“And Mr Collins is all that troubles you?”
“Not all, no. But what father is never troubled, my dear brother? My ill humour will soon pass, once there are fewer daughters and one less Collins at home.”
“You sound like a man in need of more wine.” He reached for a bottle and two fresh glasses.
“You are wise and perceptive, Gardiner.” After accepting a glass, I waved a solicitous finger at him. “You will remember my words when your children are of an age to marry and the talk is all of balls, bonnets, and young men.”
“How are my nieces? Mrs Gardiner looks forward to seeing them at Christmas. She can swap the company of one husband for that of six ladies. It is a decent exchange.”
“That it is. My daughters are well and not lacking in entertainment. We have the presence of the militia to thank for that.”
He filled our glasses, then settled back into his chair. “Tell me, do you have plans for your stay? I am pleased to share my wine with you, but my time flows less freely. Business has first call on me tomorrow, but perhaps we might take supper together?”
“You need make no provision for me. The note I received before dinner was from my friend, Mr John Barton. I should like to spend tomorrow with him.”
“Ah, the fellow you mentioned? I remember him as a boy. A little clumsy with words, but he had a real talent for drawing. We have his sketch of Mrs Gardiner somewhere. A remarkable likeness. To think he could not have been more than, what, eleven?”
I had forgotten the Gardiners knew the Bartons from previous visits to Longbourn. “He paints now. Very well, too, though he will not admit it. He is quite the artist.”
“Since you mention him, I have been remiss in not replying to your letter concerning his interests in a certain family. Though now I can at least save myself the cost of paper and you the cost of postage.”
“You have news?” I leant forward in my chair.
“A little. Twenty years of purchasing gifts for you and your ladies has left me well acquainted with many grateful booksellers. It took some delicacy—I cannot expect tradesmen to be so free with information. I would be disappointed if they were.”
“And?”
“It seems the Hayter family is not unknown among London’s book community. They are partial to the Temple and other establishments around Finsbury Square, particularly your favourite.” Brecknell’s was, indeed, my Aladdin’s cave.
“Might they be in London now?”
“That I could not say.”
“Well, my thanks for your efforts. The information is most helpful.”
Mr Gardiner nodded. “If you will allow me a question, brother?”
“Of course.”
“You spoke so well of Mr Barton in your letter. Would he not make a suitable partner for Jane or Lizzy?”
“He would. A more than suitable partner.” I took a sip of Mr Gardiner’s fine red. “But his interest lies elsewhere and he has placed me in his trust. And where there is trust, there is obligation.”
“He is accounted for, then? His prospects of an understanding are reasonable?”
I shook my head. “His interest is accounted for, but his prospects are imperfect, his position impossible, and his plans impractical. His rivals have society on their side; he has merely hope, without even reciprocated interest to let that bloom for long.”
Mr Gardiner’s face combined a frown with puzzlement. “If the lady does not find affection for him, then he had best give up this hope, lest he suffer like others have done.” A memory flared again, though I knew he could not have meant me.
“The lady has not yet even met him. The question of her affection is one we now seek to answer by arranging an encounter.” Mr Gardiner’s expression reminded me of the foolishness of John’s situation and my willing participation in prolonging it. “It does seem a little absurd when I hear myself speak of it. But young men will be fools in love. And I am fond of the boy.”
“And am I right to suppose that the lady in question belongs to the Hayter family? That the interest you wrote of is amorous in nature?” He sat back at my nod of acknowledgement. “Well, then you must throw the dice tomorrow and win fortune’s favour. We will send a servant with a note to Mr Barton suggesting a rendezvous outside Brecknell’s. And if I can be of any other service, I will be glad to help. An old school friend of mine has a house in Bath and dines with me shortly. I will write should I learn anything more of interest about the family.”
“You are a kind brother to us, and a generous one.” I raised my glass to my host. “Though I fear what John needs is neither kindness nor generosity, but a miracle.”
Decisions
Breakfast was glorious, all the more so because it reminded nobody of any repasts at Rosings Park. Afterwards, I took the ten-minute stroll up Bishopsgate and then west to Finsbury Square. The smoke of the chimneys slid quickly to the east, but the buildings kept the worst of the wind off. I was tightly wrapped in my greatcoat anyway, and warmed by anticipation of fresh delights from the capital’s printing presses.
Around the corner and there it was: Brecknell’s Book Merchants, purveyors of the finest volumes of education and enlightenment this side of the English Channel. John stood outside, as arranged. His boots shone with the gleam of fresh leather and a new coat hung a little loosely on his frame. Land for clothes—a bitter exchange.
“I don’t suppose…” I said.
He shook his head. “Already looked inside.” After a brief pause, we both laughed at our own ridiculousness. “I have spent more time in bookstores this month than in my own bed. I bought or borrowed enough poetry to woo half the ladies of Bath and never repeat myself.” He must have sensed my confusion. “Slim volumes are cheap and the payment rids me of the guilt I feel at spending so much time browsing.”
“Well, let us walk, John, and see whether we might find your Miss Hayter among the other booksellers.” He did not move. “John?”
“I will gladly walk with you, but it will be my last turn of the card. I leave for Yorkshire this very afternoon.”
