For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel (24 page)

39

A Joining and a Parting

On an unseasonably damp Tuesday morning in July, Miss Agnes Pittman comes to a London cathedral to be united to Mr. Phillip Cox in the bonds of holy matrimony. The bride is in her best looks and the groom in finest humor as they say their vows and join their hands at the altar. It is all carried out with the utmost taste and decorum. In my office as bridesmaid, I witness the event at close proximity. To all appearances, the couple is launching onto the connubial sea under very favorable skies. Good health, considerable wealth, compatible temperaments, and the satisfaction of significant social consequence: all these signs bode well. I wish them smooth sailing.

My friend’s eyes are bright with excitement as she comes to say farewell to me at the close of the wedding breakfast following. “Well, Jo, I am a married woman now. What do you think of that? Do not you envy me my good fortune?”

“I may be pleased for you without envying you, I trust, Mrs. Cox.”

“‘Mrs. Cox!’ I shall have to get used to that, shan’t I?” she says, laughing. “It is a fine-sounding name though, with a certain air to it, I believe.”

“Yes, very distinguished, I daresay. Oh, Agnes, I
shall
miss you. Will you write to me when you return from your wedding trip?”

“I shall do what I can, Jo. But you know married women have never much time for writing, or so I have often heard it said. Well, we must be off. Say you wish us joy.”

“Of course, I do! I am delighted for you both.”

And I mean it. Over the past weeks, my doubts about the match have crumbled away, bit by bit, until Agnes completely won me over. I am now firmly of the opinion that the two of them will do very well together. Mr. Cox is not the sort of man that would appeal to me. But then, as has been brought into sharper relief by recent events, Agnes and I are very different, in this and in many other ways.

~~*~~

In early August, Mrs. Evensong’s health takes a decisive turn for the worse, confining her to bed with a fever and a racking cough. As soon as we hear of it, Mama and I hurry to see her. Upon our arrival, Mr. Robert Evensong dolefully informs us that, based on Mr. Trask’s gloomy prognosis for his mother, he has sent to summon Arthur home from Oxford.

My heart sinks at the news. Though I would feel the loss of the dear lady exceedingly myself, it is her sons I pity. Apparently they are to be dealt another dreadful blow not two years after losing their father. It seems so unfair.

In the hallway, we meet Mr. Trask, who is just leaving Mrs. Evensong’s bedchamber.

“How does she do?” Mama inquires.

Mr. Trask shakes his head, looking very grim indeed. “She is in God’s hands now. I fear I can do nothing more for her.”

“But sir, you cannot give up hope,” I insist. “Surely there must be something...” Feeling Mama’s restraining hand on my arm, I reluctantly leave off.

“As you have stated, Mr. Trask,” she says composedly, “it is out of our hands. If it pleases God, He will see to our friend’s recovery. If not, He will carry her home safe.”

“Exactly so, Mrs. Walker. You may visit your friend if you wish, but one at a time only, please. And I would not stay long; she is quite weak.”

My mother goes in first and I wait in the parlor. Little John finds me there and hurries to retrieve one of my stories. He sidles up next to me on the divan. “Mama will not read to me,” he explains, handing me the well-worn pages.

“You mustn’t blame her, John. It is only because she is especially tired today that she cannot. I shall be more than happy to stand in her place this once. So, you wish to hear about the adventures of Percival Pig again, do you?”

“If you please, Miss Jo. I wanted Mr. Pondwaddle, but he has gone missing.”

“I daresay he will turn up again soon. In the meantime, Percival will do just as well.”

I am glad for this useful occupation whilst I await my turn in the sick room. I feel entirely unequal to the task of easing the mind of a dying woman. At least in this way, by entertaining her son, I can be of some small service to her.

I am just finishing John’s story when Mama returns. She draws me aside, trying to hide her obvious distress from the boy. Toward that same end, I tell him, “John, let us have another story. Go take one more look for Mr. Pondwaddle, will you?” With him safely out of the room, I turn to my mother. “Is she as bad as that?” I ask with my heart in my throat.

“Yes, my dear. You must steel yourself; you will find Mrs. Evensong much altered. Still, she is coherent. We had a little heart-to-heart talk before she became too tired to continue. She is sleeping now.”

