For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel (25 page)

41

Food for Thought

So I go to the Evensongs’ next morning as promised, feeling very conscious of everything Arthur said yesterday and my thoughts derivative to all the waking hours since. Robert is not immediately present, but both his brothers are there to receive me. From the way John is brooding, however, curled up in his favorite chair by the window at the far side of the room, I surmise he has not taken the news of Arthur’s departure well.

“Miss Jo is come to visit you, John,” Arthur says. “You must exert yourself and be a bit more cheerful, so she will know how glad you are to see her.” His words having little effect on his brother, he then turns to me. “I’m afraid John is quite put out by my going. It seems I leave you with a challenging charge.”

From the earnestness of his gaze, I suspect Arthur has more than his brother’s welfare on his mind. I try to lighten the mood. “Not at all. I daresay John and I will get on splendidly once you are out of the way. Do not flatter yourself, sir, that you will be so very much missed by either one of us.”

He smiles. “I shall flatter myself a little further still by presuming you are only teasing. I should be sorry indeed to think my absence shan’t be at all regretted.”

“Of what duration is your absence expected to be this time, Mr. Evensong? You will not stay long away from your friends, I trust, not unless you wish us to forget you entirely.”

“Oh, your tongue is sharp today, Jo. Still, I intend to bear it with philosophy. It is worth everything to hear you include yourself amongst my friends again.” A passage of silence rests comfortably between us. Through it we can only stare into each other’s faces, as if for the first time. Then Arthur continues solemnly, “Yesterday you said I had given you much to think about. With your permission, I would now give you one more question to consider.”

“I scarcely know if you should,” I say with trepidation. “I’m not sure I am prepared for any questions of a serious nature.”

“You needn’t be alarmed. I will not distress you by renewing the subject I alluded to before. You may regard this as a totally unrelated matter, which indeed it may prove to be in the end. I only want your advice about my career.”

“Your career?” I repeat in surprise. “Really, Arthur, I fail to see where I can be of any use to you there. I am not qualified to offer an opinion on that subject.”

“Nevertheless, I will tell you my difficulty, if I may. You see, I have been offered a fellowship at Oxford, and I must decide whether or not to take it.”

“A fellowship? Congratulations! That is quite an honor. Then I do not see your problem. I should think you would jump at it.”

“Yes, it is an excellent opportunity. It would provide me a generous income whilst giving me a chance to teach and build up my professional reputation – all very agreeable. And, as it happens, I have no other viable prospects at present. Alongside all the benefits, however, the fellowship does carry with it certain inherent drawbacks. I would be obliged to continue living at Oxford, away from my home and family. That goes without saying. Also, as is traditionally the case, I would be required to remain a single man as long as I hold the position. I could perhaps resign myself to these conditions for a short time, but I have been asked to make a commitment of five years.”

“Five years! That seems a bit unreasonable. How can you – indeed, how could anybody – predict the way your circumstances might change over such a lengthy period?”

“Exactly. So you see my difficulty. Still, I cannot justify turning down such a valuable offer without due cause. Perhaps you would be so good as to turn your mind to the question now and again. When I come back in a few weeks, I shall be most interested to know if you can give me any compelling reason why I should not accept the position.” His look, no doubt intended to be innocuous, is full of latent significance.

So the question is there after all, suspended in the charged air between us. Yet Arthur has phrased it so gracefully that we can both pretend, for the time being, that it has not been asked. It is much like the elephant in the room that everybody has tacitly agreed not to talk about; the weighty item must perforce be dealt with eventually, but as long as it is well-behaved, we are free to act as if it is just another comfortably overstuffed chair.

A moment later, the spell breaks as Arthur says, “Well, I must be off.”

I collect John to walk outside with us where Arthur’s horse is saddled and ready. Robert Evensong appears in time to shake his brother’s hand and see him ride away, but it is to me that little John looks for comfort. With Arthur gone and the boy clinging round my waist, I say apologetically, “I hope you will not find my presence here an imposition, Robert. Arthur asked me to come. I only wish to help. You must tell me if I begin to make a nuisance of myself.”

“I hardly expect it will come to that, Miss Walker,” he says in an oddly detached manner. “You are welcome to visit as often as you like. John is sure to be glad of your company since I have neither the time nor the talent for entertaining children.”

Arthur was right; it is good that I am here. I can see that now.

