For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel (19 page)

32

Plans for Improvements

How I wish that I could more speedily adopt Agnes’s philosophy for dealing with my feelings about Arthur. Whereas my friend has successfully resolved that what he has done will spoil neither her current enjoyment nor future plans, I can boast no such emotional detachment. Had he not seemed such an icon of uprightness to me in the past, perhaps Arthur’s downfall would not continue to grieve me so. As it is, I remain sorely disconsolate on the subject with no remedy in sight.

Such reflections as these keep my mind occupied until sleep at last overtakes me. I awake quite early the next day to take up the same chain of thought again. Upon hearing some noise outdoors, I slip from my bed, cross to the window, and draw the heavy damask drapery aside a few inches. Every room on the west front looks across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates, although these are indistinct at present. It has rained during the night, and a heavy morning mist blankets the ground rendering every distant article in ghostly guise.

The objects close at hand I can discern clearly enough. A horse and two figures – Mr. Evensong and a stable boy – converge on the drive. Arthur mounts up and takes one last look at the house. For a moment, I think he might see me, though if he does he betrays no sign of it. After a parting word to the lad, he sets off and is soon swallowed up by the fog.

As I watch him disappear, I remind myself what a relief it will be to have Arthur – and the inner turmoil he creates for me – gone from Millwalk. Yet the way we parted last night continues to trouble me. My conscience accuses me of deliberate cruelty. With the subsequent assurance of Agnes’s well-being in view, my rudeness to him now seems unnecessarily harsh. Still, if it serves to discourage him from cherishing any unrealistic hopes about me, perhaps insolence has been the wisest, and ultimately kindest, course. In any case, it is over and done – no sense in beating the thing dead when it cannot be changed.

I go about my morning toilet slowly. There is no need to hurry downstairs; the others, in all likelihood, are not yet stirring. A faint rap on my door soon gives evidence of at least one exception. I open to find Susan standing there in her dressing gown.

“May I come in?” she asks in little more than a whisper. “I could not sleep, so I thought I would take a chance that you might be awake as well.”

“Of course. Come in, by all means. I hope you are not ill or that you find your accommodations uncomfortable.”

“No, not at all. I rarely sleep well the first night in a new place. That cannot be the origin of
your
restlessness though; you have been here countless times before.”

“True, and yet never under these peculiar circumstances. Ah, well, the cause of the variance is now gone, so we may all be more at our ease today.”

“A peculiar variance? Is that how you think of Mr. Evensong? I might call him many things, but never that. Still, if his presence upsets you, then I am glad he is gone.”

“Oh, Susan, you are only aware of half the story. You know that I cannot forgive him for abandoning Agnes. Now the plot has taken another turn, and for the worse, I’m afraid. I have to tell somebody, but my dear, you must not breathe a word of this, especially not to Agnes.”

“What on earth…”

I pull Susan over to sit beside me on the bed. “My brother Tom believes that Arthur – oh, I can scarcely bring myself to say the words – that Arthur has thrown Agnes over because he cares for me!”

“Is that what he told you? No wonder, then, that you have been so little like yourself.”

“So you can appreciate my vexation.”

“…and the awkwardness of your situation, yes. The assertion that Mr. Evensong cares for you, I can well believe. I suspected as much myself. As for the rest, I should not hazard an opinion. In my experience, venturing to ascribe motives to another person’s behavior is a singularly perilous undertaking. I believe we have both fallen victim to that sort of error.”

“How do you mean?”

“In my case, Mrs. Ramsey accused me of wishing to marry her son to improve my financial and social position. When in truth, I would gladly take him if he were as poor and insignificant as a church mouse.”

“And in my case, the reverse is true,” I continued for her. “I believed Mr. Pierce pursued me out of love, and his true purpose turned out to be avarice. I see what you mean.”

“Yes. I am sorry, Jo. Perhaps I should not have reminded you.”

“It does not signify. Although it still pains me to think of him, I am quite reconciled to the loss of Mr. Pierce. Yet how can you compare that gross error in judgment to this business with Arthur? The situations are so dissimilar.”

“I only mean that it is just as likely you are mistaken in this case as in the other. Then you assessed a gentleman’s motives too charitably and now, perhaps…”

“…too severely? You must think me a blind fool and a dreadful judge of character.”

“No, indeed I do not. Yet we, none of us, can be objective where our hearts are involved. I simply fear yours has become too much entangled in this quarrel between your friends for clarity. I doubt that the case is as straightforward as it was represented to you, for rarely is one person solely to blame in a dispute and the other completely innocent. Mr. Evensong is probably no more a black-hearted villain than Miss Pittman is a saint.”

