by E.H. Nolan
Bessie Martin was a plump little flirt. She had curly blonde hair, and pinkish skin that looked like it had been pinched one too many times. A country girl with very little education, Bessie wasn’t bright, but she knew this. She had been taught the outcomes of generations of family and friends, and from these teachings had gained a realistic view of her future prospects: marriage and childrearing or working herself into an early grave.
Mr and Mrs Martin worked on Jim Hill’s farm, as did their three sons, George, Michael, and Colin. As the youngest child, Bessie stayed at home to care for the household affairs. On Mondays, she churned butter and baked bread and prepared staples for the week. Tuesdays were the days she attempted to tidy the tiny house, but it wasn’t long before the six hard workers of the family soiled their dwelling. Bessie went into town on Wednesdays, buying the resources that were needed and never purchasing unnecessary temptations. Thursdays were relatively unscheduled days, as were Sundays, when the Martin family went to church and spent the day in reflection and worship. Bessie did the wash on Fridays, and mended and ironed on Saturdays. And every night, whatever day of the week it was, Bessie spent her nights dreaming of the man who would rescue her.
You see, Bessie had her sights set on a young man who lived in her town. He was good looking, a hard worker, and had a steady future ahead of him. As a member of the working class—those who knew the Martins would argue “lower class” was a better descriptor—the upper-class etiquettes did not apply to Bessie. She could not afford to take her time with a romance and act coy and polite and elongate courtship for years. She was halfway through her eighteenth year, and she was tired of living in a small cottage with three older brothers. Bessie Martin wanted a beau, and she had someone in mind. The Martins lived in Bruton; Charlie Archer was the unfortunate—and unknowing—victim on whom Bessie was about to prey.
To keep the record straight, Bessie Martin wasn’t one of those girls who passed herself among different men for the sport of it. True, she’d had a fellow or two; and her earned reputation around town had served as her consequence. Charlie was well aware of Bessie’s reputation, and he had been warned more than once by his father:
“Stay away from that Martin girl. She’s the sort who’d get a nice boy like you into a mess of trouble.”
Charlie didn’t need to be told; he had no interest in Bessie. Despite Bessie’s attempts to entice him—and there were weekly attempts—he did not pay her any more attention than he paid to anyone else in town. Charlie had few friends and rarely socialized. He spent nearly all his time working as his father’s assistant, so if someone wanted to spend time with him, one would have to travel to Archer & Sons Livery Yard. After several failed efforts to lure Charlie out of his barn, Bessie realized she had a challenge ahead of her.
Several times, Bessie would stop by the Archer property because she “just happened” to be nearby and thought she’d pay Charlie a visit. During these visits, Charlie worked and provided little conversation. A disappointed—but not discouraged—Bessie was forced to come up with more creative reasons for stopping by.
While dismounting from a horse, Bessie “accidentally” fell and hurt her ankle. She praised Charlie for his competence and calm temperament in such a crisis. Charlie kindly informed her that a slight twist of an ankle was not a crisis, and reminded her that she had never been formally permitted to mount the horse in the first place.
For nearly a month, Bessie kept up a brilliant façade she’d thought up, one that would necessitate close contact with Charlie. She pretended to have a keen interest in horses and the business of stables and livery yards. She just had to be taught everything about the beautiful animals: grooming, feeding, training, medical issues—there was no subject about which she didn’t ask questions that required lengthy and detailed answers from Charlie. However, it became apparent that Bessie didn’t retain the information; she began to repeat the same questions, and Charlie saw her eyes became glassy and vacant once he droned on for too long.
This deception irked Charlie no end; she had successfully tricked him into spending time with her! He had spent hours—entire afternoons, even!—instructing his pupil. He’d actually believed that they shared a common interest. He had appreciated the reminder of a bygone era, where he’d talked on and on to a beautiful woman about his livelihood and she actually listened and cared and absorbed—but never mind. That was a different time, and Bessie had proved that she was nothing like the girl from his past who had long ago left his surroundings but stayed close to his heart.
