Spring may be on its way, thought Jonathan shivering slightly as he took the well-worn path from Maplebridge Hall to the village, but the weather still had a lot of catching up to do until he could be convinced that warmer climes were on their way. "What are you doing?" He muttered under his breath as he once again took the sloping path down to the village. "It's freezing, and you are about to go to a place just as cold, and speak with a woman who you barely know, who has spoken what? Four words to you in her life?" "Good afternoon, Mr Brodie," smiled Mrs Osborne, taking her customary walk after luncheon. "What a wonderful first day of February this is turning out to be." "Yes, indeed," Jonathan nodded with a flash of his smile, desperate not to be taken into a long, and quite possibly futile conversation with the lady about the weather. "But you will excuse me, my dear Mrs Osborne; I have an appointment in the village." The clouds parted slowly as Jonathan left her and continued to Mr Baldwin's florist shop, and he could not help but smile. It did him good to see the sun returning, especially after the brutal winter that they had endured. Unconsciously, he had been praying that there were few people inside the shop by the time that he reached the door, and those prayers must have been heard as there was but one other customer at Baldwin's, and Mrs Butterfield was just having her flowers wrapped up by Miss Dryden at the counter. Jonathan's cheeks flushed, and he cursed his expressive features as he carefully examined the daffodils that were near the front of the shop so as to avoid catching either of the women's eyes. He heard Miss Dryden say something softly to her customer, the clink of coins that were exchanged, and then Mrs Butterfield was gone. They were alone, and Jonathan could not have been more content. "Miss Dryden," he said formally, moving towards the counter. When he reached it, he dipped his head into a deep bow. "Mr Brodie," she replied, curtseying behind the counter, only slightly hampered by the large greatcoat that she was once again wearing to protect her from the cold. Jonathan smiled at her, and thought desperately of something to say. He had just assumed that a topic would come to him, and now he was standing here, looking like a complete fool! And Miss Dryden seemed to know it. She smiled gently, her dark green eyes flickering up and down him, and then she turned her back on him. "I was wondering," started Jonathan awkwardly, "if..." "You forgot your flowers yesterday," Miss Dryden interrupted him with her soft voice as she turned, holding the glass house roses that he had chosen. "I have kept them in water, and they will last a good few more days, if you would like to take them with you." "Thank you," said Jonathan gratefully, "I felt a right fool returning home without them, I must say." Miss Dryden laughed quietly. She placed the flowers on the counter between them, and Jonathan looked down at the slim fingers that pulled away at some of the leaves at the bottom of the stems. His own hands were resting mere inches from hers. "You always choose roses, Mr Brodie," she remarked, her voice still sotto voce. "Even when the price is trebled because they are grown in glass houses." Jonathan's eyes widened in surprise. "I did not realise that you paid such close attention to my floral choices. And please; call me Jonathan." She surprised him then, and laughed, lifting her eyes to his. He saw the flash of mirth in them as she spoke. "Mr Brodie, you cannot possibly expect me to call you that! You are the son of our baronet, and I am just..." "Someone," said Jonathan quickly. "Someone that I would like to spend some time with." Almost instantly, he regretted the words as he watched her close back into her shell. The gleam in her eyes disappeared, her shoulders shrank down, her head lowered, and her gaze returned to the roses that lay on the counter. "Miss Dryden," Jonathan started again, in a low voice, "I have no wish to force my company on you, if you do not wish it." He watched, waiting for a sign that she had heard, had listened, but it was the sound of the door behind him opening that caused life to stir in her once more. "Good afternoon, Mr Houghton," said Miss Dryden, gently sweeping Jonathan's flowers to one side of the counter. "Is there anything in particular that you are looking for today?" He did not want to move, but Jonathan knew that he needed to leave space at the counter for Miss Dryden's customer. He turned to the side and carefully examined the snowdrop buds that were still closed, waiting for warmer times - but he could not help but overhear in the small shop the conversation at the counter. "Can you believe it?" Mr Houghton was saying to Miss Dryden as she carefully wrapped the small bouquet of daffodils that Mr Houghton had chosen. "Of all the men that could have been elected, this is what happens?" Miss Dryden smiled, and Jonathan was startled to see that there was a knowing look in her smile that Mr Houghton completely missed. As quick as it had come, it was gone, and Jonathan had to blink to check that his sight was not amiss. "Will that be all?" That was the only quiet reply that Miss Dryden gave her customer. Mr