Miss Wilton's Waltz

by Josi S. Kilpack

  What a foolish girl she was. Again.

  There were other girls’ schools she could apply to, but it was the middle of the term, and Mrs. Henry had agreed to allow Lenora to resign but would certainly not give her a letter of recommendation.

  Beyond that, there was no Aunt Gwen to go to in another city. Lenora had lost, literally, every good thing in her life because she had trusted Mr. Asher. She had believed what was not true—that he loved her and wanted her and had come into her life to fulfill the joyous wishes she’d given up on.

  Lenora wished she could go to the river, but that had been taken from her too—again. Only this time, she would not go back, not ever.

  Where else can I turn for peace?

  After another minute, without insight or answers revealing themselves, she accepted that she would find no peace. She pushed the letter to the floor, pulled the edges of the blanket tighter around her shoulders, and began to sob.

  Aiden arrived at Mrs. Simmons’s house at 3:30 on Saturday afternoon, his palms sweaty and his neck hot with anxiety. He held two bouquets of flowers in one hand and took a deep breath as he heard footsteps come to the door. Mrs. Simmons’s man answered the door and led him into the drawing room, where Mrs. Simmons and Catherine looked up from the hoop in Catherine’s hands. Both of them smiled quite naturally. Mrs. Simmons ushered Aiden toward a chair.

  “Shall I take your flowers, sir?” the footman said.

  “Oh, yes, thank you,” Aiden said, turning back toward the servant. “Two vases, please—one for Mrs. Simmons and the other for Miss Wilton.”

  The servant looked to Mrs. Simmons, but kept his professional smile in place as he took the bouquets and quit the room. Aiden wished he could ask about the shared look, but this portion of the visit was for Catherine’s sake.

  Lenora had never replied to his letter, sent five days ago now, but he’d sent another yesterday afternoon asking for a private visit today when he collected Catherine. By the looks of things, the day had gone well for Catherine and Mrs. Simmons. He had not been summoned to intercede.

  Unfortunately, it had not been a complete success as he still had not received Miss Keighly’s letter of agreement to terminate their engagement. He’d asked her to respond immediately so he might proceed with the choice of his heart. But he could not wait another day to talk to Lenora. He felt as though each day created more distance between them.

  “The flowers were very thoughtful of you,” Mrs. Simmons said, though there was something sad in her smile that made his heart skip a beat. She turned to Catherine and brushed the girl’s hair, worn loose today, behind her shoulder. “Catherine was a great deal of help. I’m so glad she was able to come.”

  Mrs. Simmons did not strike him as a woman who said what she did not mean. She looked back at Aiden. “We organized all my threads, which had become quite a jumble in my workbasket, and then I offered to help her begin a cushion.”

  Hadn’t Mrs. Henry said that Catherine was specifically opposed to needlepoint? What kind of magic did Mrs. Simmons employ?

  “It sounds like a wonderful day,” Aiden said. He turned his attention to Catherine for the first time since his arrival. “Did you enjoy yourself, Catherine?”

  “Very much,” Catherine said, though her eyes remained intent on the needle, thread, and screen in her hand.

  “Why don’t you go to the second-floor sitting room, Catherine, and continue working,” Mrs. Simmons said. “Remember to keep your stitches small, yes, just like that. I’d like to speak with your uncle for a few minutes.”

  Catherine looked at Aiden, instantly suspicious, and then at Mrs. Simmons. “Are you going to tell on me, Aunt Gwen?”

  Aiden tensed. She had misbehaved after all?

  “Have I something to tell about?” Mrs. Simmons asked, raising her eyebrows.

  Catherine seemed to consider that, then nodded and took her screen with her as she left the room. Mrs. Simmons waited until they heard the girl’s feet on the stairs before indicating that Aiden should close the door, which he did, both eager and anxious about the amount of ceremony put into this conversation.