~~*~~

At breakfast, Mama reminds us that the day is Good Friday. “In light of that fact, I propose that we should have a small service tonight. You remember that it was always your uncle’s custom to assemble everyone in the chapel for evening prayers. It would please me very much to honor that tradition. Tom, I would be obliged if you would lead us.”

“I am not prepared,” he protests.

“It needn’t be anything elaborate – a hymn or two, an appropriate scripture reading, a few thoughts from you on the text, and a prayer. That will do nicely. It shall be only we six plus those servants who might wish to join us. Such a trifling thing can hold no terror for you, surely. After all, not many months hence you will be responsible for much more than that every Sunday.”

Further remonstrations fall on deaf ears; Mama’s mind seems quite made up.

To his brother’s suggestion that he reveal his plans for the proposed improvements at Millwalk, Tom responds with far more enthusiasm. After we finish our meal, he brings out his drawings, proudly spreading them on the table in the library for all interested eyes to behold. With the young squire at his side and the rest of us looking on as well as we might, Tom explains the carefully prepared illustrations.

“Here are the two tenant cottages. I think you will find the design consistent with your specifications, Fred. As you see, all the main living spaces are on the ground floor with a central staircase to the sleeping quarters above. Now, my idea is this. Why not build them both together – not just side by side, but attached? If one is made the mirror image of the other, they can share this main wall and chimney. The savings to you would be substantial and the tenants would stay warmer in winter for losing less heat to the outside. By the same principle, you could add more cottages on to either end as needed in future.”

Tom next reveals his innovative ideas for the landscape transformation and the conservatory addition, the plans for which are likewise beautifully drawn.

“Very good. I like what I see,” says Frederick. “Your designs prove you have vision and an artist’s eye, Tom. But are the buildings structurally sound? Can we be certain they will stand the test of time and weather?”

“Oh, yes. I have done my research and made exact calculations. You needn’t be uneasy, dear brother. I am not really such a great dunce after all. My failure to distinguish myself at Oxford owes more to want of inspiration than lack of ability. When I find a project that I can sink my teeth into, such as this one, I am quite capable of producing work of high quality.”

“Well, I think your plans are wonderful, my dear,” declares our mother. We all voice our approbation and questions, the further discussion of which occupies much of the morning. By noon, the sun has chased away the dampness, so we embark upon a pleasant walk in the gardens near the house, to take the air and to examine the sites for the proposed changes.

After tea, when at last the topic of improvements has been canvassed in and out of doors to the point of exhaustion, other occupations must be found. Whilst Tom closets himself in the library to prepare for the evening’s religious observances, Frederick orders a phaeton and horses to drive the ladies all round the park. Mama excuses herself from this second airing of the day in favor of a little rest before dinner, but we three younger ladies are keen to go. Agnes, especially, takes in everything she sees along the way with interest and admiration.  

Immediately following dinner, the whole party proceeds to the chapel, which is appointed in copious quantities of mahogany and crimson velvet. The sinking sun shines through the lofty stained-glass window, scattering red, blue and gold beams about the room, on the furnishings and occupants alike. Once we have taken our places, half a dozen servants file in behind.

Tom puts us through our paces exactly according to the formula laid out by our mother. We begin with an old standard hymn appropriate to the day, followed by Tom reading the account of the crucifixion from the twenty-seventh chapter of St. Matthew’s gospel. He then adds a few awkward words of his own on the subject, and closes with a brief prayer. I know I should be focused on Christ’s sacrifice, but through it all I’m thinking of poor Tom. I cannot help noticing that, despite his training, he wears the mantle of presiding minister with very little ease or natural grace.  

The service having reminded us what the solemn occasion signifies, the rest of the evening takes on a more serious tone than the one previous. Gaiety seems out of place and dancing, impossible. Instead, quiet conversation fills the remaining hours before bed.

I seek out my younger brother’s society. “What a triumph for you, Tom. It is not often that one has the chance to establish ability in both one’s vocation and avocation in the same day. Well done.”

“You are too kind, Jo. Although I did my best, my performance tonight could hardly be called a triumph. I fear I shall do little justice to the sacred office for which I am destined. I have no talent for it. Still, where the heart is sincere, I trust the service must be acceptable in God’s sight.”

“That is precisely what I believe.”

“It is unfortunate that Arthur had to leave us this morning. He would have done a more creditable job at chapel, given the chance.”

“Well I, for one, am glad he is gone. You did very well tonight, Tom. You needn’t disparage yourself by an unfavorable comparison to anyone, least of all to Arthur Evensong.”