Months passed, and Bessie had barely received a smile from Charlie. What had she done wrong? She’d never met such obstinacy when pursuing a man. She’d wasted so much time! They were both so much older without anything to show for it! Charlie was eighteen years old; didn’t he ever want a lady?
Poor Bessie: that was the heart of the problem. Charlie very much wanted a lady, but in his opinion, Bessie was not a lady. Reputation notwithstanding, Bessie was blonde and pudgy and loud and coarse. Ladies had brown hair and thin, attractive features. Ladies had heart-shaped faces and refinement and delicacy. Ladies didn’t have names like “Bessie Martin”; they had names that rolled off the tongue with a pleasant aftertaste, like “Mabel Crowley”.
Charlie wanted a lady, and he would never settle for anyone else.
Mabel dear,
Thank you for writing so steadily. Your father and I appreciate your updates and learning the latest news from Bath. We’re so proud you’ve survived your first year at Kingswood. Frankly, I’m surprised you’ve taken a liking to it, but I’m sure that lovely Hartley girl in your class makes it all worthwhile. Irene seems like such a dear, from what you’ve wrote to us in your letters.
Oh, you forgot to mention what was served for dinner last week at Emerson House. Could you write it in your next letter? I’d love to tell Mrs Ironsby—the look on her face when I told her that you regularly dine with Theodore and Alice Hartley! Very satisfying, dear.
Have you taken any more rides in the horseless carriage? How fantastic! Your father doesn’t believe it’s safe—afraid you’ll explode or something. We’re so very pleased—really, darling, we can’t tell you how much—that you’ve made the connection with Theodore Hartley and his family. Let them take care of you! Perhaps they will introduce you to an eligible family member, or a wealthy companion of good standing. Don’t squander this opportunity.
Keep writing,
Love, etc.
Mother and Father
The latest letter from Mr and Mrs Crowley lay open on Mabel’s nightstand as a reminder for the daughter to reply to her elders. She had faithfully written to her parents once a week in the autumn, winter and spring; but now that it was summer and the weather was fair, Mabel had a stronger desire to stroll outside in the sunshine than to sit inside and write letters.
Nevertheless, Mabel managed to tear herself away from the view behind her window shade and sit dutifully at her writing desk until she had answered her mother’s letter. You see, within the past year, Mabel had made a conscious effort to improve her character. She had admired the practicality in Charlie’s core, how he always remained level headed and calm. Mabel was on her own now and had mature responsibilities; she needed to grow out of her childish emotional outbursts. She was in charge of a classroom and spent a great deal of time with the dignified Hartleys. Mabel had successfully squelched her passions the majority of the time; oh, it took time and practice, but after a year, she had undeniably improved.
It was a lovely summer. Mabel enjoyed her time off from Kingswood and had renewed her contract with Headmistress Racine for the following academic year. She would be teaching the same classes again, so she would have the pleasure of continuing to watch over Irene.
Weather permitting, Mabel took long walks every afternoon after tea, and spent two nights a week dining with the Hartleys. Mabel wanted to reciprocate their generosity, and once invited them to her flat for dinner. Th
e Hartleys were too polite to decline her request, but both parties felt ill at ease throughout the evening. Mabel’s flat was not nearly as grandiose as Emerson House. She didn’t employ dozens of servants, nor was every room sumptuously decorated in rich fabrics and luxurious furniture. Mabel was the only resident—a part-time housekeeper and cook visited the flat on occasion—and the three-room flat was obligingly modest.
Mabel’s father could have afforded to put his daughter up in a more refined residence, but Mrs Crowley provided an opposing argument. Given Mabel’s tendency to change direction mid-race, why pay an exorbitant rent for a lavish house that Mabel might wish to vacate after a couple of months if she decided she hated teaching more than she hated anything since the last endeavour she abandoned? Mr Crowley was convinced by his persuasive wife, and despite her less than extravagant living quarters, Mabel had grown fond of her humble abode throughout the months.
