For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel (13 page)

22

Return to Wallerton

We had come to Bath full of optimism, but prepared to retrace our route now, three months later, with heavy hearts. We could not be away soon enough to suit me. And, but for the treasures there gained – my new friend Susan and my father’s improved health – I could have wished we had never entered the town’s fine environs at all.

Indeed, we were within half an hour of our departure when an agitated Mr. Richard Pierce arrived in Pultney Street. My father, who supervised the loading of the carriage at the curb, would no doubt have turned him away. That would have been the end of it, had I not at the same moment emerged unawares from the front door.

The unexpected sight of Richard sent a jolt of alarm right through me. Could I have retreated unobserved, I would have done so. But it was too late for that; he had seen me.

“Jo, I must speak to you. Please!”

Father moved to interpose himself. “I thought my daughter made her position perfectly clear in her letter, sir. She does not wish to see you,” he said firmly.

“Never mind, Papa,” I said, recovered from my initial shock. “I can deal with this myself. It will not take long. Mr. Pierce, shall we walk?”

“My dear Jo, surely someplace more private…” Richard broke off mid-sentence upon observing my warning look. “But of course; as you wish.”

I set off down the street at a brisk pace. “Well? Speak your peace, sir. I have very little time to spare. As you see, we quit Bath almost immediately,”

He followed, struggling to keep up and put his words together at the same time. “This is too sudden. Your letter came as quite a blow, and now I find you rushing away like this… What am I to think?”

“You are to think that I am a rational creature who must weigh all the facts before rendering a decision about my future. I see no great mystery in that.”

“The mystery is how you can speak so calmly about the possibility of throwing over everything that has passed between us. Josephine, do stop for a moment and listen to me.”

I complied, crossing my arms and turning a look on him that I hoped would communicate a blend of boredom and disdain. “Yes?”

“Do you really care so little for me that you can treat me with such contempt? I would not have thought you capable of such calculated cruelty.”

“I learnt it from you, sir,” I said evenly.

“Fair enough; no doubt I deserve that… and perhaps more. At any rate, I did not come here to defend myself.”

“I am glad to hear it. But then, why have you come?”

“I came to ask you to give me a chance to win back your regard. Tell me how I can prove myself. Allow me to convince you of the sincerity of my affection.”

I tore my eyes from the handsome architecture of his face to study an altogether safer subject – the line of neat houses on the far side of the street. “This is pointless, Mr. Pierce. I have already had a three-month demonstration of your character. What more can there be to know of you? As for your sincere affection, you can only begin to prove that by doing as I ask. Allow me time away to consider what is best to be done.” I turned round and started back.

“You are determined to give me up, then,” he said, walking at my side again.

“I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness.”

“What of my happiness? Is that no longer of any interest to you?”

“Your current discontent, Richard, is of your own making. As for your future state of mind, I have yet to settle if that will be any of my business. I can tell you this much, however. Nothing will drive a wedge between us more surely than threats of legal action.”

“I’m sorry about that, Jo, but you cannot reasonably hold me accountable for what my father does. I have no control over him.”

I stopped and faced him once more. “That is unfortunate, for I doubt that my remaining regard for you is stout-hearted enough to survive the punishment meted out by the courts.” He made no rejoinder. Instead, his eyes articulated his plea more eloquently than words. They asked for sympathy and forgiveness. They begged to be adored as before. I took one long, last look into their depths before breaking the spell. “It seems we have nothing left to say to one another, Mr. Pierce.”

I walked away from him, and he let me go.

When I regained the safety of the house, I closed the door behind me and rested against it. I hardly knew whether to laugh or cry. It had cost me dearly to turn my back on Richard there in the street. But alongside the sharp pang of loss, there lay an undeniable thrill of satisfaction. It was good that I had been forced to confront him again. My emotions had been running the gamut and my reason vacillating for days. Even after my choice was made, I had been in continual danger of slipping back into doubt and disarray. Seeing Mr. Pierce again had reinforced my decision and made me feel my own strength. In taking command of the situation, I no longer felt myself the victim.

~~*~~

With tolerable equanimity, I bid farewell to Bath and faced the journey home. So much had transpired that it seemed like years rather than months since we had come away. How good it would be to fall back into the comforts of my settled home and the simple routine of daily life at Fairfield. I had dared to taste incandescence. Now I craved only retirement, peace, and the consolation of my closest friends. I wished to see Mrs. Evensong again, and to learn how little John liked the story I sent him from Bath. I would also call on the Batemans, the Miss Millers, and poor Agnes as soon as possible.

