by CE Murphy
Sophia Enton arrived one afternoon near the end of Ruth’s reading, and sat to listen with considerable enjoyment before joining in the applause as Ruth closed the book. Ruth, best pleased, retired to her embroidery with a suspicious degree of modesty whilst Tildy and Dina argued over what would happen next in the book. Sophia took to speaking with the two eldest Dover sisters, beginning with “Ruth is looking very well, isn’t she? Engagement suits her.”
“It does,” Elsabeth replied happily. Her marriage partner ensnared, Ruth Dover had not instantly, as Elsabeth had half imagined she might, return to the dour gowns and unattractive hair she had once worn. Neither did she make a habit of borrowing Tildy’s best dresses, nor take any extraordinary effort at curling her hair, but Sophia was eminently correct: Ruth looked very well indeed. “It is as if her determined unhappiness was a manner of making herself different from the rest of us.
Rosamund is sweet, and I am stubborn. Dina is silly and Tildy suggestible; what else could be left for Ruth but to be sour? Had Mr Cox not happened to us, she might have been sour into spinsterhood, but, instead, she has caught what she wanted and can perhaps relax into satisfaction. I had not thought of it before, but now I cannot help but wonder if that has always been the case.”
“If it is so,” Rosamund answered, “and I think that you may be correct, then I fear that we have done our sister a disservice all these years. Perhaps we might have helped her into satisfaction rather than becoming gently vexed with her behaviours.”
“Perhaps we might have,” Elsabeth agreed, “but without this change, how were we to know?”
“We could not have,” Sophia said placidly. “And may I say that you are also looking very well, Rosa? Better than I had expected, if I may be frank, given the circumstances.”
Surprise coloured Rosamund’s features. “What circumstances might those be?”
Where she had been placid a moment before, Sophia Enton was now horrified. “Have you not heard?”
Rosamund seized Elsabeth’s hand, both sisters gazing upon Sophia in anticipation of news so dire, they could not yet imagine it. “We have been quite shut in these past two weeks, Sophia. What is it we are meant to have heard?”
Sophia’s hand covered her mouth; above it, her eyes were wide with apology. “I’m sorry. I never imagined you couldn’t know. The Webbers are gone back to London, three days since.” Mrs Dover, who had, by all appearances, been entirely involved with her needlework, barked, “What?” and, for once, both Tildy and Dina were entirely silenced by shock. Even Mr Dover, who had listened to the whole of Ruth’s reading with his eyes so firmly closed, it would not have been remiss to think him asleep, opened his eyes to reveal dismay in them. “Surely, that cannot be right. They are surely only on a brief visit, and will return?”
“No,” Sophia replied, grim with being the bearer of unwelcome news, “I am afraid that Newsbury Manor has been put up to let. They will not be returning this season and perhaps not ever again.”
“But—but Rosa!” cried Mrs Dover with such force that it might have been she whose romantic ambitions had been thwarted. “Mr Webber cannot leave without marrying Rosa!”
Rosamund, most faintly, said, “It seems that he can, Mamma. Do not worry yourself about me. I am sure...I am sure that it is all for the best.”
“Nonsense! There is some deviltry at work here—”
This phrase, spoken in a rage by Mrs Dover, caused Elsabeth and Rosamund to look at one another with a sudden terrible understanding. Mrs Dover carried on in a fine fettle, supported by Leopoldina and Matilda. The specific words used to express their collective dismay were unnecessary to hear; their sentiment was clear enough, and did not in any way touch upon the fear shared by Rosamund and Elsabeth Dover. Shared, too, by Sophia Enton, whose knowledge of Dover magic was more accurate than most, and who, in genuine sorrow, reached out to take the sisters’ hands. “I’m so terribly sorry, Rosamund,” she said beneath Mrs Dover’s venting. “Had I realised you didn’t know, I would have at least broached the awful subject more gently.”