In June, Mabel went home to Wells to visit her parents. Mrs Hartley, with a deaf ear for Mabel’s refusals, insisted that George drive her in the automobile. Alice knew Mrs Crowley would delight in seeing her daughter arrive in a horseless carriage; she correctly assumed that Rose would repeat the story incessantly to anyone and everyone for months on end.
Both Mr and Mrs Crowley were surprised that their daughter’s enthusiasm for teaching had not dwindled. Mabel was still determined to live in Bath and teach at Kingswood School; this was perhaps the longest she had persevered at something—that is, since she’d fallen in love with Charlie. Although they missed their only child, the Crowleys were pleased that she had returned more mature than when she left. Mr Crowley assumed the development was due to his daughter’s responsibility of a dozen children; she must have been forced to act like an adult. Mrs Crowley gave credit to the Hartleys rather than Kingswood; Mabel must have absorbed the upper-class culture and matured after marinating in the Hartleys’ wisdom . . . and money.
None of the Crowleys mentioned Charlie Archer, or any words or subjects that would have served as a reminder of him. No horses, stables, Kings School, Bruton, Ginger, archery, or family businesses were present in their vocabularies. Mr Crowley neglected to tell Mabel that he had paid Jonathon Archer to permanently care for her horse Ginger, giving him full permission and authority to do whatever he wished with the animal. Mrs Crowley held her tongue with regards to her trip to see her sister; Rose had taken a train to Yorkshire and didn’t want to remind her daughter of the frequent train rides that used to commute her from Wells to Bruton.
In accordance with the previously prepared schedule, George drove the Hartleys’ automobile to Wells at the end of the month to collect Mabel. She shared an unemotional farewell with her family but continued to wave behind her long after she could no longer make out the detail of her parents’ faces. The Crowleys would no doubt look forward to their next reunion, but all three were quite content during the send-off. The proud parents were confident, for the first time, that their daughter would be alright without them. She was a competent young lady and had created and sustained a comfortable life for herself. She was no longer a girl with fanciful whims, and Henry and Rose prayed nothing—and no one—would disturb Mabel’s happiness in Bath.
“Please, Chah-lee!”
Bessie clasped her hands as she asked “Chah-lee” if he’d walk her home. She’d stayed so long at the Archer property that the sun was starting to set. Wouldn’t Charlie be a gentleman and accompany her home? What if she was accosted on the way back; she vowed to blame Charlie if any such attack occurred. Charlie snapped at her, and Bessie wondered why his nerves were on edge.
Earlier that afternoon, he’d spoken to her in the same sharp tone. Bessie was admiring the horses and patted the shoulder of a chestnut mare. “Don’t touch her!” Charlie had snarled. Bessie instantly recoiled. She asked what the matter was but Charlie didn’t answer her. She hadn’t taken a firm hand with the horse; even if she was old and needed special care, it still didn’t explain Charlie’s outburst.
Perhaps he’d been in a fight with his father, Bessie supposed. Perhaps he was tired; lack of energy often resulted in an anxious demeanour. A stroll in the sunset would undoubtedly improve his spirits. Bessie asked again, pushing out her lower lip in an attempt to look more attractive than she was. Charlie sighed; her feminine wiles had no influence on him. He didn’t like thick lips on a woman; they looked like garden slugs. Thin lips were pretty: thin lips that delicately framed a smile and curled up ever so slightly at the corners . . .
“Bessie, in the time you’ve been begging me to come along, you could have walked home and skipped back here to tell me about it!”
Bessie faltered. She didn’t know how to defend herself against such a true accusation. After all the months she’d wasted on Charlie—the thought and effort behind each of her plans—was it really all to remain fruitless? Charlie was absolutely right: she was begging. Bessie Martin had resorted to begging! She’d humiliated herself more than ever before, tried her hardest, and finally began to accept the results. Charlie Archer did not love her and he never would.