~~*~~

With my duty clear, I fall into the habit of spending a portion of nearly every day with John, either at his house or mine or somewhere in between. Mama does her part, yet it quickly becomes apparent that it is to me that John has become most attached. I read to him; I help him with his simple lessons; we play games; he accompanies me on my errands of business – anything to divert his attention from the grave misfortune that has befallen him. Alas, none of my contrivances distracts him for long. I am searching for a more substantial diversion when one day inspiration strikes.

“John, I need your help with something,” I tell him. “I am having a great deal of difficulty with my new story. You being so very fond of stories yourself, I thought you might advise me.”

“You want
my
help?” he says with an expression of wonder.

I can see immediately that he is pleased and intrigued. “I do. You have given me first-rate suggestions before, so I make no doubt that you will know how to help me now. Perhaps we could even work on the story together. Would you like that?”

“Oh, yes! Is it another animal story? Those are my favorites.”

“Mine too. But what kind of animal should I write about this time – dog, cat, mouse, or mule? I cannot choose. And what should be the creature’s name, do you think? As for the sort of adventures that might come his way, I haven’t a clue. So you see, I have barely begun and already I am in need of assistance. Come to Fairfield tomorrow, won’t you? Bring all your best ideas and we shall write it together.”

What starts as an entertainment develops into a highly therapeutic exercise for us both. My young apprentice suggests that our hero should be a bear cub – one who is all alone in the world, both his father and mother having been taken by the circus. Our orphan’s name will be John, we decide. The story develops bit by bit over the course of the next week. In the beginning, the cub hides in a cave, lonely and afraid after losing his parents. Then slowly, he finds the courage to explore the world and make new friends. John’s imagination knows no bounds, and yet he is tractable, allowing me to lead the way for how best to incorporate his ideas into his namesake’s tale.

“Well, John, I think you and I make rather a good team,” I tell him after a productive session. “In fact, I believe our book is nearly finished. But perhaps John Bear should have one last, grand adventure before we leave him. What do you say?”

“Yes, Miss Jo. I think he might wish to travel to town to look for his parents.”

“To the city? Hmm, it would be a long journey for a little bear. Do you really believe he could undertake such a thing all by himself?”

“He could! He… he could… if he heard the circus was going to be there… and if he thought he might see his Mama and Papa again. I am sure he would do it. He is grown very brave now. Is that not so?”

“Indeed. No doubt he would have been afraid before, but no longer. It certainly would be a great adventure and a fine way to end our story. Very well; you have convinced me. We shall write just what you suggest.”

In the end, the intrepid cub not only travels to the city, he finds the circus and rescues his parents, this last turn in the plot also being John’s idea. After some judicious editing and the addition of a dozen simple illustrations, my co-author and I are well pleased with our completed book. I sew a binding on and add it to John’s collection.

~~*~~

Apart from the time spent with little John, my mind is much engaged with thoughts of his elder brother. Arthur made his sentiments plain before he went away whilst generously asking nothing of me in return, except that I reflect on what he said. He would no doubt be gratified to learn that I think of little else. What I so lately considered unimaginable – a match between us – seems now a perfectly reasonable possibility. The knowledge that Agnes is happy and Arthur innocent changes everything. Whereas before Arthur’s rumored regard for me seemed in the poorest taste, the confirmed admiration of such a man now strikes me as the highest of compliments.

I am intrigued. I am flattered. And as to compatibility of temperament, there can be no reservation; he is exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit me. But that is not love, I remind myself. After all, such a revolution of sentiments cannot be accomplished overnight. It must be built up by degrees.

Construction, therefore, commences immediately with the prompt recovery of the profound respect I long felt for Arthur when he was my friend and Agnes’s intended. To that not inconsiderable foundation is soon added the gratitude that he should love me above any other. Then, as I give myself permission to remember them, I count every tender thought and secret longing for such an outcome, every guilty thrill of pleasure as a look or touch passed between us. I am in the middle of the process before I know it has begun.

Giddy excitement nearly overtakes me as I become more and more convinced that I have, in some fashion or other, been in love with Arthur Evensong all my life. My feelings only wanted the fullness of time and circumstances to flower into romance, a romance of a more complex and mature flavor than I have known before. The affair with Richard seems but a pale shadow, and every comparison to him only serves to increase the favorable light in which Arthur now stands.

Before I can be completely run away with by my feelings, however, inconvenient voices intrude upon my otherwise pleasant reflections. The first nagging utterance comes from my father. In my mind, I hear him repeating how “no poor parson” will satisfy his marital ambitions for his daughter. The next irritating reminder points out that Arthur is indeed poor. Were we to marry, what could we hope to live on? Finally, I picture Agnes telling me once again that she will never forgive Mr. Evensong.