“But what about—”
“Mr Bennet,” he said, straightening himself. “I do not believe myself a fool, but I have allowed myself to act foolishly. What kind of man walks the same streets again and again in the hope of a chance meeting?” A mild blush squeezed its way onto my cheeks. “You see, even you are embarrassed for me. And what if such an encounter took place? Supposing we could converse in some bookstore. I would mumble some bland comment. She would reply in kind and move on, as ignorant of me as before. I am driven to distraction by a notion. An absurd notion. It is time to replace the dream of a painter with the reason of an heir to a poor estate.”
I felt strangely disappointed, as if an actor had forgotten his lines and broken the theatre’s spell. “But—”
“I have made my decision.”
I stared at him for a short while, his arms folded, face set in apparent determination. “Then you have lied to me or to yourself, John. Neither does you honour.”
“Sir?” He seemed taken aback, but I was not minded to spare him a little vexation after all the hours I had spent weighing up the wisdom of my intervention in his affairs.
“You made your feelings for Miss Hayter very clear back in Longbourn. Did you paint a false picture for me, or was your affection nothing more than a passing fancy, a false interpretation of your heart?”
“It was neither, I assure you.”
“Then how am I to understand your decision?”
“I am merely seeing my situation for what it is—untenable, silly, foolish. You must agree.”
“Untenable? Probably. Silly? Undoubtedly. Foolish? Quite possibly. And what of it?” My raised voice attracted a few stares, but a little of the lunacy of my youth had taken hold. “Of course you have nothing but a wild hope. Of course you will likely be disappointed. But the pain of disappointment is no worse than that of regret. The pain of rejection, of failure, is strong. But no more than the pai
n of wondering what might have happened had you only tried. You may give up eventually, but not so early and not so easily. Do not abandon hope, however foolish it may be. At least not yet. Why, she may be waiting for you in the very next bookstore.”
“We both know that is highly unlikely.”
“John, I know the pain of rejection and the pain of regret. Do not imagine the former greater than the latter.”
He was silent.
“Well?” I said.
“I thank you, but my mind is made up. I leave for Yorkshire in a few hours.”
I turned away from him to see a street more crowded than at a Meryton summer market. A couple passed us arm-in-arm, heads close together, lost in their own conversation. “Very well. To your relatives, I presume?” It was hard to keep the chill from my voice.
“Eventually. My finances will demand it. They will be surprised to hear from me, but the climate and countryside there will bring me further to reason. Come spring, I will endeavour to reach Austria, though the French do not make such an undertaking easy.”
“Will you not visit Longbourn, then?”
He had the decency to look embarrassed. “Please allow me to delay that visit. I ask for your forgiveness and understanding. You cannot imagine how many hours I have wasted wandering our estate, possessed by thoughts of Bath. I made a small studio out of one of our rooms and it is filled with nothing but portraits of Miss Hayter and imaginative landscapes where eagles soar above sunlit meadows. I even carved her face into an old beech tree deep within the woods behind the western gate, where hopefully nobody can see it and suspect my madness. It is enough. I must put distance between myself and the foolishness of the past few weeks.”
“That may be so, but your own father proves that distance does not allow escape. I do not believe your affection for Miss Hayter is so shallow that it can be swiftly forgotten. And as for forgiveness and understanding…I can offer the first, but not the second. You allow feelings to overcome sense.”
“On the contrary, I allow sense to overcome feelings.”
“If you had any sense, John, you would have saved your money for Bath, as I once recommended.”
“But she was not in Bath.”
“Not now, but later…oh, I suppose I should not blame you for rushed decisions. Men in love are not renowned for their acts of rationality. But, my dear boy, you know you have many in Hertfordshire who wish you well. Spend time with us, allow the ladies of Longbourn to improve your spirits.”
“I am sorry, but I cannot. Yet I would not part from you on poor terms. Your kindness has been very great indeed. I must prevail on it once more in asking you to accept my decision.”
“I will accept it, but not particularly like it.” I took his outstretched hand. “Well, it seems today is not to be as merry as I had expected. Still, let us not waste it on arguments. Or on bookstores. I know an excellent inn. It is quite a walk away, but near your lodgings and worth the effort for the quality of their roast fowl. At least allow me to send you off to the north with a full stomach. And you will make me a promise you must keep—that you will write to us once you settle.”
And so it ended. “Much Ado About Nothing,” as Shakespeare might have said.
A familiar scent
I knew John was right, yet his decision still left a gnawing disappointment within me. After we parted, I retraced our steps with a mind to buy my daughters some more leather-bound gifts.
Brecknell’s was not like its neighbours, with their tidy shelves and open spaces. Inside was a forest of books, thick stumps of scientific tomes, tall stems of poetry, and religious pamphlets scattered about the tables like autumn leaves.
Scampering between them was Mr Brecknell, pot-bellied and balding, with spectacles perched on a thin nose. I often wondered whether he was not some cold Prussian aristocrat. Neither his voice nor demeanour ever gave a hint of pleasure, whatever the words he might use. He was alone in his store, but for a middle-aged lady half-buried under a preposterous hat.