Houghton waved his hands. "Yes, just the daffodils today." Jonathan turned away as money was exchanged; no matter how much he tried, he found the business of money perplexing in itself. He could not remember the last time that he had actually paid for something, in the flesh - and he coloured to recall that it was a distinct characteristic of his class, and something that his own father would agree with. The door of the shop closed, and they were alone once more. Jonathan moved back to the counter, and smiled. "You do spark my curiosity, I must say Miss Dryden." "I don't know what you mean," replied Miss Dryden quietly, sweeping up the ends of the roses and daffodils from the counter into a large pot. "Yes, you do," Jonathan spoke softly, but he could not help but continue. "You wanted to say something, just now, to Mr Houghton - about the general election results from last November. And yet you didn't." For a moment, it was as though Miss Dryden had not heard him. The slender fingers, barely visible from beneath the greatcoat sleeves, were still busy tidying the counter, and she did not meet his eyes. And then she did. The flash that Jonathan had seen, the humour in her expression that had disappeared as swiftly as the winter wind: both the smile and the humour were back. "I cannot help but be amused by a gentleman who complains about the election results to me," Miss Dryden said with a smile, unconsciously standing taller and looking at Jonathan directly. "Surely he cannot be unaware that the ability to half, if not more, of this country's population is completely unable to vote and so cannot even express their political decisions, let alone be disappointed with the result?" "And yet the Tories have returned back to power," Jonathan said, leaning forward, "and with a majority that is strong." "I do not deny the majority that they received from the voters," returned Miss Dryden, her voice becoming stronger and more certain. "What I contest is that the voters consist of but a small part of society, and thus are not entirely representative of the political mood of the country." "And yet," Jonathan shot back, "to give all the vote would be to overturn so much of society as we know it - the world would not be the same again!" "Exactly," breathed Miss Dryden with bright eyes. "Just imagine it; a world in which men and women, of all ages, backgrounds, and classes, all joining together in order to choose the government that will stand for them. What a world that would be!" Jonathan stared at her. "To think, you have such brilliance of opinion in you, Miss Dryden, and to this day you have not shared it!" Miss Dryden blushed slightly. "Strange, isn't it?" she said lightly, lifting a hand to her face to push away a lock of raven hair that had become unravelled from its pin. "You are the Oxford man, after all, and must surely have the monopoly on knowledge here in Maplebridge, for you have travelled, studied with some of the greatest minds of the day. I have always lived here, in Maplebridge - for as long as I can remember; and yet until yesterday, it is as though I was just part of the scenery for you. Always there, but never noticed." Another flicker of the eyes as she looked down, and then again back up at him; a smile hovered on her lips, as though she were not completely confident that she could speak in such a way. Like she was speaking into his very soul. Jonathan leaned forward, unable to help himself, so drawn was he to the woman who stood before him. He lifted a hand, trembling, he told himself, from the cold, and delicately pushed the strands of dark black hair behind her ear. Miss Dryden's eyes were now fixed upon him, and as his hand remained close to her cheek, Jonathan almost willed himself to caress it, and he saw her swallow. "I do not wish to make you uncomfortable," he whispered kindly, lowering his hand. Miss Dryden smiled with an inquisitive look on her face. "And yet, here you are." Jonathan nodded, his eyes transfixed on her. "Here I am." Whether it was from his words or from the way that his gaze shone down upon her, Miss Dryden was standing taller, neck raised, looking at him without the fear and shyness that usually accompanied her. It was as though she was beginning to glow, like the sun. Jonathan cursed the scraping sound of the door that meant another customer had entered to disturb their solitude. "Mr - Mr Brooke!" Miss Dryden clearly had difficulty in speaking, and Jonathan was pained to see once again that she seemed to retreat into herself. Was it possible for someone like Miss Penelope Dryden, a woman who had grown up being ignored and unnoticed in a small village like Maplebridge, to flourish if cared for? If, and here Jonathan had to cough slightly as he turned aside to once more pace by the snowdrops, she were loved? "... for a Valentine," Mr Brooke was saying, and Jonathan shot a look to Miss Dryden over his shoulder. Her cheeks were flushed, and she was looking absolutely anywhere but her customer as she spoke to him. "There are... there are many different options," said Miss Dryden, indicating with her hand around the shop, "depending on the size of your affection and the depth of your purse." Jonathan tried not to