All this – Agnes’s friendship, financial security, and my father’s approval – I would be prepared to risk in order to gain an object of such superior worth. Yet how would Arthur profit by the bargain? He would have a wife who loved him, but who could do nothing to promote his interests by either fortune or connection, and even less to enhance his future prospects. In the realm of church politics, where reputation is everything, I could only hinder his chances of advancement, a point further emphasized by information I receive in a letter from Susan:

“…I know not how it happened, but Mrs. Ramsey has found out about our plans to marry without her permission. Mr. Ramsey and I were prepared to bear her disapproval when the time came, so it is of little consequence to us. What I am most sorry for is that she has placed a heavy portion of the blame for this ‘unmitigated disaster’ upon your shoulders, my sweet friend. By arranging rendezvous for us in Wallerton and London, and by your financial assistance, you have gained our eternal gratitude but also Mrs. Ramsey’s implacable wrath. She and her fast friend, Mr. Randolph Pierce, have sworn to do everything in their power to sink your prospects and thwart your purposes. That your kindness should be thus rewarded, I regret extremely.”

And so do I. Mrs. Ramsey can do nothing to me personally. But, with her meddling fingers sunk deep into the pie of church policy, she might do incalculable damage to Arthur’s career, were he to ally himself with me. I am fully acquainted with his professional ambitions, and likewise convinced of his claim to ultimate success; a man of ability, strong will, and character must rise to the top in the end. It would be selfish to ask Arthur to sacrifice it all – the fellowship at Oxford and the hope of high holy office – for the dubious honor of marrying me. Indeed, it would be unkind to allow him to make such a grave error.

42

Coming to Conclusions

I am not insensible to the irony of my current situation. Although I am relieved to be free of the wealth which made me an object of prey to fortune hunters, I am not so well pleased that my relative poverty renders it impractical for me to marry where I choose. And now that I realize I would choose Arthur, it seems morally wrong that I should accept him.  

I acknowledge the paradox, but I cannot laugh at it. When I consider the last several months of my acquaintance with Arthur Evensong, all I can do is sigh at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination. Perhaps it might have been better for all concerned had I never suffered my sentiments to be so lately transformed.

It is the middle of September and Arthur’s return is everyday expected. To keep myself busy and my mind from brooding, I once again solicit little John’s company, this time for an outing on horseback. He shares my relish for the sport, and I prefer his society to the hovering presence of a servant, who would otherwise be assigned to escort me on my ride. Fresh air and a gallop through the shades of Fairfield have always served well to clear my head. I hope for the same efficacy today.

Before John arrives, the post comes with the latest installment from Tom. He has been gone nearly two months and written with remarkable regularity – from Paris, Lyon, Barcelona, and various points along the French Mediterranean coast en route to Italy. As always, the letter is addressed to Mama. She eagerly opens it and scans the first few lines.

“He has made it to Venice!” she informs my father and me. “
‘It is a place of rare enchantment,’
he says,
‘quite set apart from the everyday world. It is not only the famous canals that distinguish Venice, but the unique style of the buildings. Here one can clearly discern the blended influences of eastern and western cultures. This place is an architect’s paradise. My sketch book is filling rapidly; at every turn, I find a prospect worth preserving on paper.’
And look, he has sent along some drawings for us.”

Mama passes the pertinent page of the letter to me, which I share with Papa who is sitting by my side. There are three ink sketches. The first one, labeled
“Ponte’s bridge across the Grand Canal at the Rialto,”
reminds me a little of the Pultney Street bridge in Bath. The next is a detail of
“typical Venetian style”
picturing ornately fashioned arched windows and roof cornices very foreign-looking to my eye. The last drawing shows the heavily columned, arched, and domed façade of
“Saint Mark’s Basilica.”

“Imagine the hue and cry that would erupt if someone were to erect such an exotic structure in one of London’s finer neighborhoods,” Papa muses.

“I daresay it had best not be attempted there, but it might look quite at home in Brighton, next to the Prince Regent’s outlandish Royal Pavilion,” I joke. “What else does Tom have to report, Mama?”

