For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel (14 page)

24

Christmas

Christmas Day breaks clear and crisp over Wallerton, with only remnants of the previous day’s snowfall preserved in shaded corners and hollows. Most of it has already dissolved with the sun. No similar warmth has come to chase away yesterday’s trauma over Arthur and Agnes, however. The chill of that memory remains fully intact. It comprised the substance of my thoughts and prayers until I fell asleep last night, and my first consideration upon waking. Still, it is Christmas, and I am determined to set the distressing subject aside as much as possible in favor of more cheerful reflections.

After morning services, the rest of the day will be spent in the friendly confines of my own family. It occurs to me that this might well be the last Christmas that the five of us will share together on our own. Although I think it unlikely Tom will marry anytime soon, Frederick is four years older and well established at Millwalk. There can be no obstacle whatever to his taking a wife as soon as he wishes. With a pang, I remember that this would have been my last Christmas at home as well had my plans with Richard not run aground – another sore subject on which not to dwell today.

So much has changed lately that I appreciate the constant and the familiar more than ever before. Other than my family, and a dwindling list of true friends, I can think of nothing else so constant in my life as the church. The scriptures, liturgy, and hymns I have known since childhood never fail to bring me comfort when my own small troubles threaten to overwhelm me. As we walk into the village, I hope for that same consolation again.

The whole community will be in church; the pews are always full on Christmas Day. How glad I am that news of my failed engagement has not yet got out. At least the day will not be spoilt by the fear that every look and whisper makes me its object of derision. I am safe from that fate for now. Even so, I will likely have to endure some uncomfortable comments and questions. The possibility of another confrontation with Arthur worries me more.

We arrive just before the start of the service, and file into our pew without incident. The Pittmans, not surprisingly, are missing. One fleeting look confirms that Arthur is present, however, sitting with his mother and brothers straight across from me in the Evensongs’ customary place. He catches my eye; I immediately withdraw it to focus on the words before me in my Prayer Book.

I lose myself temporarily in the music and message of the service. Afterward, Mrs. Oddbody makes her way with purposeful haste to my side. She is a talkative old lady with a nose for gossip, the very sort I should wish to avoid just now. Yet there is no evading her today.

“My dear Miss Walker, how glad I am to see you are come back. And looking so very well too!”

“You are too kind, Mrs. Oddbody.”

“It is no wonder, after such a refreshing holiday in Bath – refreshing
and
fruitful, from what I hear. A little bird told me that you are to be congratulated, my dear,” she says in a knowing way. “You understand that I am very fond of news – any kind of news but especially romance – so you can well imagine that I was uncommonly pleased when I heard of your engagement. Since I have had the great good fortune to get my own daughters so respectably married and settled these many years, I have made it my concern to see to it that all the other young ladies of the parish are similarly well disposed of. So I am simply bursting with questions. Tell me about your young man, my child. Is he a gentleman of good fortune? And how did you find Bath? Was it as delightful as the reports we hear? I have never been, you know, and I suppose I am not likely to at my age. You must pity me that and give me benefit of your experience. You have such a way with words, Miss Walker. Paint me a picture with your colorful descriptions.”

As I cast about for some means of escape, I catch sight of Arthur hovering nearby, apparently waiting his turn to speak to me. Another awkward conversation with Mr. Evensong seems more to be dreaded than the one to which I am currently captive. Therefore, pretending not to notice him, I return my attention to Mrs. Oddbody with a plan in view.

“Oh, Bath!” I exclaim. “I could go on and on about the beauty and style of the place, Mrs. Oddbody. And the fast-paced society. I daresay, some of the stories I could tell you about what goes on in that town would stand your hair on end. We are both going in the same direction, are we not? Let us walk together…”

With a running narrative on Bath, embellished enough to hold the old lady’s interest, I keep other subjects, and Arthur, at bay. His own home being in the opposite direction, he can hardly persist in trailing after us like a stray dog; he has little choice but to give up the attempt altogether.

“…And here you are at home again, Mrs. Oddbody. Goodbye,” I say, beginning to move off.

