Elaine had applauded her friend’s skillful and warm hearted handling of a touchy situation, thinking it was typical of Mary to see so quickly to the very heart of a problem.
So it was Mary who sat up late with Elaine that night, listening to her in a way that allowed her to untangle her conflicting emotions and to consider the new possibilities that had been laid before her. And early in the morning, after no more than a few hours sleep, it was the door of Miss Elizabeth Miles’ tidy bed chamber upon which Elaine tapped and through which she gained admittance for another hour of intense discussion.
It was Mary who reminded her that she had once rejected a marriage proposal promising great wealth. And it was Libby who brought a little sanity into the situation by reminding Elaine how her Great Aunt had shaken her head despairingly and remarked that Elaine’s beauty was a true misfortune.
“And she said that right after lamenting the death of Miss Wollstonecraft, which your aunt attributed solely to her weakness towards the male sex. She blamed her friend’s death on her marriage to Mr. Godwin, you know, and I suppose in a way she was correct, for Miss Wollstonecraft did indeed die in childbirth. However, it seemed to me that your Great Aunt Agatha was also thinking of how deeply her friend had suffered so many years on account of her attachment to that American scoundrel. It is said that on several occasions the unfortunate woman attempted to put a period to her own life, although the details have remained unclear to me. In any case, I believe your Great Aunt feared that you too would succumb to temptation and hoped that her money would provide you with some modicum of protection should you be so foolish as to enter into the matrimonial state.”
“I suppose that may have been the case,” Elaine mused, “though I can’t help but wonder if she could have had some other motive. For it seems to me that even a large fortune such as this provides very little protection any more. Of course, it was different in her day, when women were allowed more control over their money. Well, it is a puzzle we may never fully understand.”
Miss Miles agreed that that was so.
“Certainly you are right, Libby, that she was most set against the male sex,” Elaine continued. “I remember the day that we visited her, Great Aunt Agatha went on and on about the evils of marriage, and even after I wrote her about my plans to live with you and Mary in the Dower House, she continued to warn me against men at least once in each letter that she wrote me. I often felt as if she wanted me to make a solemn pledge to stay at a distance from all men, and of course I could not agree to that. Well, how could I? There is Papa, and there was Giles before he died, and you know I formed several good friendships with gentlemen when I was in London for my Season. I must admit that in general I find the male sex quite interesting, even entertaining, and although I have never met one with whom I wanted to spend my life, neither have I developed the kind of dislike for men that my dear Great Aunt Agatha professed.”
“Indeed I should hope not! Such prejudices would almost certainly be detrimental to your performance of your responsibilities as a Howard of Lynnfield, besides not being at all ladylike, nor characteristic of your sweet nature,” Libby declared, patting Elaine’s hand gently.
“No, certainly,” Elaine smiled, much amused by the prospect of trying to manage the estate while keeping her distance from Chudleigh, the butler, the gardener, the Vicar of the parish, the Squire and her other good and helpful neighbors in the vicinity of Dunnswood, and indeed all the tenants working the Lynnfield lands.
And so it was with good humor that, despite a mostly sleepless night, Elaine was pouring out her tea at the breakfast table when Anne and Libby joined her. Miss Miles ate all of her meals with the family now that Anne had to all intents and purposes emerged from the schoolroom. And although she continued her old governess’s habit of remaining quietly in the background when Mr. Howard was present, or on the rare occasions when there were guests in the house, she spoke freely when the company comprised just herself and the two girls she had nurtured for so many years.
“I think a school for young ladies would be quite an excellent thing.” Elaine remarked as she spread a little butter on her toast.
“Oh Laney, never say so!” cried Anne, gesturing dramatically with the spoon with which she had been about to scoop some apple mint jelly onto her plate. “You would not throw away a fortune such as that!”
Elaine took a small bite of her toast and chewed it before answering. “It is certainly true that young ladies in general receive a most inferior education, studying pianoforte and drawing and conformable manners, while young gentlemen are prone to learn algebra and Latin.”
“Laney, you are teasing me. Of what use is Latin or algebra to a female? Dearest Libby has taught us French and Italian as well as music and drawing and deportment. Do you consider her schooling of us inferior?”
“No indeed. We have had a very superior sort of education for mere females, besides which Libby taught me geography and some small skill at Greek and Latin too, for which I am most grateful. But dear Giles went to Eton, where he studied the Classics and learned mathematics and many other things beyond our limited course of study. Is that not true, dearest Libby?”
“It is true, my dear,” Libby replied calmly. “I’m afraid if you wished for a gentleman’s education, you were in quite the wrong hands.”
“Not I,” insisted Anne, taking up her muffin again and lavishly applying the jelly. “I for one had rather we had learned less, for book learning is unbecoming in females you know. Nothing is more off putting to a young man’s fancy than a bookish female.”
“I’m quite certain you read that in The Repository,” said Libby with a low laugh. “Confess.”
“Well, yes, and then dear Papa said something much the same the other day.”
Elaine twinkled. “If I remember the occasion correctly, he considered it quite a miracle that I received as many offers as I did, such a bluestocking as I am.”