As we drew near Wallerton, Father suggested, “I believe we should visit the Pittmans tomorrow, to inform them of our return and to make it clear that they can count on our support in their current crisis.”

“Yes, Papa. I was this very moment thinking how I long to see Agnes again. It has been barely a week since she left us, yet how much has happened?”

“A great deal indeed,” he agreed.

“I suppose I should post a letter to Frederick,” said my mother, “and one to Tom as well, unless we find him still at Fairfield. I hope you do not mind, Jo, but they must be informed of our early return and the reason for it.”

“Of course. My trouble cannot be kept secret from my own family… and not long from everybody else in Wallerton, I imagine. Word of my engagement will have got round by now, and I daresay the report of its cancellation will spread even more rapidly when it comes out. People take such a disgusting joy in gossiping about the misfortunes of others.”

“Yes, my dear,” agreed Mama. “Folks are bound to talk. But you have done nothing to be ashamed of. You may hold your head up and look your neighbors in the eye same as before.”

“Perhaps, if I am very lucky, something even more sensational will come along to divert their attention from me.”

Mama was saved the trouble of writing to either of her sons in consequence of finding them both at Fairfield Manor when we arrived. She had reason to hope Tom would still be in Wallerton, but Frederick’s presence was an unexpected prize.

After the initial greetings, Tom inquired, “What brings you home so soon? You were not expected until the new year.”

“My convalescence was complete, and we all grew a little weary of Bath,” said Papa. He continued more tentatively, looking at me, “And your sister has had a change of heart about Mr. Pierce.”

“Yes, I am giving up my engagement. I have not yet informed Mr. Pierce or the rest of the world of my decision, but my brothers may as well know it.” I then gave them a brief recital of what had transpired in Bath.

“Wretched scoundrel!” Frederick pronounced the offender afterward. “I never met the man, but he clearly did not deserve you, sister.”

“I see you take my view of things,” agreed Tom with like indignation. “If only this had come to light whilst I was still in Bath! I would have taken real pleasure in giving Mr. Pierce good reason to regret insulting you, Jo.”

“Thank you for the sentiment, but I really have no desire to see Richard knocked about. I wish only never to see him again under any circumstances, if possible. Now, Frederick, we have explained ourselves, so it is your turn. What brings you to Wallerton? It is clearly not on our account, since we were not expected. Have you tired of Millwalk so soon?”

“On the contrary; I am quite content, except I must own that I miss my old friends. So I have come for a visit. I had been considering it anyway, and then I heard about the Pittmans’ troubles. That decided the matter.”

“I had no idea you took such an interest in local affairs, Frederick,” said Papa.

“Not as I ought to have done in the past, perhaps. However, my new position in life gives me a keener appreciation for the cares and responsibilities of a gentleman such as Mr. Pittman. With you away, Father, I thought it my duty to pay my respects on behalf of the family.”

“You have seen them, then? Are their circumstances so very bad?” asked Mama. “We know only the barest facts from the letter that summoned Miss Pittman home from Bath.”

“Yes, I fear they are. I did not wish to trouble Mr. Pittman with pointed questions when Tom and I called on him. He seemed uncommonly low as it was. But I gather from what he volunteered, and from the talk I have heard about town, that he invested largely in an unsuccessful speculation – some sort of stock exchange swindle, as it turned out. The family’s hard hit. They have already had to dismiss most of the servants; the spare carriage and horses are to be sold at auction; Henry has been recalled from Cambridge; and most of the money for the girls’ dowries is gone as well, from what I understand.”

I gasped. “Oh, poor Agnes!”

Part  Two

23

Taking Sides

I take extravagant pleasure in the peace of the country night when I retire to my bedchamber and pick up my diary. As I peruse its pages, the crackling of the crisp paper stands out in sharp relief against the silence of the house, everyone else at Fairfield having likewise taken to their beds. The only sounds I hear from beyond my own room are the steady tick of the hall clock and the occasional bark of a dog somewhere afar off. After having been so long in the constant clatter of town, I welcome the quiet. I allow it to envelop me completely.

Despite weariness brought on by travel, the restorative of sleep long eludes me. I lie awake into the early morning hours, reading and involuntarily reliving events in Bath. Before going, I could never have predicted the way things would turn out. And now that I am away from there, I can almost imagine the whole misadventure with Richard never occurred, that it is nothing more than a bad dream to be put out of my mind so that I might return to the old life. I would gladly make it so if I could, for nothing less can blot out my torment for long. When I least expect it, a word or a memento of the past calls Richard back to my mind, and once again I am struck down by the same aching emptiness inside.