“But you have not yet told me about your young man, Miss Walker. Come in and take tea with me, my dear, so we may continue our little chat.”

“I thank you kindly, Madam, but I must get home to my family. It is Christmas, after all. Another time perhaps.” I hurry along before she can raise any further objection. With a peek behind to reassure me that no one else follows, I rejoin my parents and brothers for the remainder of our way.

“That was very charitable of you, Jo, to humor Mrs. Oddbody for so long,” says Mama. “I daresay she is as good-hearted a creature as ever lived, but she does try one’s patience with her constant chatter. And I have never known her equal for poking her nose into other people’s business. I hope she has not wheedled any secrets out of you, my dear.”

“No. Doubtless she shall have her earful of news before too long, but she’ll not have it from me for a Christmas present.”

~~*~~

Our family party passes the afternoon quietly at home with no interruption from outside. Dinner is kept simple, most of it having been prepared in advance to lighten the servants’ duties in honor of the holy day. Mama and I – neither of us a great talent – take turns at the pianoforte to add to the festivities. Still, the gathering is not spirited enough for her taste.

“At times like this, I do so wish we had a larger family, my dear,” she laments to my father. “Now your brother is gone, it is only we five together on such occasions. We are become too quiet and sedate. What we need are children about us to provide a little noise and disorder, to make us sit up and take notice. That would be the very thing. I often think that I should have liked to have had one or two more to keep us company in our later years.”

“’Tis too late now, I suppose,” Papa says dryly.

“I should think so, Mr. Walker! I am afraid there is nothing to do but to wait for grandchildren.”

Tom, just returning from the next room, hears the last. “Grandchildren? Is that not a bit premature? You will be a very long time waiting indeed if you have any such ideas with regard to me. Fred, here, is your man, but you must first find him a wife, Mama.”

“I am quite capable of finding a wife for myself, I assure you,” says Frederick.

“Really? You have shown very little aptitude thus far, I must say,” Tom rejoins. “Have you a promising candidate for the office secreted away in Surrey? Ah, it is the curate’s spinster sister, no doubt. Miss Claudia Summeride – once considered a great local beauty, I believe. How long has she been such a favorite? And pray, when am I to wish you joy?”

“Miss Summeride is not the woman. I will tell you that much. The rest is none of your affair,” Frederick says, unperturbed.

“As you say, dear brother. Nevertheless, I shall have my eye upon you.”

My mother intervenes. “That will do, Tom. Leave poor Fred alone. And I do not see why he should necessarily be the first to marry. You will be very well set up yourself soon – ordained and installed as the rector of Millwalk parish in a few months. Any young woman will be proud to have you then.”

“Thank you for that fine endorsement, Mama. I will not deny that it is a very good living. Nevertheless, I cannot countenance the idea of settling down to be a country parson. Not yet. There is still so much I want to do first.”

“What grand plans might you have, little brother?” inquires Frederick.

“If you must know, I wish to travel and to learn more about the world; to see the pyramids of Egypt; to explore the Roman Coliseum, the canals of Venice, the Parthenon and the Acropolis – all the great monuments of human civilization.”

“You see, Tom has a private passion for architecture,” I explain. “I heard him speak quite eloquently on the subject in Bath.”

“Is that what you would do with your life if you could have your own way?” Papa asks him. “Would you choose to build houses and plan cities rather than serve God?”

“Surely not,” says Mama.

“I would do both together if I could. An architect can serve God just as well as a clergyman, I believe. But have no fear. I shall never have the option to choose. I must take the living that has fallen to me and be grateful for it. To pursue any other course would require capital that I have not got. I only wish to experience a little more of what the world has to teach me before I take up my post. That is all.”

From here, the conversation moves on to other things. Later, however, Frederick reopens the topic. “I say, Tom, perhaps you can do both after all,” he remarks thoughtfully.

“What do you mean, sir? I have not the pleasure of understanding you. Of what are you talking?”

“I speak of your wish to practice architecture as well as serve God. Perhaps there is a way for you to do both at Millwalk. I have a mind to make some improvements to the estate. What would you say if I were to put you in charge of them?”

