The Widow's Fire

by Paul Butler

  Mrs. Harville — her hand still upon Lucy’s cheek — gave me a sympathetic smile. “And what do you think the magistrate would say?”

  Of course, I thought. What would he say? And, in any case, when it came to Elsie, I couldn’t accuse the Harvilles without condemning Henry.

  Mrs. Harville bent low and gave Lucy a kiss, then bundled her up. “You should take her away,” she whispered, “before my husband returns.”

  24. CAPTAIN WENTWORTH

  I AWOKE A COWARD. A blade of sunlight showed between the curtains, promising a day of cringing avoidance. Swirls of dust sparked like tiny, vengeful wasps.

  As soon as I had been sure Anne had left the building, I had gathered up my clothes and returned to my room without a word or a look at Mason. Behind my locked door I had sat, heart beating, lungs filling and emptying, wondering why these signs of token life had to continue when they were so unwanted. The only desire that had survived Anne’s appearance in the bedroom doorway was for a swift and violent passage to oblivion. I had wanted the floor to give way and the walls to crash down on top of me. But simply wanting such a thing did not make it happen and worse was to come. For one shame, deeper than the others, revealed itself to me as I listened to my obstinate breathing, namely, the supreme venality of my fear.

  If I should have felt anything at all, it ought to have been concern for Anne’s welfare. I ought to have worried about how to dismantle the apparatus of the oncoming wedding in such a way as to cause her least grief, least inconvenience, and least embarrassment. But instead my mind chased circles all night trying to guess how Anne might behave. Who might she tell when she returned to Camden Place? Whose imagination would be given leave to paint me in the lurid colours of a Last Judgement’s third triptych, with naked limbs, fire and devilish fork-tongued snakes? Whose stares I would have to avoid, whose lips would be most likely to communicate the details of my ultimate fall?

  I imagined news spreading like a plague and I thought of my sister, of Admiral Croft lodging beneath me. They had slept soundly through Anne’s arrival and departure no doubt — at least I had heard no stirrings — but how could I face the idea of them knowing what they would surely soon find out? How could I sit at table, taking tea, making pleasant conversation about a wedding that I now knew could not take place? I thought of Harville, a good and trusting man, surely, in spite of the recent distance between us, and his wife, Lydia, whose eyes had already seemed to absorb more knowledge than I had willingly given. With a sickening feeling, I had thought of the rumours that already existed and all the attempts Mrs. Smith had made to confine them.

  Unable to keep still, I had gone to the window and opened a curtain. I had watched as crystalline patterns of frost devoured the final portions of the diamond-shaped glass. How apt had seemed the image; sooner or later rumour entirely usurps the reputation of a man. All Mrs. Smith’s work, it had seemed, would come to naught. Only one detail had held back my certainty about the spreading of the plague; I just couldn’t imagine Anne giving any of the details to a living soul. Even if she’d had a mind to confide in her sister Mary, for instance, or Lady Russell, what words could she possibly use? There was a reason such scenes between men took place onboard ship or in other places beyond the accidental viewing of women; the two realities could never co-exist. Anne could never tell. Mary and Lady Russell could never hear. She would give no explanation at all.

  Some of the household would have known she was summoned after midnight, and some would surely notice her state upon return. Anne’s father might have returned from London by now. How would she answer should she come under his direct questioning?

  I had returned to my chair to watch the candles sputter their last. The most likely scenario had played out in my mind: she would say the wedding would have to be cancelled. She would refuse to give a reason but everyone would know it was something that occurred during her after-midnight visit. She might be pressed for more details but would refuse to give them. Arguments would ensue, but she would remain silent. Each person would build their own preferred account of the behaviour that had led to the breach, but in all likelihood, none of them would come close to the horrifying truth.

  With such thoughts, I had exhausted myself into sleep. My dreams had consisted of a hundred letters of explanation and apology, each of them bereft of detail or reason, and a thousand silent encounters with unnamed acquaintances. Over and over I bowed my head and murmured my regrets. Time and time again, I stared chest-height at the bright buttons or the flapping fan while I gave these abject signs of penitence; never could I identify a face from the blur of features just beyond my true field of true vision. I had become a walking apology bent under the permanent weight of conscience and shame.