Snow falls during the night. When I arise at dawn, it rests an inch thick on the lawns and shrubbery surrounding the house – singularly appropriate, for the day is Christmas Eve. The fairy-land quality of the scene adds to my delight at finding the grounds of Fairfield, not Pultney Street, outside my windows. Although I suspect my troubles are far from over, this feels like the safest possible harbor in which to weather the storm.

As we gather for breakfast, I consider how agreeable it is to have things back as they were before. My father has resumed his proper place at head of table with his sons on either side – Fred to his right and Tom on his left, as always. Mama sits at the other end, with me beside her. The tacit agreement amongst us forbids spoiling the meal by speaking of any subject weighty or disagreeable. Therefore, our discourse canvasses all the little varied topics of polite conversation that are sure to promote good digestion by placing only trifling demands on the intellect and emotions. Thus, the pleasant picture is preserved for the moment.

Afterward, however, Papa restates his determination to call on the Pittmans, to see of what effectual aid and comfort we might be to our unfortunate friends. Tom excuses himself from the errand, but the rest of us willingly agree. The carriage is ordered and off we go, mentally preparing ourselves along the way for what we may find at our destination.

We arrive upon a gloomy scene indeed. The Pittman household displays the same air of desperation and grief as one in mourning is sure to exhibit. The servants – what remains of their numbers – hurry about their business with fretful expressions. The family looks infinitely worse. Mrs. Pittman makes the best show of rising to the occasion. Her well-entrenched habit of good manners enables her to receive us properly despite the trying situation. Mama naturally gravitates to her side with the sympathy of feeling afforded by their long acquaintance and common station in life. Mr. Pittman nods and mumbles his greeting, looking more embarrassed than gratified by the presence of visitors. He and my father soon withdraw to the study for a private consultation. I take Agnes aside, leaving Frederick to keep her brother and younger sister company.

Considering Agnes’s temperament, I had expected to find her in the throes of some violent emotion. That rendering of my friend would be less alarming than the pale, subdued creature before me now. I hardly recognize her. I have never seen her so dull and spiritless before, her normal sensibilities and high animation nowhere in view.

“My dear Agnes, are you quite well?” I ask with real concern. “Frederick explained to us what has happened, so of course you are upset. But, seeing you, I fear for your health as well as your circumstances. What can I do for you? May I not send for a doctor? Truly, you look very ill.”

“No. You needn’t be alarmed,” Agnes says languidly. “Mr. Trask has already been here. He has given me something for my nerves and pronounced me in no danger.” She sighs and continues. “Oh, Jo… when I got Papa’s letter in Bath… little did I imagine how bad things really were: the servants let go, our things sold at auction… and my dowry all but gone.  The degradation and humiliation of it… No one will solicit our company now. We are ruined, ruined forever. Papa puts a brave face on the future and Mama tries to make out that she believes, but… it is useless. As for me, I have no more tears; they are all cried out,” she finishes flatly.

I place my arm about her shoulders, and she slumps against me.

My heart aches for my friend, and my anger rages against those whose crimes have driven her to such a state. But I must be calm for Agnes. “I know the situation appears very bleak at present, but it is bound to brighten by and by,” I offer, feeling all the feebleness of such platitudes. I long to be able to say something more to the purpose. After an interval of silence, I try again. “You must not lose hope, Agnes. Your family’s fortunes will rise again. In the meantime, your friends will see you through. We shall none of us desert you in your hour of need.”

At this, Agnes gives a cynical little laugh. “I am sorry, Jo. I do not mean to sneer at you; your sincerity I trust completely. But you give others far more credit than they deserve. Rats abandon a sinking ship, or had not you heard? We are already shunned by our neighbors, and even Arthur lost no time in forsaking me.”

“Arthur? Impossible!”

“Nevertheless, it is true. He called the other day… to condole with us – ever the dutiful young man,” she says with sarcasm. “He sat with us a full hour, working up his courage for the real purpose of his visit, I daresay. Finally, he asked to speak to me alone and it all came out. He said that before returning to Oxford he wished to… to ‘clarify’ our relationship… for
my
sake. ‘In light of recent events,’ as he so delicately put it, he wanted to be certain that I understood myself to be free from any perceived obligation to him. Was that not considerate? He would never admit it, of course, but he could hardly wait to be rid of me.”

“Surely, in your distressed state, you simply misunderstood his intentions, dearest. I cannot believe Arthur would be inconstant or deliberately cruel. It is not in his nature.”

“You take his part against me, then,” she accuses, pulling away with a wounded expression. “Really, Josephine, I did not expect it of you.”

“No! You have my complete loyalty, Agnes, always. I only wish to spare you the unnecessary pain that must arise from a misunderstanding between you and Arthur. I suppose, I would spare myself as well. I should feel the break up of our little group exceedingly. Are you absolutely certain he meant to cast you off by what he said?”