For a moment, Tom is quite speechless, but I take up the plan at once. “What an inspired idea, Fred! Tom, you could do it. I am sure you could.”

“Well, I would certainly like to try. I never thought to have such a chance come my way. I must say, it is very decent of you, old fellow.”

“I’m not promising, mind. You get some plans together and we shall see. If all turns out well, I might be in the position to send a little more work of that kind your way now and again.”

Tom and Frederick continue with their heads together on the subject for the better part of the evening – the young squire describing the improvements he has in mind, the would-be architect asking questions and taking copious notes. With his intimate knowledge of the estate and a vivid imagination to assist him, Tom obviously has no trouble picturing each of the projects before and after the proposed modifications. He begins spouting ideas at once for how to go about the work and what the finished product will look like. In his enthusiasm, he proposes to begin his research immediately upon returning to Oxford, and to bring drawings of his plans to Millwalk at Easter.

“Take care, Tom. You cannot afford to jeopardize your ordination by neglecting your other studies,” my father cautions. “This idea of Frederick’s is all very well, but you must still look to the church to earn your daily bread.”

25

Goodbyes and Correspondence

Our whole family makes a repeat visit to the Pittmans a few days later. They fare much the same as they did before: Mrs. Pittman wears a worried, vacant expression; her husband seems ill-at-ease in his own skin; Agnes continues as listless as before, with her siblings in somewhat better condition. Although Frederick goes out of his way to be agreeable, and Tom, who is always quick with a joke, does his best to lighten the general mood of the gathering, it is to no avail.

As we make ready to go after an extended stay, Tom informs the Pittmans, “Unfortunately, I will be unable to call on you again for some time, as Arthur and I return to Oxford tomorrow. But doubtless he has informed you of that himself.”

“No, indeed,” says Mrs. Pittman. “We have not seen the dear boy since before Christmas. I wonder that he stays away so long, but I suppose he has been much occupied at home with his mother’s health being so delicate. I expect we shall see him before he goes, however. He would not leave without saying goodbye to you, Agnes.”

Agnes lets the remark pass without comment. Her parents still know nothing of the falling-out between her and Arthur. Her low spirits raise no suspicion, since they can reasonably be attributed to the same business that oppresses the rest of the family.

I give my friend a sympathetic look and an embrace. “I shall come again in a day or two,” I promise her.

Witnessing Agnes’s overpowering woe helps me regard my own troubles as trifling by comparison. Not a day passes without many minutes spent anguishing over Richard, yet in truth, I feel much sorrier for my friend, with her limited inner resources, than for myself. I am the strong one. It is accepted between us without apology or reproach on either side. Hence, years ago I fell into something akin to a maternally protective role with Agnes. I like taking care of her; I consider it a privilege granted by virtue of my greater natural fortitude. Although it was out of my power to prevent the damage in this case, I am determined to supply whatever consolation my loyal service can afford her.

The next morning, Arthur calls at Fairfield to collect Tom for their return to Oxford, just as he did before Michaelmas term. How different are my sentiments on this occasion. Then, I welcomed the chance to spend a few minutes with him, and regretted his departure. Now, Arthur cannot be gone soon enough to suit me. I would avoid him altogether if I could. However, for me to refuse to see him would alert everyone that something is amiss, which Agnes still wishes to avoid doing for the time being. So I join the others in the drawing room with the resolution to be civil to him, but no more than civil. I do not speak unless spoken to, and my every glance in Arthur’s direction I carefully transmute into an icy glare.

Although I have had several days to become accustomed to the alteration, I still find this forced coldness painful. Deeply embedded bonds of friendship are not rent asunder without a bitter sting, I find; each one tears away a little part of me as it crumbles. I know Arthur is not insensible to the change in my demeanor, which he astutely attributes to the proper cause, as I discover presently.

When he and Tom have made their good-byes and are ready to go, he takes me by surprise, saying, “Jo, it is a fine day. Will you not accompany your brother and me outside, to see us off as you have done so many times before?”

I stammer, vainly searching for a reasonable excuse to decline.