“Shall I go in?”

“Certainly. Someone should sit with her. Then if she wakes, you will be there to… to cheer her. You are a great favorite with her, and she will want to see you. In fact, she asked for you most particularly.”

“Very well, then. Will you take my place reading to John?”

She nods, blotting away her tears.

I slip into Mrs. Evensong’s apartment noiselessly. Her faithful maid, Annette, gives way for me, vacating the chair at the bedside for my use and leaving the room. Even in the dim light, I can see that Mama is right. I hardly know my friend; the ravages of illness have taken such a heavy toll on her. She has grown even more gaunt in the short span of days since I last saw her, and every trace of color seems to have fled from her cheeks and lips. No doubt my own countenance betrays my shock at these changes. It is a blessing that Mrs. Evensong is not awake to see it.

For a long while I sit with her, listening to her labored breathing and silently praying – praying for her recovery, God willing, and for myself, that I might be of some comfort to her. At length, she wakes and becomes aware of my presence.

“Jo, dear, you have come.” It is little more than a whisper.

“Yes, I am here. I am here, Mrs. Evensong,” I say, taking her frail hand in mine. “Tell me what I may do for you. Mama said you asked for me.”

“I only wanted to see you once more, to say good-bye.”

“You mustn’t talk like that, dear lady. You may yet come through this.”

“It’s quite all right, Jo. I have no fear for what lies ahead; I only regret what I leave behind.”

I nod in understanding. “Your sons.”  

“Yes, and others that I love, and things I should have said or done differently.”

“Your life has been very well spent, ma’am. I cannot imagine that you have much for which to beg anyone’s pardon.”  

“I wish
you
would forgive me for how I spoke to you a while ago. I fear I was a little harsh, extracting promises from you under duress and so forth. I should have trusted to God and to your own sweet spirit to do right by Arthur. I know you will return his regard if you can, and you will treat him kindly if you cannot. Either way, I hope you have a family of your own one day. Seeing how patient you are with little John, I know you will make a good mother.”

“You are kind to say so, and you needn’t apologize, Mrs. Evensong. I have thought a lot about what you said that day. It was sound advice.” She is looking at me very intently. “Is there something else you wish to say to me?”

“Yes, something my mother told me long ago. I will pass it along to you if I might.”

“Please do.”

She pauses to gather her strength. “Even as young as you are, you have learnt that life is full of trials. Yet I pray you never allow bitterness to take root in your soul. It is a deadly poison, Jo, and life is too fleeting to waste a moment on resentment or recriminations. Try always to remember that.”

“I shall, Mrs. Evensong. I shall remember, always.”

She sighs deeply, and I hear what I fear may be the precursor to a death rattle in her exhalation. “And now, I will rest if I might,” she whispers.

“Yes, of course. I have tired you by staying so long. Goodbye, my dear friend.” Her eyes are already closed. I place her hand back by her side, giving it a gentle squeeze before releasing it. Studying her face in repose for a moment, I wonder if I will ever see her again.

40

Letting Go

My mother goes to attend our sick friend once more the following day. I do not have to ask; I know by her expression upon returning that Mrs. Evensong is gone. Mama falls into my arms and we attempt to console each other.

When we have both had our cry out, she explains, “She passed early this morning according to Mr. Trask. He assures me it was peaceful; she was in no pain.”

“That is some comfort, I suppose.” I hesitate before continuing. “Do you know… did Arthur arrive in time?”

“Yes. He was with her at the last, I understand.”

“Oh, thank God; I am so grateful for that. He would have taken it badly had he missed the chance to say good-bye. What am I saying? As if being there makes losing his mother more acceptable. He must be devastated in any case. And poor little John! What is to become of him?”

“The child needs a woman’s care, without a doubt,” says Mama. “What a shame it is that Robert has no wife. I daresay he will hire a nurse or governess of some sort to look after the boy now his mother is gone.” 

The funeral is a small, private affair, just as the modest Mrs. Evensong would have wanted it. Afterward, the family retreats into seclusion, so I hear little and see less of them in the three weeks that follow. Then one day Arthur calls at Fairfield. His black armband of bereavement and his melancholy aspect remind me to receive him with compassion.