“No, no,” Rosamund said with false brightness, and squeezed Sophia’s hand. “Perhaps it’s better to have heard it bluntly: the shock is sharp and hard that way, but it will fade all the more quickly for it. There...there was no letter sent.” This she spoke as if asking a question, though Sophia could not have an answer; after a moment she repeated it, no longer questioning: “There was no letter sent. It is my own fault,” she said with greater clarity. “I was remiss in responding to his invitations; he must have concluded that I did not care, and, indeed, why should he not?”
“Rosamund,” replied Elsa in tones of despair. “You cannot think—I will not allow you to imagine—that it is your fault that they have left Newsbury. You know that it is not. You know it!”
Rosa turned a smile so brittle it looked in danger of shattering toward Elsabeth. “Of course it is, my sweet sister. What other possible answer could society accept?”
Elsabeth could not help but turn a black look on Dina, at this question. The youngest Dover girl intercepted it with unfeigned surprise, crying, “I know; is it not dreadful, Elsa? The regiment has quite closed ranks, doing nothing but rebuild the silly bridge, and now the Webbers have gone! What are we to do for entertainment now? Why, now that I think of it, I cannot remember a single invitation to visit having arrived in the past week! We are most bereft of company, and winter will be here
soon! Mamma!” Dina turned to Mrs Dover, alight with the arrival of an idea. “Mamma, we must go to London. We must have a Season. There is nothing else to be done.”
Mrs Dover, who could be led if the draw was slow enough, seemed most struck by a single one of Dina’s many statements. “You are right,” she replied after a moment’s terrible silence. “There have been no invitations for a week or more, Leopoldina. Not even from my dear friend Mrs Enton, your own dear mother, Sophia. There have been no invitations at all.”
“How peculiar that is! I should have imagined us very busy, and with this news that the Newsbury contingent have gone, I should have imagined us even busier than that! Why, surely there must be curiosity in Bodton about poor Rosa’s state, now that she has been jilt—”
“Dina,” said her father, sharply, and Leopoldina lapsed into hurt and bewildered silence.
Rosa, who could do almost nothing less than beautifully, blushed unattractively and swiftly bent her head over a piece of embroidery that had, moments earlier, been regarded as perfectly finished by any who might lay eyes upon it. Sophia Enton gazed in agony at a wall, the better not to meet any Dover eyes, although the remaining whole of the Dover family, as one, regarded the youngest of themselves with horror. She alone among them seemed incapable of grasping the most likely reason for the Webbers’ departure; she alone seemed entirely innocent to her own culpability in their retreat. Neither did the weight of her family’s gaze in any way enlighten her: after bearing it for some long moments, she muttered, resentfully, “Well, is it not true?”
“It is true,” Mrs Dover said with great strain. “It is true, and I am loath to admit that, had such an unfortunate occurrence happened to another family, we might have been first on the doorstep to learn all the details of the calamity, whilst secretly enjoying every misfortune laid at another’s feet.”
This was insightful enough to Mrs Dover’s own periodically cruel character that Elsabeth was obliged to disengage her attention from Leopoldina and briefly examine her mother. Shame was not an expression familiar to Mrs Dover’s face, but the lines of it were there now. Beyond Mrs Dover, Mr Dover’s own countenance showed his years by way of a weary sympathy: he loved his wife, Elsabeth thought, but was not blind to her faults. Nor, it seemed, was she; not entirely, and not when it might be most pleasant to be so.
“There will be no Season in London,” Mrs Dover said quietly. “We shall see Ruth married and retire quietly back to Oakden, where we will pass the winter without incident, and hope that the spring brings new diversions
to Bodton so that this all may be forgotten.”
“What? No! I will not be able to bear it, Mamma, even Rosa’s undesirability as a wife cannot possibly keep me contained for the entire winter! We—”
“Leopoldina,” said Mr Dover with such implacable gentleness as to stem her flow of words, “I am reluctant to play the part of the Gothic father and lock my daughter in the cellar, but simply because I am reluctant does not mean that I lack the capability or the will. You will do as your mother says.”
Faced with this unexpected severity in her genial Papa, tears filled Leopoldina’s eyes as she stood. “You need not show such heartlessness! I know Rosa’s hopes are dashed, but must all of ours be as well? I cannot bear it! I cannot bear you!”