“Come along, Jo,” Tom cajoles. “Give in gracefully. Do not make us beg. After all, it has become something of an honored tradition, you taking up your post on the porch to see us ride away. You cannot deny us this small favor when we shall be deprived of home and of your company for months to come.”

I have no alternative but to comply, so I take my wrap and follow them. Once outside, though, Tom makes an excuse to return to the house for some supposedly forgotten detail, leaving me alone on the porch with Arthur. The awkward situation now made infinitely worse, I turn from him, pondering a strategic retreat.

“Pray, do not run away, Jo,” Arthur hastens to say. “In consideration of our longstanding friendship, I beg you would listen to me for one minute. Let me speak my peace, and then you shall be rid of me.”

I remain, but I steel my heart against whatever he may say, lest I be completely taken in again.

With my implied consent, he continues. “I know what you must think of me. I believe I can guess what Miss Pittman has told you, and no doubt you have accepted her interpretation without question. Your loyalty and devotion to your friend do you credit. Indeed, I would have expected nothing less of you. I am glad for her sake that Agnes has such a champion beside her now. Despite what you probably believe, I do wish her well and happy.

“Jo,” he says with infuriating tenderness. “I value your friendship more than I can say. To have lost your good opinion, even temporarily, pains me deeply. Nevertheless, I will not force upon you an explanation that I fear would only distress you further. I am patient; I choose to forbear. God willing, in time both you and Agnes may see things differently. I shall trust to that eventuality for my vindication. In the meantime, I pray you will not judge me too harshly. Well…”

While he stands, as if meaning to go, but not going, I sense he is waiting for some sign of encouragement. I stubbornly refuse to give it, denying him the comfort that a single word or look might supply.

“Well…” he says again as Tom reappears. “I must be off. Goodbye, Jo, and God bless you.”

Tom kisses my cheek, and then he and Arthur mount up and ride away. As in the other instances, I stay rooted on the spot until they are out of sight. I should properly be sorry to see my brother go, but I feel only relief that Arthur’s unsettling presence is not likely to trouble me again, at least not until Easter. The more time and distance between us, the better. I still find it impossible to reconcile my past regard for Arthur with my current disapprobation. Each time I encounter him, the effort to do so leaves me more miserably perplexed than the last. No, complete separation is the only safe solution.

~~*~~

With Arthur and Tom now gone, life at Fairfield settles into a quiet routine. I keep mostly to home to avoid the curiosity of my neighbors who, whenever they do see me, are sure to inquire about the wedding date or when my “young man” will be visiting Wallerton. Perhaps it is my imagination, but it seems to me, from their pointed questions, that a general suspicion of my trouble has already been aroused. Since the whole story will come out eventually, I would prefer to publish the truth of the matter at once – declare it in the town square and have done – rather than be left perpetually at the mercy of rumor and innuendo. Yet, since we have been advised to postpone any such announcement as long as possible, I must keep up the pretense that all is well.

I quite deliberately submerge my own troubles beneath the work of ministering to Agnes, making it my first project to see to it that she is weaned from the mind-numbing laudanum which Mr. Trask has prescribed to calm her. In its place, I supply liberal quantities of my own companionship, along with any other diversion I can contrive for her amusement. I read aloud to her from Mrs. Radcliffe’s new novel and whatever book of poetry takes her fancy. We go for long walks in the garden when the winter weather permits. And I eventually manage to get Agnes interested in netting a new reticule. Frederick, who has postponed his return to Millwalk indefinitely, often accompanies me on these visits, contributing what he can to Agnes’s entertainment. Her improvement is steady but painfully slow.

With Arthur safely away at Oxford, I resume calling on Mrs. Evensong as well. And all through January we continue to hope that the Grahams will come to add variety to our confined society. However, in the end, a letter arrives instead. In it Mrs. Graham confers the family’s warmest regards along with their regrets at not being able to stop at Fairfield, their unwillingness to be separated longer from their younger daughters being sited as their reason for returning directly into Kent. A week later I receive a missive of my own from Susan.

