The day on which a person's life changes irrevocably is not one that begins with trumpets, but with an idea. Jonathan Brodie's idea was to merely wander down to the village that he had grown up in, and buy some flowers for his mother. An idea. That was all it took. Having lived in Maplebridge all of his life, almost everyone who saw the tall smartly dressed gentleman knew exactly that it was Jonathan Brodie, Sir Roger and Lady Brodie's only child, back from his studies at Oxford. "Good morrow, Mr Brodie!" Mr Giles, the local magistrate, was striding towards Jonathan with his assistant Mr Jeppard carrying his case files behind him. Jonathan nodded with a smile. "Mr Giles, good day to you." Jonathan's blond hair as a youth had not given way to dark, but instead was as bright as it had been the day he was born - but his jawline had sharpened, his legs had lengthened, and now as he approached his twenty first birthday, it would be impossible to mistake Jonathan for anything else than what he was: a young man of fine birth, good breeding, an expensive education, and impeccable taste. Mrs Fettle, along with her good friends Mrs Osborne and Mrs Butterfield dropped quick curtsies as they went by, the bitter wind giving them too many reasons to continue on home, despite the fact that the son of Sir Roger Brodie had just passed them. Maplebridge Hall was atop the village up a slight slope, and it did not take Jonathan long to reach the first shop, a hatters owned by Mr Thorpe that all in the area frequented, when they could not get to the larger town of Linsteeple five miles away. Jonathan could not remember a time when he had not known Maplebridge like his own personal playground; after all, it had been 1795 when his father had been raised to the rank of baronet through the death of his own father, and he had been just learning to walk at the time. Every brick, every tree, every single part of the village was as dear to him as the horses that were currently nestled in the winter stable at Maplebridge Hall. His footsteps took him automatically past three shops and he could not help but smile unconsciously as he saw that the florist shop had not changed a bit since he was a boy. Spending the last term at Oxford for his examinations had created a nostalgic, rosy impression of Maplebridge in his mind, and as Jonathan looked around him, everything was exactly how it should be. The same homes were covered in the same frost, and the same people who were unchanging as ever were wandering the same streets that he had when he had been but a child. The door pushed open without any hindrance. Blond hair askew from the brisk January wind that had been whistling through the village all morning, Jonathan stared at Malcolm Baldwin, the elderly man that had owned the village florist shop for as long as he could remember. Jonathan had turned up the lapels of his greatcoat on the walk down the lane, yet the floristry shop was kept just as cold inside as out. "Mr Brodie," smiled Mr Baldwin, the proprietor of the shop who had, as usual, fingernails encrusted with soil that smelt damp and fresh. "What a pleasure it is to see you, sir. Flowers for your mother?" "Who else?" Jonathan took off his gloves, and regretted it instantly as his fingers hit the cool air of the florist shop. For some reason, Oxford had always seemed warmer than Maplebridge. "Choose what you like, Mr Baldwin, you have a much keener eye than I do for these sorts of things." Mr Baldwin, an elderly gentleman of about sixty, shook his head as he smiled. "Why Mr Brodie, you cannot simply choose flowers and flora with no thought to the consequences! All have secret meanings, connotations that you should be aware of before you present such a powerful gift!" "And the fern?" Jonathan Brodie looked up at the proprietor with a confused look, feeling the coarse leaves between his fingers. "You cannot intend to convince me that fern, such a simple and uncomplicated little plant, also has a secret meaning?" Mr Baldwin wheezed a laugh as he pulled up a potted fern from behind the counter, his apron covering his frockcoat. Jonathan could remember the first time that he had ever ventured on his own into the Baldwin's floristry shop. He must have only been about sixteen, but the Mr Baldwin of his memory was a mirror image of the Mr Baldwin before him today. Like his shop, he has not changed one bit over the years. "Young sir, there is not a single flower or plant in this world that does not have its own special meaning, if you know what you are looking for. Why, the fern is a symbol of sincerity; it is possible that you are unaware of this?" Jonathan smiled as his eyes flickered helplessly around him at the countless cut flowers that filled the small shop. Mr Baldwin's assistant was bundled up against the cold behind the counter, cutting off stems from a large branch of greenery, and there were two other customers in the shop perusing the daffodils that were clumped in bunches of ten by the door. Every single part of the shop was packed with stems and buds and greenery and vases and... well, as far as Jonathan could see, everything you could possibly need to house anything green and living in your home. This was not what he had expected when Jonathan had started down the hill towards the village that morning, as the January sun of the last day of the month started to struggle through the clouds and warm up the spring ground. He had put off his return to Oxford to please his father, but his feet were itching to leave - despite the fact that his degree had been completed. Maplebridge was like a small museum, in a way, with such little change and excitement that for Jonathan, there was not quite enough to keep him there. If he had known it was going to be as cold inside the shop as out, he would have stayed but a few moments - but the event to change his life was still to come. "The language of flowers is not something that I have ever sought to learn," replied Jonathan with a frank smile. "Latin and French were the order of the day at Oxford, I'm afraid, and I did not really excel at those languages either. How then is a man like myself meant to navigate the dangerous route of flower giving?" "Well now," Mr Baldwin coughed slightly as he spoke, "there is little danger to be had when presenting flowers to a female relative, such as your good mother. What a young gentleman such as yourself, Mr Brodie, must do is pause when presenting flowers to a young lady of your acquaintance." Jonathan frowned slightly, and dug his hands deeper into his greatcoat in an attempt to force some warmth