With this cry, she threw her embroidery to the floor and dashed from the sitting room.
Almost at once, Sophia Enton rose. “I think I had best be going.”
“We are so sorry to have exposed you to this display,” Rosamund whispered. Elsabeth sprang to her feet and said, at the same time, “I shall escort you to the door.” A flurry of farewells and apologies followed as they left the sitting room, whereupon Elsabeth said, “I am so sorry, Sophia. This has been unspeakable.”
The faintest line of humour etched itself at the corner of Sophia’s mouth. “On the contrary, Elsabeth, I believe I have rarely seen quite so much revealing speech. Oh, do not worry,” she added, embracing Elsabeth. “I shall say nothing of it; of course I will not. But Leopoldina is...extraordinarily myopic, is she not? I do not think she realises herself blameworthy at all.”
“No, and if it is explained to her, as I think it must be, she will only regard it as another injustice against her. She will feel it should not be such a crime, to have magic, and that Society is in the wrong.”
“A sentiment which I believe you share,” Sophia said gently. “I shall visit as often as possible, Elsabeth, to try to lighten the length of the winter days.”
“You are very kind. I shall, in between times, endeavour not to do bodily harm to my youngest sibling. I believe my soon-to-be brother-in-law would have quite a long lecture on the sins of sororicide.” Elsabeth shuddered theatrically and Sophia obliged with a laugh and another embrace.
“There, I knew you could not long be melancholy. Go,” Sophia urged. “Care for Rosa, and forgive me again for my dreadful tidings.”
“There is nothing to forgive,” Elsa promised, and did as she was bidden.
(31)
So it went: in the early winter, after more quiet weeks than Elsabeth could comfortably recall, the Dovers went forth to see their middle daughter and sister married, and if Leopoldina and Mrs Dover put on a performance with too many tears, it could not be said that Ruth herself showed any great sorrow at parting from her family. Only once, unexpectedly, as she gathered herself to enter Lady Beatrice Derrington’s carriage, which had been sent for the newlyweds, did she present any indication of hesitation. Elsabeth, standing nearby and watching the commotion with a smile, suddenly felt Ruth’s hand in hers and found her sister gazing at her with wide and serious eyes. “You will come visit me, won’t you, Elsa? You and Rosamund, at least, from time to time. I am certain I will be very busy with my own life, but...but it will be a long way from home, and quite solitary after so many sisters. You will come visit?”
Startled, Elsabeth embraced Ruth and whispered a promise in her ear. So it was that Mr and Mrs Cox drove away into the afternoon sun with a great sense of happiness and accomplishment on all sides, and Mrs Dover turned to Rosamund with a determined set to her jaw. “Well, we had all imagined it would be you who would save us, Rosamund, with your marriage to Mr Webber assuring the family’s future, but it seems Ruth is our most dutiful daughter of all.”
“Mamma!” Rosa protested, truly hurt. “I have not been remiss in my duty!”
“Of course not, my sweet, but Mr Webber had five thousand a year, and we must now wait for Ruth to have a son or two before we can breathe easily.” Mrs Dover tucked her arm into Leopoldina and Matilda’s to sail triumphantly into the house. “We shall visit Mrs Enton, of course, and tell her of the wedding. We shall not mention that poor Sophia is twenty-eight now, with no more prospects than she had; we will only be happy for our Ruth, whom I always knew would do well.” Her words were lost as Oakden enveloped them, and the two eldest sisters, left outside with Mr Dover, gazed speechlessly after them.
Elsabeth, mindful of Rosa’s heartache and yet unable to leave Mrs Dover’s blitheness untouched, said, “I thought it was three thousand a year he had,” to Mr Dover, whose smile sharpened momentarily.
“In another six months, it shall be ten thousand, and Leopoldina’s part in it all will be forgotten entirely. Not by me, Elsa,” he assured her. “I meant it quite seriously when I spoke of restraining her within the house for the winter; Bodton must be allowed to find itself a few other scandals, that ours might be forgotten.”
