The Flower Seller ( WAYHAUGHT)

Chapter 3

The park was quiet that time of day, Nicole enjoying a brisk canter, slowing to a trot as they approached the entrance to St James's Place where she resided. Her chaperone was a little way ahead, Nicole's horse taking his time, walking the last few yards. She was in no hurry to return home, French lessons awaited, and needlecraft, her least favourite pastime, Nicole wishing she was back in Norfolk playing trains with Samuel, or tea parties with Matilda.

A young girl approached, her clothes suggesting she might be a beggar. That is until she spotted a small posy of flowers in her right hand. "Present from Mister 'olmes," she said, tossing the item in Nicole's direction, her free hand catching the bunch just in time. "Don't burn yourself."

"Wait," she called out, the girl already walking away. "I have a message, if you would be so kind as to deliver it."

"Ain't no messenger," the girl replied, lifting her skirt to be able to run.

The last view Nicole had was of the girl's back heading off down the street, retrieving a basket from an older girl with long black hair. Nicole walked her horse towards the stables, the posy still in her hand. Desperate to know why Sherlock Holmes was sending her flowers, she hovered by her horse, pretending to assist one of the groom's with removing the saddle, something she had never done. The groom looked on, a little confused as to why she was still there, Nicole instructing him to fetch a bucket of water.

No sooner had he left when she examined the flowers, Sherlock's words echoing in her mind, searching for some small, inconsequential detail which might be lost on everyone else. She huffed in frustration as the groom returned with the water, unable to think what to do next. Only then did she spot the narrow paper ribbon tied around the posy. White in colour, far longer than required for the handful of flowers, she pulled it loose, checking in case there might be a note secreted between the stems. Pocketing the ribbon, she threw the flowers on top of a pile of manure by the door, hoping her intuition was correct.

Grace emerged from the drawing room as she entered, her hands clasped in front, a sign of displeasure. "You are late," she said, her eyes remaining on Nicole as she approached. "I will give you no more than a few minutes to change your attire."

Nicole headed up the stairs, Grace's raised voice reminding her ladies were not to run. She didn't care, she needed to know what the message said. Her back against the door of her bedroom, she pulled out the ribbon, turning it back and forth. Nothing. The heel of her right boot kicked the door in frustration. Perhaps it was just a posy he chose to send me. Perhaps I'm reading too much into it. Disappointed, she hurried to change, hiding the ribbon under her pillow.

The remainder of the day dragged, Grace repeatedly having to bring Nicole's attention back to conjugating verbs. Her mother wanted her to select a dress from a catalog to wear at the banquet, Nicole so not in the mood. She pointed to the first dress, on the first page, her mother shaking her head. "Your colouring would not suit that. I would suggest this one," turning several pages, pointing to a hideous dark green one Nicole hated instantly.

"If you think it would suit me," she replied. "I will go with your choice."

Her mother closed the book. "Perhaps we will choose another time. You seem out of salts my dear."

"A little tired. I might retire early and read."

"I will have cook bring a tray to your room," placing a hand on Nicole's forehead. "You may be coming down with a chill."

Nicole entered her room with absolutely no intention of reading. The ribbon retrieved from under her pillow she studied it closely, searching, searching. "Don't burn yourself," she repeated. "Don't burn yourself."