His response gave her very little to respond to, so she proceeded to the next question in her queue. “Have you visited the Vauxhall Gardens in London?”
“I was there not even a fortnight ago. Brilliant layout.”
It had been months since she’d last been to the beautiful garden with Mr. Rawlston when the spring tulips and daffodils dotted the space. She forced the memory to subside so she could focus on the task at hand. “Are you fond of the formal layout of such gardens, or do you prefer a more natural layout?”
“Certainly a more manicured design.” He paused on their path and turned to a clump of delicate white oxeye daisies. “Take those, for instance.”
“Leucanthemum vulgare,” she muttered.
“What?”
“Leucanthemum vulgare,” she repeated. “It’s the botanical name for the oxeye daisy.”
“How clever of you to know that! Now, if it were me, I would not plant the daisies here at all. I would put them there, along that stone fence. Wouldn’t that be lovely?”
It dawned on her that this was the first time they’d had a conversation. A real conversation about something they both seemed interested in. Perhaps, if she tried hard enough, she could find some common ground with him.
They walked farther into the north garden until the sounds of horses, men, and dogs had completely faded, and after several moments of strolling, he stopped abruptly. “Do you see your future here at Keatley Hall, Miss Wilde?”
“My future?”
“Yes. Your future. I’m sure you have a strong attachment to this place.”
“I do.”
“It is a lovely thought, is it not, to think of your children growing up in the same house as their ancestors? Such a sense of continuity.” He bent down and snapped a small white rose from its stem. The rose did not tear away completely, as he had likely intended, and instead the delicate stem splintered. He chuckled at the failed action and then, as if quite pleased with himself, handed her the rose. She accepted the damaged flower and offered him a weak smile.
“Your father shared with me that he informed you of the conversations we have had about the future of the Keatley Hall School for Boys and all that would entail.”
All that would entail.
He was talking about her. About marriage.
She looked around, hoping for a diversion to save her from this conversation. Suddenly the sun that had been so lovely seemed harsh, the gardens seemed so isolated.
She remained silent.
“I know such a future may not be the one you had envisioned, but we should probably, at some point, discuss it. Your father is anxious for closure and security.”
The disapproval she’d felt from him the previous night weighed heavily on her mind, and the current tone of his voice was practical and transactional. Was this the moment? Was Mr. Abernathy going to propose?
The thought incited a panic within her, and Ella’s ears rang with such intensity that she felt almost faint.
“What are your thoughts on the matter?” he prompted.
“I-I’m afraid I’ve not had time to come to a conclusion on it.”
His tone neither persuasive nor emotional, he said, “It is your father’s desire that we should marry, and the Society members are already speaking of it. Even though you might not consider me the most fitting man for a husband, I am a fitting man for the school. I’ve dedicated my life to it, and I hope that we can, in time, figure out a way to make this plan viable for us both. But I must add, if this is something that would even be considered a possibility, I would suggest you employ a little more decorum.”
She stopped abruptly at the accusation. “Decorum?”
He clicked his tongue disparagingly. “Arguing with the guest speaker in a public forum. Talking alone with a young man in the conservatory. It does not paint you—or the school—in the best light. And tomorrow is the visit to the site where you want to open a girls school, am I right?”
At his criticism of her behavior, her panic gave way to anger. She refused to be reprimanded and steadied her voice. “You’re right, Mr. Abernathy. I intend to teach young ladies to think for themselves and to question the norms around them. They should embrace their abilities and contribute to the intellectual community. I was fortunate enough to have my mother to guide me in such matters. I hope to continue her passions.”
Satisfied that she had made her point, she continued walking beside Mr. Abernathy along the curved path in silence until he paraded a lengthy list of neutral topics, from the new species of turtles discovered off the Italian coast to the plans to build a new dovecote on his property. She listened politely, responded when needed, and kept her expression engaged.
If it weren’t for her father’s request, she’d find a way to break free from Mr. Abernathy and his oppressive views. In the meantime she had to be true to herself—and her mother’s memory.
