by Robin Helm
He left the barn quietly and found, to his joy, that a barrel filled with rainwater was close at hand. He splashed his face and hands and wondered if he ought to try to bathe himself more fully. Practicality won over the desire to be clean and he turned to begin his journey. There was Fergus, staring at him and wagging his tail. John shrugged.
“If you like to come, you may. But be warned that if you lose yourself, I cannot possibly go and find you in this state of undress.”
John skulked along behind hedgerows and walls. The countryside was fortunately mostly bare of people, this being the hour at which most country people dined. Once, when his path ran near the road, he heard voices approaching. He crouched down behind a wall and stayed there until the people—it seemed to be two men and a woman—had passed. Fergus seemed to understand his dilemma, for he lay down silently beside John. It was in that moment, squatting down by the mossy stones, that John thought of Maria Dudley and gave fervent thanks that she was not there to see his awkward situation and disheveled and undignified appearance. In spite of her friendliness she could be fastidious, and he could imagine the scorn that would be on her face if she saw him like this, the butt of a prank by her brother. How thankful he was that she was twenty miles away! He wondered if there was any way to keep Arthur from telling his sister about this incident.
When he was alone again, he got up and continued on his way. He was not far from Hartfield land now—in fact, was not that wall a boundary? It was. He climbed over it and felt some relief at being on familiar ground. Now, where was Tadgett’s cottage? This was more difficult. He thought it was not far from the shrubbery and headed in that direction.
He was thankful again that it was dinner-time and the grounds empty of people. There was very little to hide behind here and he felt painfully exposed. At last he saw a group of cottages just beyond the shrubbery and skirted the edge of the garden toward them. Suddenly, Fergus, who had been quietly walking next to him gave a sharp bark, ran toward a walking path in the shrubbery, and disappeared from view. John hesitated but decided to let him go where he would. He had probably seen a bird and would be back in a moment.
“Oh, Fergus!” said a female voice. “Is that you? Dear little doggie!”
John froze. The voice was Isabella’s.
“Your master is looking for you, did you know that?” said Isabella. “Come here, and I will see that you get safely home.”
Fergus barked again.
“No, no, come here to me,” crooned Isabella. The voice sounded as if it were coming closer. John got behind a large rhododendron bush and prayed for Fergus to do as he was bid.
“There, I have your collar. No, come this way. Oh!”
Another bark. Footsteps coming closer. John edged around the side of the bush to better hide himself.
A startled cry behind him made him jump. He spun around to see Isabella staring at him. He hastily pulled the empty sack around himself. Fergus sat down with his tail wagging.
“Isabella! Miss Woodhouse, I must beg your pardon for appearing here in this state. I have met with an accident and was hoping to find Tadgett to help me.”
“An accident?” said Isabella, averting her eyes. “Are you injured?”
“No, no—I am quite well, only my clothes were ruined—it is a long story. I could not appear on the roads of Highbury in this state.”
Isabella glanced at the sack which covered him from his waist to his knees, the soiled shirt, and the untidy hair. She was blushing, but there was an amused twinkle in her eye as she answered, “No, of course not. What may I do to help?”
“If you could find someplace to conceal me and then send a footman to Donwell to ask my man to bring me clothes, that would be the best thing.” He glanced at the dog. “And you may also make sure that miscreant dog is taken back to Gilbert’s. It was through trying to catch him that I got into this trouble in the first place, and it was he who forced you into having to see me like this.”
“He is an ill-behaved dog, to be sure,” said Isabella. “But I think in fetching me he was trying to secure help for you.” She bent down and patted Fergus on the head. “Now then, where can we hide you?” She looked around her. “I know! The perfect place. There is an empty dovecote over there—it hasn’t been used since I was a small child. No one goes there, and it would be perfectly dry. Come!”
Fortunately, the dovecote was not far, and proved to be, as Isabella had said, a perfect place to hide. It was made of brick in the traditional round shape and apart from a bevy of cobwebs, empty. “Thank you,” said John from the doorway of the dovecote. He ran his free hand through his hair and said involuntarily, “What a shocking way to appear before you! The state of my hair would be enough to frighten anyone, let alone my lack of raiment!”
“Please think nothing of it. I have seen the unkempt hair of my sister daily for over a decade, and I am inured.” She had avoided staring at him, chiefly looking off to the side, but for a moment her eyes met his. “I am glad you are unhurt.”
She departed then with Fergus, and John went into the dovecote and settled himself down to wait for another hour or so. He was surprised to hear her voice outside ten minutes later.
“I hope you do not mind, but I brought a few things I thought you might need. They are here in a basket just outside the dovecote. There is a blanket and a butler’s apron—in case you must appear outside the dovecote for some reason—and one or two other things. I would have liked to bring you proper clothing but could think of no way to get it without drawing attention.”
John was touched by her thoughtfulness. “Give my thanks to the butler and, er, anyone else who has contributed to the basket.”
“Oh, no one knows. I wrote a note to your servant explaining the circumstances and sent it by the footman. I’m afraid I purloined the other things from the kitchen myself while Serle was tending to Miss Taylor’s ankle.”