listen as the conversation continued, but it was with impatience. Never before had his time with someone seemed so precious, and so vital to his happiness. "And that will be sixpence, Mr Brooke," spoke Miss Dryden in a softer, yet more controlled voice. Jonathan was accustomed to this now; the sound of paper being wrapped around flowers, the movement of money from one hand to the other, the footsteps towards the door, and finally, the silence that he had wanted to return to as soon as Mr Brooke had entered the shop. "Another Valentine?" Jonathan said quietly, moving back as if pulled there by an unseen force. "I imagine that you have a roaring trade in them at the moment." Miss Dryden nodded, the shyness that had been overcome by their previous conversation returned in force. Jonathan smiled at her; saw the way that the greatcoat's lapels were turned up to keep her slender neck warm, and the small amount of soil that streaked the left side of her jawline. There was something so very dramatic about her, as though she were a coil, wound and tightened: small and trivial to look at, but ready to emerge into real life at any moment. "I myself," she said quietly, "would prefer a card, rather than flowers, for St Valentine's Day." Jonathan laughed faintly. "You, Miss Dryden? Not prefer flowers?" She joined him in his laughter, and gestured at the place where she stood. "Mr Brodie, I am surrounded by flowers for most of every single day of the year! To be given flowers is not something that is out of the way for me; but a card, with a thoughtful note? That surely would show feeling far more." Jonathan tried his best not to read too much into her words, but merely put them away for future thought. "What of your friends; will they be hoping for flowers this St Valentine's Day?" Miss Dryden bit her lip, and Jonathan cursed himself for whatever slight he had given, however unwillingly. "My closest friend, Victoria Walsingham, moved away from Maplebridge when I was young," said Miss Dryden quietly. "This is a village of the old, as you are undoubtedly aware; most of our generation have moved to Linsteeple, or even larger towns. There are few that have remained." "And," Jonathan swallowed, knowing in his heart that he would regret asking this and yet was simultaneously unable to stop himself, "your family? What of them?" Miss Dryden laughed grudgingly, and reached down to pick up a large tangle of string. As she spoke, she began to pick at it with her fingernails, avoiding Jonathan's gaze. "I had wondered how long it would take to get to this topic." "Listen to me," said Jonathan urgently, clasping the matted string and her hands in his own. She looked up at him, startled. Jonathan tried not to focus on the frosty fingers beneath his own. "You should know that you do not have to answer anything I ask you - anything that any person asks you. You are your own person, and I have no wish to pry." Tilting her head to look at him, Miss Dryden smiled slowly. "I think you are probably the first person I know to actually mean that." Jonathan chuckled with a sigh. "I am both saddened and pleased to hear that, Miss Dryden." "Penelope." The word was breathed, rather than said, and for a moment Jonathan could not believe that it had been. "If I am to call you Jonathan, Mr Brodie, the least I can offer is for you to call me by my Christian name." All of a sudden, without any warning, Jonathan found that his mouth was very dry. There was something so vulnerable about her permitting him to call her Penelope. "As to my family," she continued, twitching her fingers slightly. Jonathan released her, somewhat unwillingly, and she continued to tug at a particularly complicated knot, "I have no idea who they are. All I know is that their name was Dryden, and my parents - the Baldwins, I mean - decided that I should keep it, as a memory that there is, somewhere out there, a mother without a child." "Are you not curious?" Jonathan shuffled his feet slightly - to keep warm, he told himself, and not because he felt nervous asking such personal questions of a young lady. "About your family, I mean: do you not wonder where your roots are, who they are?" Penelope laughed, and Jonathan was once again reminded of the smooth, lilting tinkle of a brook dancing over stones. "Mr Bro... Jonathan, who are they to me, really? Did they feed me when I was a child, teach me my letters, give me clothes to wear, a roof over my head, and an occupation? No. My roots do not interest me." Jonathan nodded, and as he opened his mouth to speak, the clock on the wall behind Penelope began to chime three o'clock. One look at him was all she needed, and she sighed. "You have to go." "Regrettably," he said with a sigh, "and I cannot tell you how much I would love to stay here, with you - but I promised that I would return home by half past the hour." "Well, in that case, you should not forget these - not again." Penelope spoke with a shy smile, and she placed the roses that lay between them in his arms. It was only twenty steps out of the shop that Jonathan had the idea - the second idea. He knew precisely how he could find out about Penelope's family, and whether she was interested or not, he was determined to find out.