33

Easter

Although the visit to Millwalk has been, for the most part, enjoyable, when it is time to leave the next morning after breakfast, I do not regret it. Mama comes into my room just as I finish packing.

“My dear, the footman is here to take your trunk if it is ready,” she says.

I close and latch the lid. “Yes, all ready. What about Agnes and Susan? I wonder if they need any assistance.”

“Susan’s trunk has just gone down and Agnes finished long ago. Yours is the last one. We shall soon be off.”

Going to the window, I observe, “We have a fine day for traveling. Apparently, Agnes could not wait to be out in it,” I add upon noticing my friend strolling on the lawn with Frederick. “How well she looks compared to only a few weeks ago! It does my heart good to see it.”

“Yes, you ought to be pleased with her improvement, for you have a good share of the credit.”

“Nonsense. I have done very little – only what any true friend would under the same circumstances.”

“You have a very high standard for friendship in that case. Nevertheless, I wish you to know that your charity has not gone unnoticed. I, at least, have seen it. It is all the more laudable since this service to your friend was demanded at a time when you were in want of sympathy yourself.”

“Dear, Mama! You see only the good in me, but I am a very selfish creature. What I needed far more than pity was to be doing something useful, something to distract me from my own problems. Caring for Agnes was the best medicine for what ailed me, and to see her fully restored will be reward enough.”

Mama and I proceed downstairs to thank our host and take our leave. Tom is already seated atop his horse, which, contrary to his earlier fears, appears perfectly sound. Frederick helps each of us into the carriage, and we set off.

“What an exceedingly pleasant visit we have had,” sighs Agnes, taking one last look out the window before Millwalk is lost from view. “It is over far too soon.”

“Take heart, Miss Pittman,” says Mama. “It is a pleasure we can expect to have oft repeated in future, I should think.”

“Yes, I depend on it,” she replies.

~~*~~

Easter morning in Wallerton dawns in dreary shades of gray, thanks to the impenetrable clouds aloft delivering an unrelenting precipitation below. The spirits of those filling Wallerton church are dampened but little, however. Sitting with Susan, my parents, and my brother Tom, I look about myself at the crowd of familiar faces.

The full complement of Pittmans are present, I observe with satisfaction, but the Evensongs are lacking one of their usual number. Since Mrs. Evensong rarely misses Sunday worship, least of all on a high holy day such as Easter, her absence gives me real cause for concern. Accordingly, after the service, I determine to set aside my personal reluctance in order to ask Arthur about the condition of his mother’s health.

The cramped quarters of the little church, filled to overflowing, offer scant opportunity for socializing within its walls. So, despite the inclement weather, the congregation begins spilling out of doors directly. Being nearer the exit from the start, the Evensong brothers preceded us thither. I have no choice but to throw myself into the current and wait for it to carry me out as well.  

Once free of the press of people on all sides, I make straight for Arthur. He sees me approaching and hesitates, with the uncertain look of an injured creature wishing to avoid further abuse.

“Arthur, please wait,” I call. “I promise I will not keep you standing out in this rain long. I only wish to inquire after your mother. How is she?”

“She is still quite unwell.”

“Happy Easter, Miss Jo,” interrupts little John. “Do you have a new story for me?”

“Good morning, my dear boy. No new stories today, I’m afraid. What should you like for me to write about next?”

“A cow! Make it about a brown cow… one who goes to school,” he says laughing.

“Just as you like, John. And since it is your idea, you must name the cow, if you please. It must be a girl’s name, you know, for all cows are ladies.” John rolls his eyes. “Well, you think about it and tell me her name next time I see you. All right?”

“Yes, Miss Jo.”

John runs off and I return my attention to Arthur. “I am exceedingly sorry to hear about your mother. Has Mr. Trask been to see her again?”

“Yes, he attends her every day, much good may it do her.”

“Mr. Trask is a very clever man; he will surely see her through this. Please do give her my very best wishes.”

“I know she would be far happier to hear them from your own lips. Call on her tomorrow if you will. I shall stay well out of your way, since you have made it clear how ill you can bear my company.”

I drop my eyes. “That will not be necessary, Arthur, and I am sorry to have been so uncivil as to make you feel that it would. I will come tomorrow if I may, and I pray I shall find your mother a vast deal better by then.”

“Yes, God grant that you shall.” We linger in the rain until Arthur breaks the awkward silence. “Well, until tomorrow then?”

“Yes, until tomorrow.”