  Soon before waking, I had been running uphill through a rising mist, a screaming mob behind me. A small rock grazed my ear and something heavier thumped upon my back as the outline of a scaffold came into view, its dark upright dividing a pale and luminous sky beyond the hill’s summit. Though afraid to look around, I somehow knew that the mob chasing me was made up not of anonymous people, but men and women of my acquaintance. Instinct told me that the small rock had been thrown by Harville, and the heavier object by Admiral Croft. The mist thinned as I scrambled towards my fate. The noose hung before me like an open mouth.

  And then I was facing the blade of sunlight and the swirling fires of dust. A glance at the clock on the mantle confirmed what I already knew, that it was too late to escape the house before Jenny or the Crofts’ servants were up.

  Dimly, I was aware there had been a pre-dawn shifting from Oliver Mason’s room. Footsteps and the downward thumping of a trunk had invaded my dreams. He was gone, it was certain, and though it might give me something to explain in addition to the wedding’s cancellation, I was not sorry. His disappearance removed a barrier between me and the world beyond this house. The sword of daylight terrified me, it was true, but the thought of Harville, Lydia, the Admiral, and my sister at close quarters was far worse.

  I felt a tingle in my hands and feet and knew I had to be gone. From the streets I could catch a stage to Bristol or I could simply purchase a horse and ride. I knew I was unlikely to do either of those things without first attempting to organize my affairs. But even the knowledge that I could act thus filled me with desperation to be outdoors. I jolted forward in my chair and rose, pulling on my jacket and checking my wallet.

  Speed was everything. No one could stop me to ask questions if I was fast enough. I turned my lock quietly. Then, swinging the door open, I leapt down the stairs two at a time. My sister’s entrance on the middle landing was thankfully closed. Spinning around, I raced the final staircase towards the ground floor. The dining room door was open as I was afraid it might be. I could hear the Admiral’s voice, “Here he comes now, I think,” and then as I rushed past to front door, I caught a surprised, “Frederick!” from Sophia. A second later I was on the street making my way determinedly to I knew not where.

  It was warmer today. A flock of starlings wheeled around the turrets and chimneys of the city, drawing together like a dark swarm and settling upon the cobbles before taking flight in unison to begin the process afresh. Their synchronized navigations seemed to follow me just as the skirt of a dancing gypsy follows her movements. But every other sensation put me on edge. A sudden tug on the elbow turned out to be nothing more than my own twitch in response to a ruffle in the fabric. The hollering of my name from across the street turned out to be nothing of the kind but rather the shout of one urchin to another. The air about me was charged with a belief in my imminent apprehension. I caught more than one look from inquisitive passersby, and had to remind myself it was not my recent history that sparked their curiosity, but rather the furtiveness of my demeanour.

  Though I had not knowingly planned for such a destination, I discovered myself at Westgate Buildings. I looked up to the highest windows and the nervous tingle about me seemed to
settle. In time of war, I reflected, one’s immediate superior is the person one is most loathe to disappoint. Yet it is also he to whom one goes in order to receive some measure of comfort. Only one’s commander can form a fresh challenge through which one may make amends. Mrs. Smith was my commanding officer in time of peace. She had intimated as much on that first meeting in her rooms. I had allowed it at the time largely out of politeness. But I could see now her words had been chosen out of insight and long experience — my feet had known this already, hence my presence outside her home. Mrs. Smith alone might understand what had happened. Mrs. Smith alone would likely withhold judgement. She would be disappointed that my actions had undone so much good work, and she would be most concerned about Anne. But she would continue to carry some of the blame for recommending I bring Oliver Mason into the plans, and I felt certain too she would offer at least some practical advice about the best way to disentangle Anne from myself, some method which might obscure the reasons while also shielding Anne from ridicule.