“How glad I am it was you who found me! I do thank you.”
“It is nothing. I must get back now or I will be missed. I was only taking the air a little before dinner, and it will be thought odd if I am away any longer now.”
“Of course! You must go. Thank you again.”
When her footsteps could no longer be heard, John emerged from the dovecote and got the basket. There was, as Isabella had said, a blanket and a butler’s apron, but also two peaches, a book (Charlotte Temple)—and at the bottom of the basket, a comb.
_______________________
Two hours later John was back at Donwell, bathed and dressed in fresh clothes. His anger toward Arthur had not yet abated, but he wished to consult George before confronting the malefactor. However, he was informed by the butler that his brother was not in, and Mr. Dudley was in the library.
“In the library?” said John. “What can he be doing there? Surely not reading!”
“I regret to say, sir, that he has been drinking the port.”
“What, all of it?”
Baxter smiled faintly. “Not quite all, sir.”
“George will not be pleased.”
“If I may say so, sir, I took the liberty of giving him the bottle with a faulty cork—the one Mr. George said was only worth saving for cases of illness.”
“Well done, Baxter. Have you any idea when my brother will return?”
“No, sir.”
John deliberated. If his brother were to return shortly, he would rather speak to him before seeing Arthur. On the other hand, Arthur had the reputation of being a terrible creature when drunk, and he might take it into his head to burn books or break windows or some other outrageous thing if he was left too long alone. John chose to go into the library.
Arthur looked up at him from the depths of a wing chair. He was clearly intoxicated but had not yet reached the somnolent stage.
He sniggered when he saw John. “Clothed and in your right mind, eh?”
“Clothed, at least. Still too angry to be of sound mind.”
“Oh, come now. No reason to
be cross. You’re a ben- a ben- benefactor. That’s what you are. Public benefactor. Providing laughter and good spirits to all my friends when they hear of it.”
“Have you been sitting there drinking all afternoon?”
“I had a letter to read,” said John offendedly. “M’sister wrote to me. Always need a glass of port to get through a family letter.”
“Evidently you needed a whole bottle to get through this one.”
“As you say. She writes that she hopes I am being a good boy.” He giggled. “I was being good until this afternoon, wasn’t I?”
“I wouldn’t put it as high as that.”
Arthur picked up his letter again and looked blearily at it. “Lots more to her letter. Words, words, words, nothing but words.” He giggled again. “Listen to this: she thinks she has made a conquest in Lord Allingham—at least, he danced twice with her at a ball. I think he’s looking for more of a fortune, myself, but no doubt it is something to boast of having turned his head. At least Maria thinks it is.”
John began to feel sick.
“And then she asks if I have made any conquests—must tell her about Miss Woodhouse, eh? And there was another bit at the end of the letter, too—‘Please inform me about Mr. George Knightley’s state of health.’ Ha, ha! If your brother takes ill, you may be in with a good chance with my sister. She would quite like to be mistress of Donwell.”
John had gone very white. “Do you mean to say that she would only consider me if…” He broke off the sentence.
“A shock to you, is it? Ought not be. Younger son, you see, younger son. You and I are in the same boat. Girlsh all want fortunes and estates. Your brother ain’t married—thought if he were shickly…no heirs. All goes to you.”
Arthur’s speech was slowing and becoming more slurred.
“I am indebted to you for the information,” said John with an ironical bow.
“Per’aps you had better get my man for me—help me up the stairs. Don’t want to shleep here…” He leaned back and closed his eyes.
John found Baxter and told him to inform Arthur’s servant that Mr. Dudley was in need of his assistance. Probably the man had vast experience in helping his inebriated master and would not be in the least surprised at his condition.
John went out to the lime walk to think. It was at its most beautiful—the trees were at their greenest and the gardens beyond them in full flower; the heat of the day was past and a gentle breeze fluttered the leaves. John saw none of it.
Maria had no intention of wedding him unless he were the master of Donwell. He ought to have guessed it—after all, if she had her sights set on a peerage, how could he compete against Lord Allingham? The elaborate plans he had been constructing for the past few weeks lay about his feet in ruins. He found it hard to believe that she could have given him so much encouragement if her feelings were not engaged. Her friendliness to him was evidently not proof of liking him.
He reached the end of the walk and stood looking out over the low wall at the end of the avenue. The vista spread out before him had been familiar since childhood—the sheep field, the bank of timber, the stream, and Abbey Mill Farm beyond them all. A rush of gratitude that he was here in his home-place at the death of his hopes came over him.
“Finished,” he said aloud. “Gone. Nothing to strive for anymore.” Oddly, the thought was not as depressing as it ought to be. The apprehension that Miss Dudley would not think him worthy to enter her social sphere was no longer a worry. It came to him that he had been playing something of a part in order to win her. He had striven to look and act sophisticated—always witty, always urbane. That curricle and pair he had bought, while certainly not a foolish buy, still had not been thought necessary until Miss Dudley had come into his orbit. He turned to go back in the direction of the house and saw George coming toward him.
“Baxter told me you were here,” said George when they met.