  “I hope you do not mind that I gave her leave to call me Aunt Gwen, as my niece does. It feels so much more comfortable, but I fear I was presumptuous to make the offer without speaking with you about it.”

  “Not at all,” Aiden said, shaking his head. “Did she behave herself?”

  Mrs. Simmons nodded. “She is delightful, Mr. Asher.”

  He blinked. “Really?”

  Mrs. Simmons nodded. “We went to the Pump Room, and although she was fidgety as I talked to my acquaintances, she did not spout off or cause a disruption. We walked about the promenade, and when she saw a group of children playing tag she asked if she could join them. She played with them for nearly half an hour until the game ended, at which point she returned to my company and took another round before we came back home. She was meticulous in separating out my colors, and though she told me straightaway that she did not like needlepoint, I offered to sit with her through every stitch, and she agreed. She seemed to enjoy it.” She paused, then shook her head. “She is not skilled at it. Girls of her age should know their stitches and basic design, and she does not have a good grasp on either.”

  “Mrs. Henry said she is very poorly behaved in her needlepoint classes.”

  Mrs. Simmons shrugged. “Who enjoys doing what they are not good at?”

  Excellent point. “I do not know how to thank you,” Aiden said. “This is better than I had hoped for.”

  Mrs. Simmons nodded. “I’m glad. Now, please tell me about your mother, Mr. Asher.”

  Aiden was taken off guard both by the request and the wave of nostalgia that came with it. “My mother was all that was good and kind,” he said. “She passed nearly seven years ago, I believe. I was in Jamaica and did not hear of her passing for some months. It was a terrible loss.”

  “She helped to care for Catherine, did she not?”

  “My mother took over her care when Catherine was about a year old.”

  “Catherine’s memories of her grandmother are very clear, considering having been only five or six years old when your mother passed. She said they took long walks during the day, picked flowers, and talked about fairies and princesses and haunted woods.”

  Aiden smiled. “Yes, that sounds like my mother. She was a nurturing soul. I think it was very distressing to her that neither of Catherine’s parents cared for her the way my mother cared for me and my half brother—Catherine’s father.”

  “When she died, Catherine went into the care of her father, though it does not sound as though she knew him very well before that time. He hired a nurse who cared for her?”

  “That is my understanding. He left her at the Cheshire estate with a series of governesses—I understand he himself very rarely came to visit. When he died, the estate was closed up until I could come to England and set the affairs in order. Catherine was passed along a string of family members who tried to manage her but, I’m afraid, did not do well at it.”

  “I tried to ask about the other people who cared for her, and she became closed off to it. She only wanted to speak of your mother. I wondered if perhaps she had put the woman on a pedestal after her passing.”

  “My mother earned the pedestal,” Aiden said with a soft smile. “What I would not give for her to be with us still.”

  “I am very sorry.”

  He nodded, though his throat was thick. There’d been little time to mourn his mother, and he missed her every time he thought about her.

  “I am near the same age as your mother when she’d have had the care of Catherine, am I not?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know how old you are, Mrs. Simmons.”

  Mrs. Simmons gave him an indulgent, if not an approving, smile. “Let us assume that I am your mother’s age. Do I remind you of her?�
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  Aiden looked at her closely, noting some similarities in their bearing and slender build. There was something more regal about Mrs. Simmons, however, where his mother had been relaxed and playful. He remembered being seven or eight years old and hiding behind a hedge with her, taking off their shoes so they could run to the meadow barefoot. She’d made him promise not to tell anyone, not even his father, and the forbidden aspect made it even more enjoyable.

  “My mother was gentle, but strong and nurturing without being . . . I’m not sure how to say it, but without coddling, if that makes sense.” He struggled to sum her up in mere words.