~~*~~

At breakfast the following morning, I state my intention of calling on the ailing Mrs. Evensong without delay. Susan, who has no appetite today, elects to stay behind, feeling somewhat unwell herself. Mama says she will defer her visit until a later hour. So, with the weather agreeable and the distance involved – barely a mile and a half – no obstacle, I refuse my father’s offer of the carriage, throw a light shawl about my shoulders, and set off on foot.

I see Arthur only briefly when I arrive and find his mother, to my very great relief, tolerably improved. She brightens when she sees me. “Josephine, come. Sit here beside me, my dear.”

Going to her at once, I take her offered hand. “How are you, Mrs. Evensong?”

“I believe I am a little better, thank you. I ought to be for all the attention I have received. I fear I have made a great nuisance of myself lately.”

“No indeed! It is only right that you should allow someone to take care of
you
for a change.”

I encourage Mrs. Evensong to carry the conversation as much as possible. Not surprisingly, then, it tends very much to center on her three sons. She talks about her eldest, Robert, who is primarily occupied administering all manner of business for the estate, a source of both pride and regret to her. According to her report, he works hard to fill his father’s shoes, yet his diligence leaves him little time to spare for his own mother and brother living under the same roof. Little John, who comes and goes throughout our visit, periodically commands our attention with his questions and needs. As for Arthur, Mrs. Evensong can scarcely say enough about him – his fine record at Oxford, his bright future, his attentiveness during her illness.

All these things I know already, and I bristle slightly at being forced to listen to a recitation of praises that I can no longer enter into with any enthusiasm. Still, allowances must be made for a mother’s feelings, I remind myself. Mrs. Evensong’s pride no doubt blinds her to her son’s failings, and it is neither my intention nor my place to disillusion her. Fortunately, a nod or smile from me now and again seems to answer.

When I leave Mrs. Evensong, I decide to call on Agnes next. However, it is not only my friend, but the whole Pittman family I find assembled in the drawing room when I arrive. And although I am happy enough to make conversations with them all, Agnes soon grows restless and spirits me away into the garden.  

“I have hardly ever had you to myself these few weeks,” she complains. “And I am impatient to ask if you have any news concerning Mr. Pierce. Has he or his father made any attempt to contact you again, Jo?”

“No, I have had only the one letter from Richard and nothing more from his father, thank goodness. Nor do I expect to hear anything official until the end of May, when I shall be in violation of the marriage contract… unless I relent.”

“Perhaps you should consider it. Nearly anything would be preferable to ending in court, I daresay. The scandal, the publicity: it is horrifying to consider!”

Agnes’s latent curiosity takes me by surprise. This is the first time she has asked about my plans. “I quite agree with you there, and I will be at great pains to be sure that it never comes to that. Rather than suffer the indignity of having my private actions and character put on public trial, I would sooner part with every last farthing of my inheritance.”

“Josephine, you mustn’t even joke about such a disaster. Heaven forbid! How could you hope to make a good marriage with no fortune?”

I laugh. “I see you have no very high opinion of my other good qualities. I flatter myself that my prospects would not be quite as bleak as you represent them. Without my inheritance, I would be no worse off than I was a year ago. I shall still have my dowry and a little money from my mother as before. No honorable man will despise me for not possessing more.”

Agnes shakes her head, sadly. “Poor naïve girl. Do you still expect men to behave honorably in financial affairs despite what has happened to you, to me, and to my father? Clearly, the last several months have taught you nothing.”

“On the contrary. I have learnt to be more careful, but I have not yet been educated into a state of complete pessimism. You see, I am still unwilling to denounce the male sex entirely. And you? Surely you are not ready to give up on men so soon.”

Agnes shrugs her shoulders and blushes becomingly.

“There, now. I suspected as much.”

“You suspect a deal more than that, Jo, from the way you look at me. And I know what it is too. I daresay you have noticed your brother’s kind attentions to me, and you think I might fancy myself the next mistress of Millwalk. Ah! You clever creature; that’s very true. What a thinking brain you have!”

“You give me too much credit, Agnes. Although my thoughts did tend in that direction, they had not yet carried me so far down the path. But now you must tell me all! Is there an understanding of some kind between you and Frederick? Am I to wish you joy?”

“Not exactly, at least not yet,” she says with a coy smile. “He did ask if he might see me when he next comes to Wallerton – to speak to me about something very particular, he said.”

“Aha! That can mean only one thing. What did you say? How did you answer him?”

“I said that I should be only too pleased to hear whatever he had to say.”

“Oh, Agnes, how heavenly. We would be sisters! Yet my own wishes are unimportant. What is more to the point, do you really care for Frederick? I trust you would not encourage him unless you are sure that you feel for him what you ought.”