“Did he tell you about Arthur?”
“That he has been put to bed insensible from drink? Yes. Also that you were the victim of some sort of accident.”
John snorted. “That’s what I told him. It was a great deal more than that.” He gave his brother the facts of the prank, and it was to George’s credit that he allowed himself to show only the same amount of amusement that John showed, which was a little, as he was beginning to see the comical side of it.
“I got back here and cleaned up, and then confronted Arthur. Or at least, I meant to.”
“He was drunk then?”
“Very. So much so that he told me what was in the letter from his sister that he was reading.”
“Ah. Bad news?”
“She never had any real regard for me.”
“I am sorry.”
“Your instinct was right. She was not, after all, ‘part of my soul, my other half.’”
“A lucky escape, in my opinion. At least you are not now looking forward to a future with Arthur as your brother. I may say that I am thankful not to have him grafted onto our family tree.”
“Oh, Lord, yes. That is an escape indeed.” He sighed. “It is not quite as humiliating as if I had asked and she refused. It is more like when there was a horse you really wanted but then found out was broken-winded. You would have regretted buying the creature, but you were nonetheless disappointed that the horse you had imagined will not be yours.”
“You mean you had begun to look forward to being married, and now there is no marriage in prospect.”
“Silly, I daresay. I had begun to think of all sorts of things—buying and furnishing a house, naming children, choosing godparents, and so on. I admit I was looking forward to it all.”
“You will be a good husband and father. I hope you do find the other part of your soul soon, for I would dearly love to see you dandling a baby in your arms.”
John shook his head. “You are not suggesting, I hope, that I rush off to marry the first woman that will have me.”
“Heaven forbid! I would not have you rush into anything, least of all marriage.”
“There is no danger of me doing so if I follow your example; you have always disdained the bonds of matrimony in spite of the means and opportunity in abundance.”
George smiled tolerantly. “I do not disdain the bonds of matrimony. When I have found the woman I wish to make Mrs. Knightley I certainly shall do so. And it is my sincere hope that you will do the same. Come back to the house now. Baxter is very anxious that you have not dined yet. He fears you must be faint from hunger—and indeed, you could not have eaten since noon.”
“No, I had two peaches.” His face softened at the remembrance of Isabella’s solicitude. “And a comb.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Nothing. I will come and eat now.”
_______________________
“I suppose we shall not see Arthur before one o’clock, at least,” said George to his brother the next morning. “Have you any plans for the day?”
“I think I will call on the Woodhouses to see how Miss Taylor is getting on. Isabella told me yesterday that she is not yet able to walk without pain. I might take her flowers.”
“Good idea. We shall ask Baxter to get one of the under-gardeners to make up a bouquet.”
John left as early as he dared to call on the Woodhouses, The flowers were a good excuse for calling on the family, but his real object was to thank Isabella for her help. Accordingly, he sat in the drawing room with Mr. Woodhouse and his elder daughter, listening to him repeat exactly what Mr. Perry had said about Miss Taylor’s ankle for a quarter of an hour before asking Isabella if she would be willing to take a turn around the garden with him. She agreed.
“I wanted to thank you for your help yesterday,” began John when they had chosen a path and started walking down it.
“I was happy to be of some assistance. I presume you got home safely? Was Mr. Dudley all right? I was a little concerned for him. You said there was an accident, and the two of you had been walking toget
her…”
“He was uninjured,” said John, deliberating about how much to tell her.
“I am relieved to hear it.”
John looked at her anxiously. Was she indeed relieved? Was she beginning to care for Arthur? That would be very bad. Of course, there was little chance that her governess or her father would allow any romantic attachments with him once they knew his character, but Arthur might be capable of doing something really appalling, like persuading her to elope with him. He ought to warn her.
“Mr. Dudley was not wounded in the incident,” said John, “but he is not feeling well at present.”
“Is he ill? What is his complaint?”
“The after-effect of drinking a whole bottle of port wine in one afternoon.”
“Oh!” There was a trace of shock in Isabella’s voice.
“He was sent here, you see, in hopes that time in the country might keep him from indulging in some of his bad habits.”
“Like drunkenness.”
“Yes. And gambling. And a few other vices.”
“Poor man,” said Isabella. “So young to be wasting his life in that fashion!”
“He would be surprised to find himself the object of your pity. He thinks himself a very desirable match.”
Isabella shook her head. “How could any young woman wish to be united to a man with such habits of self-indulgence? Or with such poor taste in waistcoats.”
John laughed. “Indeed. His judgement is not remarkable, either: he considers that in you he may boast of a conquest.”
“Oh dear! I do trust I gave him no reason to think he had the slightest grounds for hope.”
“I am sure you gave him nothing but ordinary politeness.”
“I did try to be polite. I must say I found it difficult to converse with him—his interests were so very different to mine.
“I would imagine so.”
“Will he be staying with you for much longer?”
“I think not. I was not planning on leaving Surrey so soon, but if it is the only way to get him out of Donwell, I will do so. He cannot stay on without his host.” He paused and then added, “I hope another way will be found. I would rather not go back to London just yet.”