  “I shall take all of that as a compliment,” Mrs. Simmons said. “I think the fact that I remind Catherine of her grandmother is what accounts for how well we get on. That, and the fact that I require very little from her. I’m an old woman; I like to sit and visit, not zip from one thing to another or make other people account for their time. I imagine I am very different from her teachers, and, perhaps, very different from her caretakers, who I gather were rather put out by the extra child thrust into their hands. She obviously did not have access to proper education, or perhaps there is some difficulty in her learning ability, but she is very bright, and, when she is enthusiastic about a task, she can be very attentive.”

  Aiden was encouraged by Mrs. Simmons’s assessment, but unsure what his next step should be. “I’m grateful for you spending the day with her. It eases my mind to know that she has the ability to control her behavior. I just need to figure how to direct her enthusiasm, and hope I can do so before Mrs. Henry has had her fill.”

  “I have a suggestion.”

  He looked up, hungry and eager to hear her ideas.

  “For it to be successful, however, would take a great deal of work and cooperation from Mrs. Henry and . . .” Her voice trailed off.

  “Yes?” He leaned forward in his chair.

  “Lenora.”

  “No,” Lenora said flatly. She’d paced the length of the parlor more times than she could count. Back and forth, over and over, in an attempt to calm her anxieties, which felt fit to bursting. She looked at the curtains, the rug, the porcelain vase on the table beside the windows. She felt her feet within her shoes, the scratchy lace at the throat of her morning gown, and smelled the flowers—flowers sent by Mr. Asher. She refused to look at them.

  “It would allow you to stay in Bath,” Aunt Gwen said.

  “I do not want to stay in Bath,” Lenora said, shaking her head in an attempt to convince both of them. “I’ve made my arrangements, Aunt Gwen. Mary is expecting me, and . . . I hate that girl.” Lenora had never hated anyone in her life, not Evan when he broke her engagement, not Cassie for falling in love with Evan herself. No one in her life had hurt her as much as Catherine had. Except perhaps Mr. Asher. But she did not hate him either. She did not know what she felt toward him anymore. It was too confusing to sort out.

  Aunt Gwen held her eyes. “I do not believe you mean that.”

  “I do,” Lenora said, but she wasn’t entirely sure about that either. Having never hated anyone, could she know what it felt like? If it was not hatred, it was the greatest dislike she had ever experienced. And extremely complex. It wasn’t just Catherine, it was everything she was connected to—termination, embarrassment, failure, Mr. Asher. Lenora stopped pacing and faced her aunt. Her chin quivered. “I cannot tell you how it hurts me to even have you ask this of me.”

  Aunt Gwen stood quickly from her chair and crossed the room. Lenora hung her head, the tears—a familiar companion this week—rising fast. Aunt Gwen took hold of Lenora’s hand with both of her own. “Do you believe I would ask you to do something that would hurt you? I am not asking for Catherine’s benefit alone; I believe this might heal you, too.”

  Lenora could not speak around the lump in her throat but shook her head. To expect healing to come from spending more time with Catherine Manch was idiotic, and she was tired of being an idiot, though she had proved herself rather adept at the role.

  “Please sit down and let me explain.”

  Aunt Gwen led Lenora to the settee, where they sat side by side. Aunt Gwen patted her hand, and Lenora wondered if it was the physical touch that made her compliant enough to listen to the whole of this foolhardy plan.

  Aunt Gwen talked about her day spent with Catherine, the insight she’d gained regarding Catherine’s relationship with people who failed to care for her, and her opinion that Catherine would never thrive in a school environment without the basic skills of reading and writing. What she needed were positive connections to a few people who could help her overcome her weaknesses while maximizing her strengths.

  The plan was to have her move into the terrace house with Aunt Gwen and Lenora during the week, much like she lived at the school now. Aunt Gwen would serve as a mother figure, and Lenora would serve as the girl’s private teacher. Catherine’s abilities were so delayed for her age that Lenora’s home education would be sufficient expertise for quite some time. Lenora could help her excel in music as well as more academic topics. Mr. Asher would pay Lenora’s salary and cover all of Catherine’s expenses. She would stay connected to the school for activities and group projects so as to enjoy structured social opportunities, and she would continue to stay with her uncle on weekends. As her abilities improved, she would attend school for specific topics until she was able to transition back to being a boarded student.

