Victorian Vignettes

It had been Peter’s promise of America that kept Mary going—the thought of a new life beyond servitude, beyond the endless polishing of silver and mending of lace.

An audible gasp escaped several nearby matrons. Juliet accepted the bouquet with trembling hands, conscious of the sudden silence that fell around her. Yellow roses—the flower of betrayal and broken promises. To receive such a gift at a public gathering was tantamount to social ruin.

Charles was a master of his craft, known far and wide for his lush rose bushes and sprawling ivy. But there was one flower that had always eluded him—the delicate and elusive lady slipper orchid.

Millicent sighed. At sixty-two, she had weathered enough society storms to know that scandal was as inevitable in their circles as rain in an English spring. “And you’re certain it was him? The fog has been terribly thick these past evenings.”

As they ascended the stairs, she whispered, “Maybe the lamplighter will make you an offer.” Eugenie stopped, turning wide-eyed.

March 1853 Kent, England "My lady, if I may interfere," her maid stepped forward from behind the desk where Lady Mary Fontaine sat writing in her dressing gown, her tea growing ever colder. "Yes, Agnes, what is it?" Lady Fontaine felt impatient with this whole morning process. Recently married, she was not accustomed to answering all of these notes and cards from well-wishing neighbors. Becoming Lady Fontaine had forced Mary into a world she had little known. She was the