Room with a View

“Oh Charlotte, sit down, dear. I am young and undisturbed by wet ground,” Lucy cried , jumping to her feet.
“Oh no, dear Lucy, I couldn’t. Your mother wouldn’t… Sit back, dear.”
“Actually, Charlotte, I think I will take a walk. Take a seat until I get back, there’s a dear.” Charlotte thanked her profusely, but Lucy just turned and left.
She walked back to where the carriage had been parked. The driver sat on the bench, whittling a stick with a wicked looking dagger.
“Pardon me,” he looked up, “Do you know where the three men, Mr. Emerson, Mr. Beebe and a smaller, piccolo, Mr. George…” she trailed off, seeing the Italian understood nothing. She tried again, “Dove tre inglese, due big, un piccolo?” He seemed to understand and hopped off the bench, gesturing her to follow him. He led her across a small ridge and pointed toward a cluster of bushes.
“Grazi,” she thanked him and headed in the direction. It was sunset and the view, exquisite, was beautified by a golden haze. She pushed past the bushes and found herself in a clearing, a meadow, filled with violets. At first she took care not to step on the violets but found it impossible, as the ground was carpeted with the blue flowers. Mr. George Emerson was standing there, gazing upon Florence. Down the clearing, under the shelter of a grove of trees, sat Mr. Emerson and Mr. Beebe, deep in discussion. George turned and, seeing Lucy, advanced towards her. She smiled, but stopped as his expression was hard. He stepped forward and took her in his arms and pressed his lips against hers.
Almost before it even registered, Miss Bartlett was on the ridge calling, “Lucy! Lucy! Lucy!” She stumbled away into the arms of her cousin.
“What on Earth?!” Charlotte whispered fiercely. Lucy just shook her head. She was paralyzed with shock. When they came upon the group, loitering near the carriages, ready for departure, Lucy lowered her eyes. The Emerson’s were there.
“Let us depart,” said Mr. Eager, handing up Miss Lavish into the carriage. They all clambered in after. All but George. “Avante,” Mr. Eager told the driver, “The signorino will walk.”
“On foot? But he will be hours,” Mr. Beebe protested.
“No matter. I told him it wasn’t wise, but he insisted.” Mr. Eager sighed, as if the defeat was too much.