  Moving to the entrance, I raised my hand but the door opened before my fingers touched the brass. I faced Nurse Rooke; her expression, oddly, mirrored the ravages of a worry as all-encompassing as my own. Her eyes looked upon me, in particular, with a pity that was unnerving. Could she already know what had occurred? And then another thought came to me: could Anne herself have gone straight to Mrs. Smith? She had been a friend and confidant of long standing, after all.

  “I saw you approach, Captain Wentworth,” she said, her lips uneven as though bit from within. My skin burned. She knew, it was certain; this woman knew all about it. Oh God.

  “Is…?” I couldn’t finish the question. My gaze was entirely locked, my mouth frozen. I was like a rabbit caught and twitching in a snare.

  “Mrs. Smith?” she said, her eyes moist with compassion. There was a movement about her neck, as though she meant to turn her head but thought better of it. “I’m afraid Mrs. Smith is not in.”

  A boulder dropped in my chest. The aborted look behind had said it all, but the claim she was somewhere abroad without company of her nurse completed the picture. Even Mrs. Smith was avoiding me now. I sensed movement behind me, and a quick glance showed that the starlings had come down and gathered on the other side of the road. They were my plague, it seemed, and they would follow me everywhere; I was quite beyond hope.

  “Captain Wentworth,” Nurse Rooke said, suddenly taking a half step toward me. “May I say, firstly, I have some idea of what might be troubling you? I came across the Harville’s maid, Jenny, this morning. I could piece it together and so could Mrs. Smith.” That ghost of a backward glance came again, a movement about the neck thought of but not executed. “In this instance, there is only one person who you must see, one person who could bring resolution to your problems. It is not Mrs. Smith, but Miss Anne Elliot.”

  She’d delivered the last part of the prescription in a whisper, as though talking to a child. It was obvious, of course, so maybe it was fitting that she should address me so. If you wound a person, you seek them out to apologize and offer some recompense. But, Anne? How could I face her? I could not imagine such a thing. Climbing the steps of her Camden Place residence would be like climbing into the flames of the sun.

  “Captain,” she said, claiming me again, her hand reaching out to my sleeve. “I will ask her for you. I will go to her house and say you want to meet her in some quiet place, the cemetery perhaps.”

  I gazed at her, feeling the tears rimming my eyes. It was extraordinary. The insight and penetration I had associated with Mrs. Smith alone was possessed by this woman too. She had read my fears, divined the one true obstacle that would prevent me from trying.

  “But she will not come,” I said. My eyes, shamed by moisture, were now cast down to my shoes.

  “I know how to put it to her, Captain. I will say you will be there in an hour. If she agrees, I will have a carriage ready to convey her.”

  I found myself nodding.

  25. NURSE ROOKE

  AFTER I WATCHED CAPTAIN WENTWORTH move down the street, I closed the front door, and paused in the dim space. I had just betrayed Mrs. Smith, but my heart was steady and calm. I wondered at this. Would I soon be thrown into an agony of repentance? Never had I trodden the briary path of disloyalty towards my Miss Adeline. My little bird had always been sure of my complete obedience to her needs and desires, and the devotion, far from being slavery, was ever a comfort for me. How many women and men talk longingly of a purpose? How few were like me, knowing my purpose without the slightest tinge of doubt, and accordingly sacrificing and striving to serve with all the energy they possessed?

  But for the very first time I had disobeyed her. I had not decided so to do, but when he’d stood before me, his eyes wild and sleepless, a spirit of defiance had usurped my body and taken hold of my tongue. Still, I was calm. Such a devastating change should, I thought, cause a commotion within, perhaps tremblings, spasms and pains — but I felt nothing. I turned now and took the stairs slowly. Sooner or later Mrs. Smith would have to find out, but the resolve was there. My first concern was to find a reason to leave the house so I could deliver my message to Miss Elliot.

  I tapped on Mrs. Smith’s door now and entered. She was gazing at a flock of starlings that wheeled first towards and then away from the window as though connected by a hundred invisible strings. “I must ask poor Anne to visit,” she said wistfully.

  “I can give her a message if you like, Mrs. Smith.”

  She turned, smiling. She believed, apparently, this offer was to soothe her regret. “Yes,” she said brightening a little, setting her cross-stitch aside. “Please do, Nurse Rooke. Pass me my writing things and I will pen a quick note inviting her for tea.”