Bessie’s thick lips were still agape from the shock of her understanding, and at that moment, she became aware of another revelation. In the three seasons she’d vied for Charlie’s attention, Bessie had been preoccupied with the challenge of it all; it had never occurred to her to look into her heart and examine her feelings. Now that she knew she’d lost the affections she had never won, Bessie realized she’d actually fallen in love with Charlie throughout the months of rejection.
“You’re right, Charlie.” Bessie tried to speak in a tone that conveyed her composure. “I’d better start off before it gets any darker.”
Bessie thought of extending her hand but was afraid he wouldn’t take it. As she walked off the Archer property, she vowed to never return uninvited. If she saw Charlie on the road or in town, she would smile politely, but that would be all. She loved Charlie, and she had to let him alone.
Damn that Bessie, Charlie grumbled after she’d left. Couldn’t she tell he wanted nothing to do with her? He’d never stopped loving Mabel, and he wasn’t so lonely that he wanted to forget his troubles with someone inferior to her in every way.
Why couldn’t she leave him alone? He had enough difficulty getting through the day without having to put on a performance for company. Every morning he lay in his bed, debating the necessity to rise and carry on. He reminded himself of his mother and father and the work that needed to be done in the stables. He reminded himself that he was young and had his entire life ahead of him, but that thought only depressed him. What good was it to live forty or fifty more years with a broken heart?
The only motivation that consistently forced Charlie out of his bed in the morning was the possibility of seeing Mabel. She might take the train from Wells and turn up unexpectedly at Archer & Sons to tell Charlie that she forgave him and still loved him. How would it look if she came all that way and found Charlie in bed in the afternoon, wailing about life’s pointlessness?
With that slight and improbable hope in his heart, Charlie mustered the strength to dress himself, eat breakfast, and work diligently with the horses. He couldn’t concentrate; everything reminded him of Mabel. Once reminded, his heart would ache and his eyes would tear up. How could he have been so stupid? Mabel was the greatest girl he would ever know. Why did he let her run away?
Charlie was in such pain but wore a constant mask; in case Mabel could see him, he wanted to look his best. When he heard footsteps, his heart skipped a beat. He felt his palms sweat and he tried in vain to calm his nerves. It was Mabel! She’d come back at last!
“’Ello, Charlie!”
Charlie felt every vertebra in his spine sink into the one below it. He closed his eyes and tried to suppress his tears. It was Bessie Martin; it was always Bessie Martin. In such “accidental” visits, he was compelled to restrain his emotions and disappointments u
ntil she’d left him in peace. He wasn’t very pleasant to her, but it took great effort not to lose his temper and order her off his property. She shouldn’t be Bessie, she should be Mabel; but how could he yell at her for a fault of which she knew nothing?
Once free, Charlie would run up to the house—in part because he wanted privacy and in part because he was afraid Bessie would return—and shut himself in his room. He let the tears fall as he relived every glorious memory he’d made with Mabel. On evenings when he felt especially melancholy and in need of additional heart-wrenching torture, he would sit on his bedroom floor and open the cabinet of his nightstand. Charlie kept every memento in the cabinet: the silver horse pin, sheet music of Tell Taylor’s “Down by the Old Mill Stream”, an embroidered handkerchief with “M.C.” stitched on it in the same grey of her eyes, the King’s School uniform jacket he wore on graduation—it still had a faint feminine smell and one or two brown hairs had caught in the fabric—and the hair comb Mabel had left behind the last time he saw her.
Charlie held the silver comb in his hand and ran his thumb over the swirled floral design. He remembered the horrible fight, all the cruel words he wished he could retract, and the sight of Mabel running away from him, never to return again. No doubt she’d purchased a new hair accessory and forgotten about that which rested in his hand. No doubt she’d acquired a replacement beau and forgotten about the foolish romance from her youth.
She was probably married by now to a wealthy associate of her father’s. Mr and Mrs Wealth probably lived in a grotesquely large mansion and had stables and servants of their own. Did she have children? No, Charlie couldn’t stand to think of that.
When Charlie felt exceptionally blue, he would pretend that Mabel wasn’t married. She was alone, still living in Wells with her parents, waiting for him. She still loved him and would accept his apologies and proposals and promises.