“At least our Aunt and Uncle Penney have come for the wedding, and will be staying on a while,” Rosamund said with false brightness. Much of what she said now was under the guise of forced gaiety; Elsabeth thought that their mother did not even recognise it as such, and knew that the two youngest of the Dover sisters did not. She was more sensible to Rosamund’s true state, and believed that their father was as well. Indeed, Mr Dover offered Rosamund a fond arm, and encouraged her to lean heavily upon him as she concluded, “Surely, our winter cannot be so dull, when Mrs Penney is here.”
As if summoned by her name, that worthy appeared. By some measure younger than her brother, Mrs Penney looked younger still than that; the provenance, Elsabeth thought, of having neither children nor financial worries. She was at the moment bedecked modestly well in pale green muslin that suited her without making it overly clear that her gown was considerably finer than the bride’s had been. It was a generous gesture on her part, and the measure of the woman that Elsabeth would expect nothing else from her aunt. Mrs Dover’s sister, Mrs Moore, on the other hand, had worn her very finest gown for the wedding, and had gleamed with pearls throughout the afternoon. It could not be regarded as inappropriate, but neither was it kind, and Elsabeth found she valued Mrs Penney’s kindness above almost all else.
“You will not have a dull winter at all.” Mrs Penney linked arms with Rosa and offered her other elbow to Elsabeth, so that a chain was made of Dovers-who-were and Dovers-who-had-been. “You have provided me with a great deal of intelligence regarding the untenable situation created here this summer; now that I am here, I shall learn the rest of it and set about restoring you to rights, my dear girls. We are all too aware of the legacy that plagues my brother and his family, but I intend to go about Bodton being so tremendously ordinary as to disprove any possible complaint of magic that might linger. Do not forget that I, too, grew up here, and having married nicely, might be considered a success despite the inconvenient question of our family gift. With Ruth married and therefore unquestionably safe by Society’s rather narrow-minded standards, we only have to show that you dear girls are equally untouched. I will, in the end, prove my thesis by bringing Rosamund to Town for several weeks, for surely no one would dare bring a sorceress into her own home. Forgive me, Elsabeth, that I cannot bring you as well, but if I am to do well by Rosamund—”
“Then you cannot be crowded by a second unmarried woman,” Elsabeth conceded gracefully. “I have no objections, Aunt Felicity; I am quite content here in Bodton.”
“I am not sure,” Rosamund protested, but neither could she deny the note of hope that graced her face and voice.
“Nonsense,” proclaimed Mrs Penney. “A month or so of remedial activity in Bodton and then the Season in London will do you a world of good, Rosamund. I am sure that if you do not wish to, you will not encounter anyone in Town who might offer you heartache; we live quite away from certain circles, and socialise with another set entirely. Now, it is possible,” she conceded, “that we may have to do as my brother has threatened, and keep Leopoldina in rei
n for the weeks I am here. She is impetuous.”
“She is impossible,” opined her father, and, upon this observation, detached himself from the ladies and retreated once again to the safety of his library.
With no other choice given to them, the ladies in question joined Mrs Dover in the sitting room, where she recounted with great enthusiasm the details of the wedding they had all just attended. Mrs Moore abided this as long as she could, only to finally interrupt with news that had no doubt been lying eager upon her tongue since the Moore family had arrived earlier that day. “My dear sister, it cannot wait any longer! I must tell you that the bridge is complete, and the regiment is once more expected to be seen regularly in Bodton!”
Leopoldina shrieked with delight and clapped her hands with Matilda’s. “Oh! We are saved, then! Our winter shall not be as hopeless as we had feared!”
Elsabeth cast a concerned glance toward Mrs Penney, whose well-formed jaw set into a line of unusual determination, although there was nothing but solicitude in her tone as she spoke. “It is most splendid that there will be some small opportunity for diversion this winter, Dina, but of course with Ruth’s marriage just past, I know that you will not be eager to incur greater expenses upon your mamma and papa’s pocketbook. There will be no especial parties, I am certain, and the winter shall proceed quietly, as previously intended.”
“Oh, no,” Dina protested. “No, we have new gowns now, and the newest fashions yet, brought to us by you yourself, Aunt Felicity! There is no more expense—”