back into them. "Pause?" Mr Baldwin nodded solemnly as his assistant went into a back room and then returned with a large spool of string. "Young ladies," the older man said conspiratorially, "will, on the whole, be searching for a clue as to your intentions to them, and are apt to see love where it simply is not meant. That is why, Mr Brodie, I would not suggest purchasing roses for anyone save your mother." "Roses?" "Roses," Mr Baldwin confirmed with a nod. "The flowers of love, Mr Brodie." Jonathan heard a slight giggle from behind him, and turned to see that the two customers he had barely noticed before were, in fact, the Fettle sisters. As they noticed the son of Sir Roger Brodie of Maplebridge Hall, the two women curtsied low, their frocks covered by the jackets they had taken to ward off the cold January wind. "Good day," murmured Jonathan quietly, and he turned away from them, back to Mr Baldwin, whose wheezing laugh had only increased. "I beg pardon, young sir," the elderly man said with a knowing look. "I do not jest, I assure you - but I think those two young ladies were rather hoping that you would be looking for a Valentine." Jonathan smiled good naturedly. "A Valentine? I had heard from an acquaintance of mine - Lady Audrey, you remember my god sister - that flowers and cards were exchanged by some on St Valentine's Day, but I had assumed that it was a French fashion." "Oh no, far from it," said Mr Baldwin patriotically. "What do the French know of love?" It was difficult to hide his smile, but Jonathan managed it. "Well, they do say that French is the language of love, Mr Baldwin." "Flowers are the language of love," replied Mr Baldwin, his voice emphatic. "And there is no better language that I know. No, Mr Brodie, the tradition of exchanging a love note accompanied by flowers is one that is very traditional on St Valentine's Day, and one that many of my customers are proud to partake in." Jonathan knew not to take Mr Baldwin too seriously, and he was proved right when he saw the sparkle in the old man's eye. "And best of all," he whispered to his customer slyly, "they always purchase those Valentine's from me!" Jonathan joined in with the old man's laughter. It didn't matter how far he went, he thought, he was a son of Maplebridge just like Mr Baldwin was, and that brought them together despite class or background. "Now now," said Jonathan eventually, "Lord, Mr Baldwin, to come on such an innocent errand as to procure some flowers to lift my mother's spirits, and to be so accosted for Valentine's? The world's gone mad, I assure you." "Here are the greens you wanted, Father." The voice was quiet; almost spoken in the hope that it would not actually be heard. The words came from the assistant that had been working so diligently behind Mr Baldwin, and Jonathan's eyes moved lazily over to the figure, almost without thought. He stared. In the full ten minutes that he had been conversing with Mr Baldwin, he had not given a second glance to the assistant, bundled up in a greatcoat that was several sizes too big - and yet now that he looked properly, he saw that it was not the young Jeppard lad that Mr Baldwin had taken on this winter, but his daughter, Penelope Dryden. Of course, Jonathan had seen Miss Dryden before; several times in fact. It was hard not to live in the small village of Maplebridge and not meet the entire population as you grew up - and yet when he thought about it, he could not recall ever having a conversation with her. He could not recall ever hearing her speak. He must have done surely? And yet no part of Jonathan's memory could bring it to mind. Save from attending church, he could not recall even seeing her outside this floristry shop where she had been brought, all those years ago, as an orphan child. "Mr Brodie?" Mr Baldwin's voice cut through Jonathan's thoughts, and brought his mind straight back to the florist shop where he was standing. "I have put the fern aside for your mother, and some of the daffodils that she is so fond of - but are there any other flowers that I can offer you on this cold January morning that could perhaps bring a stir of joy to Lady Brodie's heart?" Jonathan's mouth opened, but it did not speak. His eyes were too busy engaged, drinking in every tiny detail that was Miss Dryden. How was it possible that he could not have noticed before that the dark raven hair so expertly pinned up was so beautiful, so captivating? Despite being engulfed in that large greatcoat, it was still possible to see her slight figure, and as she bound up the greenery that she had been so diligently working on, he watched her lithe figure move faster than he could have ever thought possible in the cold floristry shop. The breath of unspoken words appeared out of Jonathan's mouth in the form of steam, the room was so cold. Looking at Miss Dryden now he saw her with new eyes. There was something about the way that she ignored every eye in the room, as though desperate to pass through life unnoticed. How had he spent so much of his life here without noticing the most unparalleled beauty in England? A beam of crisp January light shot through the window to the left hand side of the counter, and it framed Miss Dryden with a dazzling halo. Jonathan's heart seemed to stop. It was as though she was a wild and exotic flower just waiting to be discovered - if only she would blossom. The words came unbidden, and were unconsidered. "Miss Dryden," said Jonathan, his voice sounding awkward even to his own ear, "I was wondering if you - and your parents, of course - would give me the pleasure of dining with myself and my parents this evening." He did not take his eyes from hers; if he had, he would have seen the large, overgrown eyebrows of Mr Baldwin rise curiously. Instead, he saw Miss Dryden colour slightly. Now unable to avoid him, her eyes flickered to his own, and he saw that they were a mesmerising shade of green - a dark, mossy green that seemed to glow like precious jewels. The dark lashes that encircled them fluttered slightly, and she cleared her throat uncomfortably. "If..." and then she stopped, as though afraid of her own tongue. "If my father agrees with it, then of course we would be delighted to wait upon Sir Roger and Lady Brodie." Jonathan did not want to give her father the chance to refuse. "Excellent! I look forward to your presence this evening, at the hour of seven." It was not until he was halfway up the drive of Maplebridge Hall that he realised he had left the flowers that he had so carefully chosen for his mother there on the counter of Baldwin Flowers.