“He says that the letters of introduction he carried with him from Oxford have opened many doors. Apparently they were instrumental in his making the acquaintance of an architect of some importance from London, a Mr. Meacham, who happened to be sojourning in Padua when Tom passed that way. He writes,
‘After listening to some of my ideas and looking at my drawings, Mr. Meacham invited me to come see him when I return to England, in order that we may continue our discussions. He would be in a position – and I dare to hope inclined – to assist me in my career.’
Well, what do you think of that, Jo?”

“I think it nicely substantiates what I have always attested: Tom has talent. I am gratified that someone besides his sister has recognized it.”

“Humph!” Papa exclaims. “‘My career,’
Tom says. I fear this scrap of encouragement has gone straight to his head, filling it with unrealistic expectations.”

~~*~~

John and I embark upon our ride shortly after noon, I on Viola and he on an ancient gelding called Max. The plan is to make for the glade in order to gather some of the blackberries that grow in the brambles round its fringes. Viola is eager, as am I, to set a brisk pace; Max and John are not so well able to follow suit. So the refreshing gallop I had hoped for must come in fits and starts. I race off for a stretch and then wait for John to catch me up. Still and all, the cool air and the beauty of the wood, both tinged with the first hints of autumn, do not disappoint.

At our destination, we tether our horses and begin the task before us. My pail fills quickly. John’s progress is slowed by his propensity to deposit at least half the berries into his mouth, the evidence of which stains his lips and fingers a rosy purple. As we work, the sun warms our backs and the laden vines alike, releasing the sweet scent of ripe fruit into the air.

“Arthur will be home soon,” John remarks.

“I know. I read his letter out for you, remember? You will be very happy to see him, I expect.”

“Oh, yes.” Then his smile changes into a frown. “But I wish he would not always go away again.”

Our employment and conversation are interrupted at this point by the sound of a horseman approaching. When he breaks into the sunlight of the clearing, we immediately recognize him. John nearly spills all the contents of his pail in his excitement, dropping it to the ground at once and breaking into a run to meet his brother. I am equally discomposed by the sight of Arthur, but for materially different reasons.

After a few minutes, the two brothers come, hand in hand, to where I have continued my work.

“Hello, Jo,” says Arthur, the earnestness in his voice matching the look he gives me.

“Good afternoon, Arthur. I did not know that you were back.”

“Yes, just. Mrs. Jones told me you and John were off after some berries, so I thought I might find you here.”

John shades his eyes to peer up at his brother. “Cook says she will bake me a pie if I bring her enough.”

“And how much have you collected thus far?” John retrieves his half-empty container and shows it to Arthur. “Hmm. I am no expert, of course, but I think it will be a very small pie unless you put more berries into your bucket… and fewer into your mouth,” Arthur adds with a laugh, examining his brother’s juice-stained face. “I will wait for you to finish, and then we can ride home together, all right?”

This seems to satisfy John, who hurries back to the brambles with his pail, leaving me alone with Arthur. I try to cover my embarrassment by initiating a stroll round the glade and something that I hope will pass for light-hearted banter. It is of no use, however. The tension between us is palpable; the very air crackles with the strain of anticipation.

When I think I can scarcely bear it another minute, Arthur breaks in. “My dearest Jo, forgive me for being so abrupt, but I must know my fate. Tell me then; have you considered the question I left with you before I went away?”

“I have,” I say, my voice trembling despite my exertions to the contrary. “I have thought of little else over the last few weeks.”

“And what is your answer, pray? Will you give me a reason not to accept the fellowship at Oxford?”

I am moved by his supplicating tone, but I force myself to answer according to my prior resolve. “No, Arthur, I cannot. I think you had best take the fellowship.”

I glimpse his crestfallen face before he turns and takes a few steps away. In silent agony I await his reaction, praying he is not too badly hurt.

With his back still toward me, he presently says, “I understand … and I do not blame you, Jo. I probably had no right to hope. It was irrational of me to think that, once our friendship had been restored, you could easily make the leap to deeper feelings; that because I care for you so … so ardently, you must somehow feel the same for me.” With a heavy sigh, he faces me again. “It was a foolish delusion, and now you have kindly awakened me from it.”

“I
am
sorry, Arthur, more so than you can possibly imagine. But consider, you have other, more worthwhile goals to think of, dreams which you have held far longer and dearer than this one. Your career ambitions are more important than any passing regard you may feel for me. They must take precedence. You are destined to do great things in the church – of that I am thoroughly convinced – and I would not hold you back for the world. You will rise farther and much more quickly without me.”

I see in his face that my words bring him no relief.