“Your visit is very kind, Arthur, but perhaps ill-timed. My mother and father are gone into the village,” I explain as we settle in the drawing room.

“I am not sorry to see you alone,” he replies, “for I have a good deal to say to you.”

“Oh?” I respond with curiosity and some alarm for what he might mean.

“A great favor to ask, actually. You see, I must return to Oxford tomorrow.”

“So soon?”

He nods. “Would that I could stay longer, but it is out of my hands. Still, my own preference is unimportant; my concern is for John. He is, naturally, very hard hit by what has happened. I am not sure he fully comprehends it either. All he knows is that his mother has been most cruelly taken from him. Now I must leave him as well. So I wondered… what I came here to ask is… would you be so kind as to look out for John whilst I am away, Jo? Whatever
our
differences…”

“That does not enter into it. I will do what I can for John, willingly… out of my fondness for him and respect for your dear mother’s memory.”

“I am most exceedingly obliged to you. I will be easier knowing he is safe in your care.”

“I am more than glad to do it, but what of your brother Robert? Surely John will be more inclined to look to him than to me for reassurance at such a time.”

“No doubt Robert will be a very… competent guardian,” he says with a sigh. “And Mrs. Jones will spare what time she can from her housekeeping duties to attend to John’s practical needs. But I fear he will require more in the way of – shall we call it maternal affection? – than either of them is capable of supplying. I thought you – you and your mother perhaps – might be willing to fill the void.”

“I am sure no one should presume to step into your mother’s shoes, and I would be a poor substitute indeed. Still, it will be no hardship for me to show John affection. I love him as if he were my own brother as it is.”

“Yes, you are quite right. No doubt you understand these things far better than I do. An affectionate older sister, not a substitute mother, is what John wants. A sister in spirit if not in actual fact.” he says with a long, pensive look at me. Then he rises abruptly. “Well, I needn’t take any more of your time today. Would it be too much to ask you to come tomorrow though? To be with the boy when I take my leave?”

“If you think it will make John more comfortable.”

“I do.”

“Then I will come.” After agreeing on a time for the following day, I see him to the door. However, my conscience will not allow me to let him go away with pressing questions still unanswered between us. On the porch, I stop him. “Arthur, a moment, if you please.”

“Yes?”

I nearly lose my nerve. So instead of attacking the thing head on, I come at it awkwardly from the flank. “I… I am suddenly reminded of another conversation we had on these very steps.”

“I well remember. It was nearly eight months ago, on the fifth of January.”

He waits expectantly whilst I try to find the words. “You said that day you would be patient, and you have been. I will grant you that much to start. Now, if you are willing, I am asking for the explanation you were not prepared to give then. I promised your mother I would hear you out, and I mean to keep my word. But perhaps this is not the most appropriate time.”

“I appreciate your scruples, but the sooner we clear the air between us the better. I believe my mother would have agreed.”

“Very well, then. You must forgive me if I seem impertinent, but I shall put it to you straight. Tell me if you can, Arthur, how you pretend to justify what you did. How could you cast Agnes off in that cruel fashion?”

I see a sad smile cross his face. He shakes his head once and looks away, far into the distance. “I never meant to cast her off,” he says quietly, almost as if speaking only to himself. “I considered myself honor-bound for as long as she wanted me. This I told Miss Pittman – for so she was then. I only meant to free
her
to accept another, if she so chose. But it all went very wrong somehow.” He turns back to me again. “I daresay it was my fault, Jo; I must have put it badly. At all events, as soon as I broached the subject, she flew into hysterics and refused to hear anything more. I told her again and again, ‘You are free and I am still bound by honor.’ It was to no purpose, though; she had closed her mind to reason. I hoped to try again another day, but she flatly refused to see me. You know her disposition. Once Agnes takes an idea into her head…”

“…it is very hard to dislodge it, yes.”

A thoughtful silence follows. The most pressing question now out in the open, the tension between us eases somewhat. As of one accord, Arthur and I stroll into the garden, allowing me time to digest what I have learnt thus far. His plausible explanation, though weighing significantly in his favor, falls far short of exonerating him completely.