Hold on, Charlie thought. Who’s to say she is or isn’t married? He hadn’t seen Mabel since King’s graduation, nor had he heard any gossip from anyone in town. She couldn’t be married; someone would have certainly told him! What was preventing Charlie from riding to Wells and personally discovering Mabel’s status? Nothing! His father would let him take time off, of course. He would dress in his Sunday best, ride his fastest horse, and beg Mabel to forgive him. He’d propose marriage on the spot—they’d waited years and couldn’t afford to waste another second!
For the first time in months, Charlie felt a new breath in his chest and a spring in his step. Tomorrow, I’ll go tomorrow. I’ll see Mabel tomorrow, and tomorrow we’ll be wed!
Charlie rode his horse to Wells—grinning all the way—and knocked on the door of the Crowleys’ manor house.
The footman didn’t allow him in the house, and when Charlie started to cause a scene, Mr and Mrs Crowley both came to the door. Trying to retain the politeness associated with their class, Mr and Mrs Crowley conveyed their surprise in seeing Charlie after all these years.
“I trust your father and mother are in good health?” asked a strained Mrs Crowley. “I heard the commotion from inside. What seems to be the matter?”
“The matter? This stuffed puppet won’t let me in the house! ’Fraid I’ll dirty the floors? I’ll take my boots off; I don’t care.” Charlie lifted his right leg, but Mr Crowley stopped him.
“That’s not necessary, son. What can we do for you?”
Charlie dropped his jaw. Didn’t they know why he had travelled all that way? Didn’t they remember he loved their daughter?
“I’d like to see Mabel. I’ve come to see Mabel.”
After a brief hesitation, Mr and Mrs Crowley refused to let Charlie past the front door. Mabel didn’t want to see him, they told him. She didn’t want to hear anything he had to say. Charlie was never to bother them at their home again.
The footman closed the door, leaving a disconsolate Charlie to nurse his disappointments alone. He walked round to the side of the house to retrieve his horse. There was nothing left for him; he would go home.
A scullery maid was staring at him. She had overheard the entire conversation, but once Charlie discovered her, she tried to look as if she had work to occupy her. Charlie saw right through the façade and knew that she had more information than the Crowleys were willing to give him.
He approached the plump, seemingly easily manipulated scullery maid. Was there anything she could do to help him see Mabel? He had to talk to her; it was an emergency. The maid paused, obviously uncomfortable and conflicted, then finally gave in.
“She doesn’t live ’ere anymore. She’s in Bath now,” the girl whispered, her nostrils flaring as a bead of sweat trickled down the bridge of her nose.
“Bath? Why? She isn’t—Oh, God.”
But the maid had already walked away; she returned to Charlie with a fistful of ripped envelopes in her hand.
“They just received a letter from Miss Mabel this week. This was in the rubbish, this was. T’won’t be missed.” She looked at the papers in her hand but couldn’t make out which envelope had contained the letter from Mabel. “Sorry,” she explained, embarrassed. “Can’t read. Could you read the addresses aloud? I might recognize it.”
Charlie took the first envelope and turned it over. An elegant hand, similar to Mabel’s, had written Hartley. 12 Henrietta Street, Bath.
“Yes!” the maid exclaimed. “That’s it!”
“Are you sure?” Charlie asked, wishing to read the second envelope to make sure. Again, scripted handwriting that resembled Mabel’s made his heart skip in his chest. The tear in the envelope had removed the small portion of paper that contained the name of the addressor. Only the inkling of a “—ley” remained; the envelopes were so similar that it would be difficult to tell a “Crowley” from a “Hartley”. Charlie took no notice, having never heard of the Hartleys and focusing solely on locating his love.
“36 Milsom Street, Second Floor—” Charlie was cut off by the short servant.
“No, the first one, I’m sure. The Missus is always goin’ on about ‘Hartley this’ and ‘Hartley that’—and I remember the Master makin’ a joke about the ‘Henry-etta’ Street.” She took the more severely ripped envelope from Charlie’s hands and replaced it with the first. Charlie thanked his accomplice, who whispered a quick “Good luck!” and then disappeared.