  I did so, with hands swift and un-trembling. Still, the reality of my treachery did not fall on me with any tangible force. I began to wonder if it ever would. I had never lied to Mrs. Smith, nor held back information that I was loath to give. If anything, I tended to spill everything before she was ready to hear and catch a reprimand for not letting her settle and catch her breath. So what was different? She’d told me this morning that we must at all costs keep Miss Anne and Captain Wentworth apart. This was the one thing she had been certain about after my talk with Jenny. Nothing should be allowed to ease the humiliation and embarrassment he would feel at seeing her, nothing should soothe or explain away the shock Miss Elliot likely felt.

  Mrs. Smith had explained her strategy in more detail once I had brought her breakfast. “Anne Elliot, we can be sure, will never tell, but Captain Wentworth must not know this.” She had taken the tea cup from her tray and waited, its steam rising in circles under her nose. I had stood above her, ears longing to hear what I had begun to realize she would not say — that we had done enough damage, reaped enough reward, and that the two of them might be left in peace to pick up the scraps of their lives as best they could. “Being a man,” she had continued, “he will never be quite sure what a woman will and will not reveal.”

  “But Mrs. Smith,” I had said softly. She had looked up at me puzzled, as though forgetting I had the power of speech. “Why would keeping them apart be essential to the plan? To truly have Captain Wentworth in our power, surely he needs to have something to lose. If she forgave him, took him back, then the letter would mean something again.”

  She had seemed to consider this for a moment. “He still has plenty to lose, Nurse Rooke, even without Anne Elliot. He still has his career, his reputation, his friends, and his future, Nurse Rooke. Yes, Nurse Rooke, a future. Believe me, a woman may pine away after a disappointment when there is no task to throw herself into, but a man can rebuild himself anew. He can define himself — to himself — by concentrating on his career.” She had stared down at the surface of her tea again. “All in all, Nurse Rooke, everything may still work out better than I had dared to hope.”

  I had nodded, forcing a smile. She had glance
d at me and must have seen telltale furrows in my brow. But she ignored them and continued: “Captain Mason has been like a most skillful surgeon extracting a bullet and leaving the connecting matter undisturbed. Alone of all the people Jenny says were charmed by him, only Anne Elliot knows the truth. He aimed at the bull’s-eye and buried his mischief exclusively in the one place from which it will not spread.”

  My lips began to form words and then stopped. She looked up at me again, nodded as though giving me permission to speak. “But Captain Mason may still prove a problem.”

  “Not now. He has achieved his ends, Nurse Rooke. His disappearance shows he is finished and I must say I rather admire the young man. We hold the only other tangible evidence — Captain Mason’s letter. Our task now is to keep Captain Wentworth in a state of perpetual and permanent alarm about both Anne and Captain Mason. We may know the worst part of the danger to be past, but he must not know it. This way we will always retain our power over him.”

  ***

  Now watching Mrs. Smith scratch out her note to Miss Elliot, I realized what was so different about our enterprise today, so much less palatable than any scheme we had so far undertaken. We had profited from misfortune many times before; we had gained advantage from threats and blackmail. But never, until now, had we separated those who would otherwise be together. Never before had we sinned against love.

  I took the folded note from her hand, curtsied, and went to the door. Stealing a glance before leaving, I noticed how the hair above Mrs. Smith’s temples seemed thinner today. I could see patches of scalp. Had I noticed this before? My poor little bird, I thought, losing such feathers before her time.

  As I descended to the street I felt a tug of longing for a golden time, which for the moment was now, but would very soon be then. Our time was running very short indeed. I would be the last of her inner circle to leave, and this would make it even harder. Plato had left her and survived, and Henry, ordered to put an end to Plato, instead now shared his scant accommodations. This would never have happened in Mrs. Smith’s prime. A hole had been pierced through her indomitable shield and there was something dispiriting about it. I did not even want to witness her decline let alone play an active part in her accumulating losses. It was the last role on earth I would have chosen.