“Oh, Laney, there’s nothing to that,” protested Anne. “Who could not fall in love with you? He only said that because I was feeling uneasy about my Season, you know, on account of not being so clever as you and not being able to converse comfortably about Economy or Politicks.”
“And well I know that, my dear Anne. And quite right he was, too. I could not fail to notice that a good many gentlemen were nonplused to meet a female so enamored of books and boasting even a smattering of Greek and Latin. Indeed, I’m afraid I’m only fit to be a scholar’s wife, and I’m not at all convinced that I would like to spend my life copying out some gentleman’s notes, no matter how brilliant he may prove to be. This scheme of Great Aunt Agatha’s to pitch me into a matrimonial state seems doomed to failure.”
“The trouble is that you don’t at all wish to be married!” exclaimed Anne indignantly. “It is so unfair! You don’t want a fortune and you don’t want to be married, while I should enjoy both excessively. If Great Aunt Agatha had wished to promote the marriage of a great niece, why didn’t she leave her fortune to me?”
“Perhaps because she never met you, my dear,” interjected Libby. “If I recall, you were most reluctant to be included when you, your sister and I were invited to call on your Great Aunt at her home in Bath.”
“That’s true,” Anne said thoughtfully. “What was it I had to do that day? It was what, three years ago? I was just a child. I cannot remember.”
“We took our father to Bath to see if the waters would ease the pain in his liver,” Elaine said. “And though we stayed a whole week and he drank the waters nearly every day, it gave him no relief. I believe our Aunt Katherine was also in Bath at the time and on the day Great Aunt Agatha had invited us to visit her, you begged to be given leave to go with Lady Benton to the shops instead, to pick out a new bonnet.”
“Oh yes, and I purchased that blue poke bonnet which became me so greatly, only it was blown away and trampled by the post chaise only days later when we were driving back to Lynnfield. Do you mean to tell me that we are in this pick
le because three years ago I bought a blue bonnet that gave me no more than a few days’ pleasure?” Anne’s eyes sparkled with indignation.
“So it would seem,” replied Libby. “It is seldom wise to choose one’s personal pleasure over an opportunity to be kind to others.” Then watching the spark move towards a flame of self blame, she relented and added with a smile. “However, we cannot be quite certain that she would have preferred to leave her money to you rather than to Elaine.”
“After all, remember our Great Aunt was very much a bluestocking,” Elaine asserted, “even more so than I am, and if I remember right, at fifteen you were much more a scatterbrain than you are now, so you might not have taken her fancy at all. Indeed, if she had heard you quoting that nonsense from Ackerman’s Repository as you did just now, she might well have left me her fortune conditional on my cutting any connection with you, and then we would be in the suds.”
“So she might,” giggled Anne, unrepentant. “Since she seems determined on setting most unreasonable conditions upon you from the grave, why not that as easily as what she has done?”
“Most unreasonable. Exactly, my sweet,” Elaine replied and took a sip of her coffee.
“Oh.” Anne’s pretty countenance puckered into a thoughtful frown.
“Yes.”
“Will you not even consider marriage, dear Elaine?”
“I have considered it, all night long, in fact. The circumstance is most frustrating because we do need the money so badly, both for Lynnfield and for your debut, and yet it seems that I am as far from looking for marriage now as before, perhaps farther.”
“Because you are being forced?”
“Well, there is that of course, but the fact is that I find that I am no more inclined to marry for money now than I was when I turned down Mr. Pratt’s most obliging offer four years ago.”
“What would induce you to marry someone?”
“Well, I’m not sure. Perhaps if I formed a deep and lasting attachment, or perhaps even if I found a really kind friend. But then, I have already found a good friend in my Libby, have I not?” She smiled at the governess.
“That you have,” said Libby, a little gruffly, and stirred a rather large spoonful of sugar into her tea so vigorously that a few drops splashed into her saucer. “However, nothing would please me more than to see you married to a man of a kind heart and open disposition, and of course whom you deeply admired.”
“So you have often told me, dear Libby,” Elaine said.
“What would you do, Libby, if Elaine were to marry rather than stay single and live with you?” Anne asked, as usual saying whatever came into her head as soon as a thought appeared there.
“Why I suppose I should live alone, a bit more fugally than I would with my dear Elaine, but not in poverty, I assure you.”
“That is nonsense, Libby. Why you know you would always have a home with me!” Elaine exclaimed.
“Well, I’m sure that I would visit you frequently, my dear,” Libby replied. “But you and your husband might not perhaps wish to have me right in your pocket all of the time. And besides, I have saved enough through the years to allow myself the pleasure of enjoying my own small independence.”
“So you have,” Elaine replied much struck, “and I for one would never wish to deny you that. However, in any case it seems to me to be very unlikely that I shall marry. I sometimes wonder if I may not have a cold disposition, ruled by reason and common sense rather than by the gentler passions. For although I have met and enjoyed the company of many estimable gentlemen, and I even believe that I have made some firm friendships which I hope may last my lifetime, still I have found no one who moved me to consider embarking upon the grand matrimonial adventure. Yes, that must be it. I have a cold heart.”
“I should never say so,” Anne objected. “For you have always been a warm and affectionate sister to me.”