After riding his horse nearly twice the distance as his initial trip to Wells, Charlie finally arrived in Bath. He’d never been to the splendid city for the wealthy before, and he quickly saw that he didn’t fit in with the stuffed shirts who took leisurely strolls on the pavements.
Charlie led his horse to a watering trough, and while waiting, asked a worldly looking gentleman which direction he should take to reach the address on Mabel’s envelope.
“Where’re you from, boy? Not a soul in Bath who doesn’t know the Hartleys live in Emerson House.”
“South twenty-five miles: I’m from Bruton,” Charlie answered. “Hartley, you say?”
“Aye, Mr Theodore Hartley, the richest man in half of England.”
“Yes, of course, how stupid of me.” Charlie tried to cover his obvious lack of knowledge of the upper class. He gasped as he realized a horrific thought. “Do you know, is there a Mrs Hartley?” The envelope had been torn; Mabel could very well have written her full married name at the top and Charlie would never have known. But if Mabel was married, why hadn’t the Crowleys told him?
“Of course there’s a Mrs Hartley, son!” The man laughed at Charlie’s ignorance. “They’ve a new baby, too. Say, what are you asking so many questions for if you don’t know anything? What, you looking for work?”
Charlie shook his head and thanked the gentleman for his time. He returned to the watering trough and saw that his horse had drunk his fill. Charlie put his arm about the stallion’s neck and buried his face in the warm, comforting skin. Now that he knew the truth, there was no need to spend any more time in Bath. He’d hate to see Mabel Hartley; she might pretend
she didn’t know him or treat him as she would one of her hundreds of servants.
Foot in the stirrup, Charlie was about to swing himself onto his horse. He looked across the square and saw a woman on the sidewalk. She wore a lavender silk taffeta dress, vertically striped, with two asymmetrical layers cut tapering to her ankles. Her broad straw hat, decorated with lavender flowers, provided ample shade for her face. Despite the distance between them, and despite the shadow from the hat, Charlie immediately recognized the woman: Mabel.
Mabel looked older than the last time he’d seen her. The slight baby fat had dissolved from her face, and she had grown into a lovely young woman. She had a more mature air about her, as if she’d lived life. Charlie removed his foot from the stirrup and planted it to the ground as he took in a full view of Mabel and the company surrounding her.
There she was, pushing a wicker baby pram. She walked next to an older man of obvious wealth. They came to an outdoor seating area of a fine restaurant, and the man addressed the maître-d’.
“Ah, Mr Hartley.” The head waiter recognized the celebrated, and regular, customer. He led the couple to an empty table, but it seemed as though they were acquainted with a woman and her young daughter at a neighbouring table. Mr Hartley stopped to talk to the woman, and Mabel bent down to the pram. She removed the child, holding her lovingly in her arms, and showed the baby to the slightly older woman.
Charlie could watch no longer. He mounted his horse quickly and kicked his heels into the stirrups; if he rode quickly enough, he would make the pain disappear.
Poor Charlie; he should have stayed in the street corner, if only for a minute longer. Had he waited, he would have realized that the empty table was merely that. The maître-d’ had directed Mabel and Mr Hartley to the table where his wife and daughter were already sitting. Baby Harriet was a little fussy, so Mabel had offered to walk her in the pram for a few minutes. As a gentleman, Mr Hartley insisted on walking with her so she wouldn’t be alone.
Had Charlie waited, he would have heard little Irene address Mabel as “Miss Crowley” and all his assumptions would have been corrected. Had he waited, he would have seen the real Mrs Hartley; Mabel was merely a favoured school teacher on track to becoming a spinster.
But Charlie didn’t wait. He rode all the way back to Bruton, tasting tears from his broken heart.
The following week-end, Charlie asked Bessie Martin up to Archer & Sons. They spent the afternoon together and in the evening, he walked her home.
1913