“That is small consolation. Even supposing it were true, success at such a cost would be an empty victory. High office can give no satisfaction if I am alone.” We both fall silent. The birds, however, continue soaring and singing all about us, unconscious of the crisis playing out before them. At length Arthur continues. “So you are quite certain you shall never be persuaded to care for me.”

It is a statement of resignation, yet Arthur says it with the air of a man grasping at the last straw of hope left to him. My heart is cut to the quick. I have neither the will to hide from his searching gaze nor the courage to reply. All I can do is allow my expression to entreat his understanding and forgiveness.

“What’s this that I see in your countenance, Jo?” he says, coming toward me. “A battle waging? Perhaps you have spoken with more decidedness than you feel. Is it possible that I still have some chance with you?”  

In my anguish, I begin pouring out all my much-debated doubts and reservations: the inevitable objections at home, the want of sufficient income, my damaged reputation and adversaries. “…It is no good, Arthur! You must see that. You cannot marry me. On top of everything else, I should completely ruin your future chances. The whole thing is quite impossible!”

Though I am crying as I speak, Arthur’s mouth has unaccountably stretched into a broad grin. His eyes shining, he then takes my hands and kisses each one, front and back. “My sweet, sweet friend,” he says with barely restrained fervor. “So you
do
care for me after all.”

“I never said so,” I complain with the last morsel of my melting resolve.

“I know, yet, if I may be so bold, your passionate protests have spoken for you. Now, my dear Josephine – for dear you will always be to me – let us have no more of these demurs and scruples. You must be completely honest with me this time. Say no if it must be, but I am praying you love me as I love you, body and soul.”

I cry out, “Of course I do, Arthur, but…”

“Then no more objections! Agree to be my wife and all the rest we shall work out together. I know I have precious little to offer you at present. If you accept me, I’m afraid it must be for myself alone.”

I stare at him in wonder, forcibly struck by his words. “For myself alone,” I repeat. It is a sign. How can I fault his logic or reject a petition based on such a plea, when it is precisely the consideration
I
have so long yearned for? I suddenly realize he has already offered to take me on those terms, and I have no reasonable excuse for denying him the same mark of respect.

A great peace floods over me, a peace which I can only represent by the image of the jumbled bits of a puzzle all at once settling into their proper positions. My misgivings drop away, one by one, as the completed picture falls into place before my eyes. It is a predestined design of sublime order and beauty. Arthur and I belong together; it is as simple as that.

“Yes,” I say, acknowledging the whole of it.

Without another word, he gathers me to himself where, I notice, the curve of my body fits perfectly next to his. I forget all else. With my eyes closed, I drink in the moment – the scent of Arthur’s skin, the warmth of his breath in my hair, the texture of his coat against my cheek, and his heart booming in my ear. For minutes we remain in this attitude. We cleave together, silently basking in the afternoon sun and in all the pleasurable implications of our new understanding.

In Arthur’s arms, I begin to comprehend what has been missing from my picture of connubial bliss. There is an intenseness of feeling in our embrace that is new to me – a unity of spirit, and a powerful longing for a deeper oneness in every other sense. It threatens to overwhelm me. I know Arthur is aware of it too, for all at once he releases me and puts a prudent distance between us again.

When we have both recovered our composure, he offers me his arm and we resume our stroll round the clearing. John continues at his occupation with no apparent awareness of the monumental changes taking place in the lives of the two people who hold his concerns most dear.

“Are you absolutely certain, Arthur?” I ask presently. “To sacrifice what might have been a brilliant career for …”

“My dear girl, you take far too much responsibility upon yourself. And I must protest against writing off my career so quickly. I am by no means convinced that such persons as you claim as your enemies hold my fate in their hands. Moreover, if anybody must have the credit for undermining my career prospects, it is I. For I made myself an adversary of Mr. Randolph Pierce long before you incurred his displeasure. Remember?”

“I suppose that is true. Why
did
you turn down his offer? I have always wondered.”

“As well you might then, for you apparently guessed nothing of my true sentiments at the time. I hardly acknowledged them to myself. However, now you must see how insupportable it would have been. The disadvantages of Mr. Pierce’s questionable character aside, nothing could have tempted me to accept a position where I would have been forced to continually witness your devotion to another man, to see you at his side by day and know you lay in his arms…” He closes his eyes and shudders. “Forgive me, Jo, but I could not have endured it. I made my choice then and there that, come what may, my future would be guided by personal conviction rather than blind ambition. Now I have my reward,” he says, pressing my arm with his own.