“Oh, yes. He used my flirtation with Mr. Cox as his excuse, but I am sure it has more to do with my reduced circumstances. It seems he will not take me without a proper dowry.”

“Abominable! Oh, Agnes, I would not have thought him capable of such a thing. Yet who am I to judge? I can no longer trust my own opinion as regards any man’s character, not after my blindness in Richard’s case. Are all men born with such avarice, or are they trained up in the art?” I go on to apprise my friend of events in Bath, those which followed her departure and hastened my own. “So you see, my dear, we have both suffered a reversal of fortune at the hands of unscrupulous men, and we are both left the worse for it. You can at least take comfort in this. When the news of my broken engagement gets out, as the fresher scandal it will take attention away from your troubles.”

We each solemnly swear to keep the confidence of the other. Agnes wishes to avoid the further humiliation of Arthur’s desertion becoming known, and I hope to stave off rumors about myself as long as possible. For my sake, Agnes vows to loathe Mr. Pierce for all eternity, and I – although I cannot commit to the same extreme measure – pledge to henceforth spurn Arthur’s company for his offences against her. When our conference of commiseration finally concludes, I leave satisfied that the session has noticeably cheered my friend, which was, after all, my primary goal. My own spirits, however, sag far lower than before under the added weight of what I have learnt of Arthur’s defection, which increases my burden on my own account as well as Agnes’s.

On the ride home, Papa remarks, “I have encouraged Mr. Pittman to engage a solicitor to attempt the recovery of his money. He says he was cheated by some dishonest businessmen who gained thousands at his expense. Perhaps if these men can be brought to justice, at least some of his investment might be salvaged. Mr. Pittman holds out little hope, but I think it worth a try.”

We again lapse into a meditative silence. I am in no humor for light banter in any case. My thoughts dwell on the suffering heart I have just left. I am ashamed to think that I had recently begun to question Agnes’s attachment to Arthur. If she did not care for him, she would hardly be so devastated now. Still, whether Agnes truly loved Arthur or not was immaterial. She had trusted to him for her future. Of that much I am certain. His ill-timed abandonment dealt Agnes the final blow by knocking out from under her the last remaining pillar of her formerly secure world. For that, Arthur is fully culpable.

This whole episode troubles me exceedingly, even beyond my solicitude for my friend. It shakes my confidence in the human race – and in my own judgment – to the core. When unscrupulous men behave dishonestly, it surprises no one. But when an honorable man acts against his known principles, it threatens to turn to quicksand the ground on which we all stand.

Unconsciously, I believe I have long held Arthur on a sort of pedestal in my mind, as the model of what a man ought to be. I have always admired him, valued his judgment and companionship, and rejoiced in his good character for Agnes’s sake as well as his own. Even if the pair had never married, I should have liked to retain his friendship and my good opinion of him. That is impossible now. By his fall from grace, Arthur is forever lost to me. How can I bear such another disappointment so soon after parting with Richard?

When we arrive at home, we are told that Tom has a guest within – the man himself: Arthur Evensong. It seems the first test of my pledged loyalty to Agnes is already upon me. After what I have lately learnt of him, I half expect that he will look different somehow, that his outer form will now reflect the change in his conduct. If he appears the villain that Agnes represents him to be, my job may be more easily done. Yet, as I enter the drawing room, he looks precisely the same as before – the same solid frame, the same honest face, the same clear eyes. He rises when we come in, nodding to me and then paying his respects to my parents. If anything, he seems more artlessly open than ever.

When Arthur turns back to me, I unaccountably begin to tremble.

“I did not expect to see you again so soon, Jo. You are well, I hope,” he asks gently, searching my face.

I have to look away. It is impossible to say what I must whilst meeting his gaze. “Not entirely, sir. I have just come from Agnes. Seeing her so unwell and hearing the cause of her misery has distressed me more than I can say. In fact, it has left me completely unequal to idle conversation. I beg you would excuse me, Mr. Evensong,” I finish brusquely, stealing a glance at him.

A cloud passes across his countenance. “Of course,” he says uncertainly.

As I leave the room, I hear my father make excuses for me. “You must forgive my daughter’s bad manners, Mr. Evensong. I am afraid she has taken this unhappy business with the Pittmans very much to heart. And on top of her own disappointment too…”

I hastily retreat to the privacy of my own apartment, shaking and truly unwell after the encounter with Arthur. I did what I had to do, what my allegiance to Agnes required of me. Even so, I feel wretched, in my body and in my soul, for having treated an old friend so coldly.