My Dearest Jo,

Not a day goes by that I do not remember my friends in Hampshire with the greatest fondness. I wonder how you do, and how you are managing your cruel disappointment. I believe you to possess a particularly courageous character. So, I console myself by imagining that you rise above it all, refusing to give in to any serious despair. Am I right to think so sanguinely of you? Perhaps it is unfair to hold you to such a standard. You have as much claim to feel sorrow and as much justification to self-pity as anyone, I daresay.

Parting from you was trial enough, but there were more hardships to come. Mr. Ramsey and his mother followed you out of town immediately after Christmas. I wish I could report that the season stirred up the spirit of charity and goodwill in Mrs. Ramsey’s heart, causing her to look with a friendlier eye upon a match between her son and myself. Alas, no such miracle took place and we are left with little hope that it ever shall. Yet George assures me that he will never give me up. He is so good, Jo. I cannot think what I have done to inspire or deserve such devotion. At all events, he has great plans for the future that do not depend upon his mother for success. He asks me to entrust my happiness to him, and of course I do with all my soul.

Our journey to Kent was a bit of a nightmare, what with the continuous rain, dirty roads, and not one, but two carriage breakdowns. You can imagine how glad we were to finally be at home. I was very pleased to see my sisters, who fairly squealed with delight upon our return. I do not doubt their affection, but I suspect their cause for rejoicing was somewhat selfish at the core. They longed for news of the outside world after so many weeks in comparative isolation. The late hour of our arrival notwithstanding, they could not be persuaded to retire until I related to them all my experiences in Bath. Mama and Papa have promised to take each of them thither in turn, when they are older. In the meantime, they are desperately envious of me.

Oh, how I miss you and our shared adventures in Bath. Despite the way things have turned out, I cannot look back on that time with any serious regret. I am certain that I was never so happy in all my life as in those short weeks there with you and our mutual friends. What excitement we had! It has taught me to be dissatisfied with the relative dullness of my life in Kent. Papa says that I may come to you for a visit before Easter, however. That and Mr. Ramsey’s faithful promises give me much to anticipate with felicity.

Let me hear from you very soon. You must write to reassure me that you are well, and to inform me when I may come to you with the most convenience. My best regards to all your excellent family.

Devotedly, Susan

P.S. I thought you would wish to know that, before I left Bath, Mr. Cox called on me to inquire after you and Miss Pittman. Apparently, he had been round to your house in Pultney Street first, but found you all gone away. He asked to be remembered to you, should I have opportunity to make such a communication on his behalf. And, judging from the earnest desire he expressed to see you both again, I should be surprised if Mr. Cox does not find some pretext for visiting Hampshire before many weeks have elapsed.

About the middle of February, another correspondence arrives, this one not nearly so pleasant. Addressed to my father, it is from Mr. Randolph Pierce. He therein outlines his grievances in the most outspoken language imaginable. He writes in part,
“On behalf of my son, it is incumbent upon me to remonstrate against your daughter’s outrageous conduct.”
He goes on to describe his complaint against me in these terms: desertion… unaccountable dereliction of duty… calculated cruelty… trifling with a true and loyal heart… the young man’s emotional devastation… potentially blighted future… insulted honor… etc., etc.
“Unless Miss Walker is prepared to complete her marriage contract as planned, my son will be left no alternative to taking proceedings against her in his own vindication. Should the wedding date pass unconsummated, you may be assured that the matter will be turned over to our solicitor for prosecution,”
and so on and so forth.

Thus dies my hope that Richard would reign in his father’s thirst for litigation.  

Papa puts the matter into perspective. “It is precisely what our solicitor in Bath told me to expect. The demands, the rhetoric, and the self-righteous posturing are designed to intimidate us. No one, including Mr. Pierce, really wants the expense and notoriety of a court case if it can be avoided. Still, now that the first salvo has been fired, it behooves us to seek some professional advice in the matter. There is no need to panic, but we must take all prudent precautions, I think. I shall go to London myself and consult the man who was recommended to us; I believe his name is Gerber. Then we shall see what is best to be done.”

The same as any sensible person wrongly accused, I feel the pressing need to defend myself, to clear my name, yet there is no way to confront my enemy at present. I find the only release for my resulting frustration in sharing it first with Agnes, and then with Susan in a letter. I write…