“Still,” I continue at length, “even if your intentions were essentially honorable, your timing could not have been worse. To deal Agnes another blow when she was already despairing over her family’s financial losses… It was too unkind.”

“Perhaps I am guilty of poor judgment, but
not
deliberate cruelty.” He pauses. “As for the unfortunate timing, I did attempt to tell Agnes earlier, that night in Bath, as soon as I perceived her preference for Mr. Cox. She would not give me a private audience, as you will doubtless remember. When I next saw her, here in Wallerton, after her set-back, I debated with myself what would be the best course. By going ahead, I knew I risked distressing her further. Yet I reasoned that, with her dowry gone, she might be even more pleased than before to be at liberty to admit the serious addresses of a wealthy man like Mr. Cox. I had no fortune to offer her, and she is not the sort of woman who can be expected to suffer poverty for long.”

I had to admit the logic of his argument. “Why did you not tell me all this before?”

“Would you have listened if I had? Your outrage was so powerfully engaged in Agnes’s defense that I thought you would only hate me the more for attempting to defend myself, especially at her expense. You would not have thought any better of me for accusing her of willfully misconstruing my intentions, or so I believed at the time. I rather hoped Agnes would clear things up herself when she recovered her objectivity, that she would tell you the truth about what had happened or show you my letter.”

“Your letter?”

“Because she would not see me again, I had no other recourse. I wrote down in a letter everything I have been telling you – everything I tried to explain to Agnes that first day. I sent it to her from Oxford a few weeks later, when I hoped she would be calm enough to study and understand it.”

“Oh!” My hands fly to my face. “She never read it; she threw it straight into the fire.”

“She told you this?”

“I was there when she did it! How I wish now I had attempted to stop her. Her suffering might have been over much sooner if I had. To this day, I believe she still regards herself as grossly ill-used, and you a villain.”

“Well, she is happy now, and I am glad for it. It no longer signifies what she thinks of me. Have I redeemed myself in
your
eyes, Jo? That is what I wish to know.”

I hesitate. Tom’s theory of Arthur’s ulterior motive still haunts me; it must be settled before I can be at peace.

“A point of clarification first, if you please. According to your telling of the story, your desire to ‘free’ Agnes from her obligation to you was driven solely by benevolent intentions. Was there no self-interest involved at all? No thought for making a more advantageous match yourself?” Although Arthur says nothing, a wave of scarlet floods up from his neck to overspread his face. With that evidence and his guilty look, I have my answer. “Yes, I suspected as much. Perhaps Agnes was not so very far off the mark in saying that you would not take her because she had no dowry. Thank you, Mr. Evensong. I believe I now have the full picture, and I must beg to return to the house. Good day, sir.”

As I turn away, he restrains me with a firm hand on my shoulder.

“Wait, Jo,” he says in a commanding tone. “Remember your promise to hear me out. You do have the full picture before you, yes, but you refuse to see it! I admit, I did hope for a more advantageous match, but in the way of
affection
. It was never about money. As I have already told you, I attempted to release Agnes in Bath,
before
she lost her dowry.” He pauses to compose himself, then continues more calmly, “She did not love me anymore than I did her; I am still convinced of that. The feelings that bound us together were ones of habit… duty… and the expectation of others. I wanted a better fate for myself and for her. I rejoice that she has found her happiness with Mr. Cox.”

“As do I.” I take a moment to consider all that he has said. Much to my surprise, Arthur has answered my every objection and, in doing so, acquitted himself of any serious dishonor in the case.

He continues, saying gently, “Likewise, I hope one day to be so fortunate as to marry the woman that I love… if she will have me.”

His vivid, blue eyes seek some sign of encouragement in mine. This time I am the one to blush. I take his meaning without resentment, being now at liberty to accept the compliment with no question of disloyalty to Agnes.

“I see that you understand me, Jo,” he says. “That is enough for now; I will not press you further.”

With considerable difficulty, I force myself to speak. “You have given me a great deal to think about, sir.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” he says with a diffident grin. “A fine mind like yours should not be left idle.” He turns to go, calling back behind him, “Until tomorrow then?”

“Yes, Arthur, until tomorrow.”