Page 23 of Walk on the Wildsyde

A pleased glint sparkled in Mr Stewart’s eye. “Mother nature is my muse at present, but I challenge any man not to find inspiration in the vision before me now.”

Miss Fleming gave her tinkling laugh, a light merry sound that Clara wished she could emulate, for it was quite lovely.

“Do you mean to write an ode to us, then?” Miss Flemming challenged him.

Clara groaned inwardly. Of all the bottle-headed things to do, inviting an aspiring poet to write an ode to oneself had to be way up the list.

“I might, at that,” Mr Stewart replied, a speculative expression on his lean face as he looked from Miss Fleming to Clara.

“Well, you’d best run along and put pen to paper. You would not wish to disappoint us, would you, sir?” Miss Fleming replied, one blonde eyebrow quirking.

Clara thought she detected a flash of irritation in his eyes at being so dismissed, but Mr Stewart bowed politely. “Indeed, I must. Miss Fleming, a pleasure as always. Miss Halliday, I thought I might call on your father tomorrow morning and introduce myself. I have some books that he might find of interest and thought perhaps he would welcome a visit from an educated fellow, as they are rather lacking in this town. Do you think he would be at home to me?”

Clara fought a blush, wondering if he was visiting her father as a means of seeing her, but she merely thanked him for his kindness and agreed that the reverend would be most pleased to welcome him.

“Dreadful man,” Miss Fleming said with a sigh once Mr Stewart was out of earshot. “And really, Miss Halliday, I hope you will not take it amiss, but you really ought not to encourage him.”

Clara blinked, wondering if she had heard correctly. “I did not encourage him,” she said indignantly, for she had not been the one batting her eyelashes and inviting the fellow to write poetry about them.

“You ought to have told him your father was not at home tomorrow. Then he could not use it as an excuse to call on you.”

“He’s calling on my father, not me,” Clara said, a trifle defensively for had she not just wondered if that had just been an excuse. “And it would have been wrong of me to lie. Besides, you were the one asking for a poem in our honour.”

“A mere piece of nonsense,” Miss Fleming said, waving this away. “This is the difference between us, for you have not had a season, my dear. You must learn the art of flirting and managing men to get what you want. Else you will be quite lost. The Mr Stewarts of this world are quite charming for a short while, but they are not the kind of man one wishes to marry. Not if you are to have any hopes of security and comfort. I tell you this for your own good, my dear. I know he’s a pretty fellow, and he does have that romantic starving poet look about him, but really, he won’t do.”

Clara’s lips twitched at this rather dreadful but ultimately sensible bit of scolding. “Yes, Miss Fleming,” she said obediently, and decided she had best leave it at that.