“Mr Bennet, welcome. So soon after your last visit, too. May I recommend new volumes from Prowse, Wilshire, and Dunston? In the usual place.”
The gifts would have to wait. I nodded my thanks before hurrying to the rear, where the musty scents of wood and leather were at their strongest.
The prospect of Wilshire’s new volume on butterflies sent my distress at John’s plans fluttering away into the rafters. I pulled it from the shelf like an explorer prising loose a gemstone from some ancient tomb.
“James Bennet? It is you, is it not?” A metaphorical musket ball struck home, driving all breath from my body, leaving me unable to move. “I recall you a little livelier than this, last time we spoke. And a little younger.”
With some effort, I lifted my head from my book to look at her. I imagined lustrous black where flecks of silver now prevailed, smoothed the lines around the eyes, followed the curve of a cheek down to lips I had only kissed in my desperate imagination. She still had that single freckle on her chin. The blemish made her perfection more human, less divine.
“James? Can you hear me?” the voice said.
“Abigail…Miss Abigail Spencer…Mrs Abigail Trott.”
The words fell like a heavy weight, dragging my stomach with them. Even then, I recalled my manners, as any good Englishman would, and bowed.
“You remember me. How delightful.”
A second lady came around the bookcase, head half hidden behind an open book. With her came salvation and, ironically, the scent of lavender. There had been a sister—Emily? Amelia? I focused on her, anything to divert my eyes from Abigail.
“Ah, there you are, my dear. I was just renewing an old friendship. Mr Bennet and I knew each other many years ago in Bath, long before I married your father. James, may I introduce my daughter, Miss Anne Hayter?”
I steadied myself on a bookcase. “Hayter?”
“My second husband. You did not know?”
We stood in silence, Abigail wearing an amused smile, Miss Hayter expressionless, and myself paralysed by a mixture of terror and delight.
“Are you well, James? Or perhaps just a little surprised?”
“Very well, very well. And yourself? Good, I hope.” My gaze latched onto a familiar object. “My apologies, Miss Hayter…but your book.” She held it up. As I suspected, Smythe’s On the Path of Marco Polo. “I would not read any further.”
“No?”
“Mr Smythe never got beyond the London docks. Made the whole thing up.” I dabbed at my forehead with a sleeve, still feeling like a soldier on his first view of the battlefield—fascinated, horrified, struggling to stay sensible. My gaze shifted from daughter to mother and back again. Then the clouds broke above Brecknell’s, pouring afternoon light through the back window. And I understood, finally, what John had meant that day back in Hertfordshire.
Miss Hayter was not a ballroom beauty, pressed and pinned into shape with corsets, bright gowns and brighter jewellery. But she looked easy to love. A figure from a Greek myth. Andromeda. Ariadne. Anne. And then there were her eyes. Teasing, almost judging, drawing me in like open skies call the lark’s song. They were not new to me, for they were just like her mother’s. Azure blue.
I floundered like a man determined to deny the existence of ghosts even as one stood before him. But when a man finds himself struggling in a flood of remembrance and confusion, he grasps at any passing branch. Mine was John Barton and the task in hand.
“Miss Hayter, my daughter Elizabeth enjoys books on travel, too. She talks often of Mr Pullar and Mr Strecker’s volumes on Vienna. Perhaps they might be of interest to you? I believe the authors have actually spent time in that city.”
“I love tales of Vienna—it is on my list of places to visit as soon as the war allows.” My heart would have skipped the required beat had it not been pumping so furiously.
“I am pleased. Now, what else can I recommend to you? Are you, perhaps, interested in art…in painting?” I tried to keep hope out of
my voice.
“Oh, I have no interest in that at all, Mr Bennet. Nor in painters. They are all much too vain for my taste.”
I swallowed hard. “A high self-regard and talent with a brush are often intertwined, but it is not always so, Miss Hayter. I know many a modest artist who paints out of joy for what he sees, simply wishing to capture beauty for later admiration. And Brecknell’s does offer some excellent books on the topic, as you likely know. The very best of society can be found browsing the art section.”
“And yet here you are, Mr Bennet, in natural history.” Her quick mind reminded me of Elizabeth.
“You must permit a country gentleman varied interests,” I said.
“Like butterflies?” She pointed at the book in my hand. “They are wonderful creatures. So delicate. It is a shame some gentlemen seek to pin them down in boxes, don’t you think? Things of beauty should be left free, not chased and captured for a man’s amusement.”
“Ah.”
“My favourite bookstore in Bath has a number of excellent volumes on butterflies. Should you ever be in town, Mr Tavistock takes delivery from his London suppliers on Fridays. It is the best day to visit.”
“I shall remember your advice, thank you.”
All this time, Abigail had been watching me with a wry smile. Now she spoke. “Anne, we must leave if we are to join Aunt Emily as arranged. It is our last chance before we return home. James…” Her voice faded and seemed to soften as we held each other’s gaze. “It was a pleasure after so long.”
And so they departed, leaving behind a hint in the air of summer days and purple blooms. I rushed to John’s lodgings, cursing the timing of his departure, but he had already left.
Cake and Courtship (Mr Bennet's Memoirs #1) Page 9