“Well, yes, but that is a different matter entirely. You are my family.”
“And Libby? And Mary Hastings? And all your urchins? Are they your family too?”
‘You shall not call them my ‘urchins’, you abominable girl!”
“Well, and what of them, and Libby and Mary, if your heart is so cold?”
“Odious sister! Libby and Mary are both my dearest friends, as you know very well. Why Libby gave me Geography and taught me to love books. And Mary was my secret friend and the delight of my childhood. Even a cold heart must treasure such dear companions as these. As for our young pupils, those you call my ‘urchins”, well, I can only say that they are my….my Calling, for there is no other word I can use.”
“And you call yourself cold-hearted!” Libby laughed. “Rather passionate in your friendships and your ‘Calling’ both! Which leads me to remind you, my dear, our unruly little urchins will be waiting for us in the Dower House at three o’clock. Have you finished grading their essays? I have corrected their arithmetic and I promise you we will have a good deal of work to accomplish if all of them are to grasp the concept of division before the end of the month as we had planned.”
Elaine’s ‘urchins’ were at least a dozen children, mostly from the village, those whose parents could not teach them to read and write. When Elaine had come home to Lynnfield after her Season, she had at first found a great deal to do, nursing her father and working with Chudleigh to begin the process of setting things on the estate to rights again. Anne, too, had developed the habit of falling in love, first with one of the footmen, then with the Vicar’s youngest son, and each episode had taken time to sort out and worry over until it became clear that Elaine’s precocious sister was as quick to fall out of love again as to tumble into it.
Once all of these matters were thought through and organized and dealt with, Elaine found herself with some considerable time on her hands, and for perhaps the first two years after returning home, she relied on her father’s library for her entertainment. Once her daily tasks were completed, both Chudleigh and Mrs. Fraidy consulted, her father settled comfortably in his parlor, and all of her correspondence written, she began reading one book after another, until she had worked her way quite around the room, varying her selections by category so that a volume of Poetry would be followed by one on Political Economy which would then lead to her taking up a work in the Greek language, which difficult effort would be rewarded next by a selection from those books on Travel or Geography which so delighted her.
Bookish she may be, but even for Elaine, such entertainment began to stale somewhat. Though the local gentry were sociable and the sisters had been accustomed to visiting those neighbors that had children of their own age, the economies Elaine had set in place not only precluded their consideration of hosting any parties or social events of their own, but also left the sisters with but one gig available for all of their needs. Anne, still a young girl in the schoolroom, continued to visit her friends informally, but Elaine was quite naturally reluctant to accept hospitality which she was in no way able to reciprocate. So it was that after a time she began to feel rather out of sorts and sadly restless.
It was Mary Hastings who had at last turned her attention to a new occupation, scolding her one day for becoming so blue deviled when there was work to be done.
“But what’s to be done?” Elaine had asked.
“Well there’s Sara, for one. The new day maid from the village. She’s bright as a button and can’t read nor write. Why don’t you teach her her letters as you did me when we were girls together?”
So Sara was the first, or rather, the second, counting Mary, and gradually, one after another, first the younger servants and then other children from the village, began to come to Miss Howard in the afternoons for lessons. As the numbers of pupils grew, she set up a classroom in the back parlor of the empty Dower House, removing all the overstuffed furniture and replacing it with tables and desks of all sizes and sturdy chairs scavanged from every corner of the Lynnfield Manor as well as from the Dower House.
She had found in
teaching a quiet joy that surprised her and kept her fully committed to this new enterprise. Eventually Libby had joined her, so that now, twice each week at three o’clock in the afternoon, the two ladies walked companionably down together to the Dower House and taught lessons for an hour and a half.
This morning, admonished by Libby to finish reviewing the essays, Elaine made haste to the library. An hour’s diligent efforts completed this task, and after a few moments of deep concentration, she rose and went upstairs to see if her father had felt well enough after a light breakfast in bed that morning to leave his bedchamber and make his way to the Green Parlor. She found him there nestled into the same wing chair, happily engaged in writing some letters at a small table pulled up before him.
“Correspondence, Papa?”
“Yes, indeed. I am writing to your Aunt Katherine once more in hopes she will invite the two of you to visit her sooner than we had previously planned. I think you should go to Town in February, as soon as we are able to put off our mourning.”
“By no means will I leave you here alone, Papa, but to be sure, the sooner Anne gets to London the better it will be for her, for she will be more prepared for her Season if she has first had the opportunity of attending a few of those impromptu social events and informal romps which are so often arranged for young people these days. Now we really must discuss the roof, and I am sorry to tell you Papa, there is no hope for it but we will have to do the stables as well.”
“I have already signed the paper that you gave me yesterday authorizing the work, and will sign a contract for the stable roof as soon as you like.” And he drew the signed contract from the pile of papers on his writing table and handed it to her with a smile.
Elaine regarded her father with barely disguised suspicion. “I have no intention to marry,” she warned him.
“Oh, intentions! My dear, I am an expert on intentions. I have had a great many intentions in my life and as far as I can see nothing very good ever came of them.”
An Unmarried Lady Page 3