  Aunt Gwen had obviously put a great deal of thought into this plan, which seemed reasonable for a girl who needed help. But Catherine was not simply an ordinary girl who was behind in her learning—she was mean and divisive and the catalyst to Lenora’s broken heart. But Lenora listened to the entire presentation while she stared at the floor and struggled to understand Aunt Gwen’s willingness to support a plan that would absolutely turn her life on its ear.

  And Mr. Asher’s part? That was the hardest to bear. After all that had happened between them, he expected her to teach his niece as though Lenora were any other teacher. He expected her to sacrifice for Catherine and himself, give up what was left of her pride, and use her ruined career for their benefit. It made her feel as insignificant as she’d ever felt in her life.

  She imagined him coming to Aunt Gwen and saying, “Shame about what happened, but I think I have a way to use it all to my advantage.” He was the type of man to blackmail a woman, convince her to trust him, and eventually persuade her to fall in love with him. It was not beyond reason that his manipulations extended further, and for a moment it felt as though the entire situation had been contrived from the very beginning. He’d needed someone vulnerable but skilled, meek but hungry to be loved. Lenora had been the perfect target.

  “I truly think this is Catherine’s best chance,” Aunt Gwen concluded. “And I think the three of us—you, me, and Mr. Asher—can make it happen.”

  “I want no part of it,” Lenora said, though she felt bad when Aunt Gwen’s face fell. “Mary is expecting me, and I need to leave Bath and the memories here.” She couldn’t expect Aunt Gwen to understand. Her aunt made friends easily and . . . fit. Lenora did not have such close friends to buoy her up, and she did not have past success to give her confidence in her ability to rise above this. She needed to run; it was the only escape that had ever worked.

  “Mrs. Henry accepted your resignation without giving cause. We shall simply explain that you did so in order to be a private tutor for Catherine.”

  “Which is a lie.” Lenora shook her head. “That’s not right.” Her piety, which she had allowed to grow soft, had been pricked quite sharply in light of her lapse of moral behavior. If she had adhered closer to what was proper and right, she’d have never been in this mess.

  Aunt Gwen tightened her grip on Lenora’s hand until Lenora met her eyes. “You have been wronged, Lenora. No one—not me, not Mr. Asher—denies that, but I truly believe that helping her will help you.”

/>   “She is the cause of this,” Lenora said. “She knew full well what would happen, and she did it with malice and, likely, a thrill of victory. To expect that girl to then heal what she has done is beyond even your optimism.”

  “I am not expecting Catherine to heal you. I am expecting you to heal yourself through teaching and showing mercy and reaching out to someone who does not deserve your help but who could benefit greatly from it.” She paused. “And I don’t want you to leave. Having you here has been wonderful. It has extended to me love and a sense of family I have not felt since I was a child. To have you leave, and like this, breaks my heart.”

  Lenora closed her eyes, feeling manipulated again and yet touched as well. Aunt Gwen made her feel important, she always had, but the idea of dealing with Catherine day in and day out . . . She took a breath. Was that harder than leaving? Harder than stepping into Mary’s already brimming household and having to find a new fresh start?

  But the gossip. And the memories. Having to see Mr. Asher.

  “Could you please give it a chance?” Aunt Gwen said when Lenora did not answer, her tone pleading and sincere. “Perhaps for one month, structured however you like. You can choose the boundaries of acceptable behavior, you can end each day at any time you like, you can employ any method and timetable you wish—however you feel would be best.” She took a breath and delivered her final attempt. “She has treated you badly, Lenora, but I also know that you do care for her. You were the first to see through the mask she has worked so hard to keep in place. I do not suggest this simply because you can do it—any number of teachers could do it—but because I know that you will put your heart into it, and the forgiveness that will be required will only do you good.”