by Syrie James
A fortnight later, Rebecca received a letter from Amelia herself.
Batley Gables
My dearest Rebecca,
It is only through the grace of your sister that I have at last got hold of your direction. Imagine my delight when I learned that you are living in Elm Grove once again, with your father’s name restored! You always did say that he was innocent. Please give him my regards. I am happy for you. As for me, I am quite miserable. I hope you will not believe every thing you have heard about the events at Grafton Hall last November. I assure you, it is all scandalously untrue, and what happened to me is horridly unfair! I never said any of those things about my aunt, which have been attributed to me. She was delirious at the time, and sound asleep, and completely off her head, taking half a dozen kinds of medicine—how could any one know what was said at their bedside, while in such a state? I was simply having a sweet conversation with Dr. Jack Watkins, when she awoke and began screaming at us like a demon. Ghastly woman! To throw me off the way she did, when I had done nothing wrong at all! How very low she has behaved! How I hate her! She never understood me, and now I know that she never loved me.
Of course, with this undeserved scandal attached to me, I could not allow Dr. Watkins to go through with our plans to wed. Although he was insistent that he would marry me even without a penny to my name, I saw that such an attachment would have hurt his practice. It would not have been fair to him. I had no choice but to give him up. We both shed bitter tears when we said good-bye, and I made him promise not to write to me. He must get on with his life, and think no longer of me, however much his heart—and mine—are breaking. In the meantime, I am stuck up in this wretched place, where it is freezing, and does nothing but rain, hail, or snow. I work my fingers to the bone from morning until night, caring for the two worst children who ever drew breath. I am considered too fine and highly educated to associate with the servants, and too low for the society of my employers—who are heartless creatures. I dine alone and am invited nowhere, unless required to sit in a corner and watch over the children. I think I shall go mad!
Thank God I do not expect to be here for ever. I have caught the eye of the youngest son of a family who often visit here—a parson who is not at all handsome and talks a vast deal of nonsense—but he likes me, and I expect to receive an offer before Easter. Whoever would have thought that I should be a clergyman’s wife—life does take such unexpected turns! I should be so thankful for a letter from you—even a few lines would be received with more gratitude than you can imagine. If you see my aunt, pray give her my best wishes for her health and happiness, and tell her I love her. My only hope is that one day she will realise the grave error she has made, and admit me back into her good graces. In the meantime I remain,
Your friend,
Amelia Davenport
The contents of this letter made Rebecca smile and shake her head. In reply, she wrote such comforting words as she could devise, without laying blame, correcting untruths, or uttering a chastisement, for it seemed to her that Amelia was suffering enough already.
CHAPTER IX
The new bells, a project which had been abandoned upon Mr. Stanhope’s departure from Elm Grove, were again discussed, and Mr. Stanhope and Mr. Clifton together made a successful journey to the foundry, where they commissioned the work to begin.
With Mr. Clifton residing at the rectory, Rebecca saw him every day. They had all their meals together, took walks together, and with the company of Mr. Stanhope, spent their evenings talking, listening to music, and reading aloud to each other. This enforced proximity brought them ever closer. Rebecca found him to be the most solicitous of men, always thinking of her or her father’s needs before his own, and often surprising them with little acts of kindness. She had never met a more considerate and thoughtful person than he. She discovered that they had many thoughts and views in common, and those subjects on which they disagreed were always opened up to lively and satisfying debate. She felt as if she could talk to Mr. Clifton for ever, and not run out of things to say. It amazed her that the man with whom she now spoke so easily and with such enjoyment, could truly be the same Mr. Clifton who had, for so many years, been so quiet and aloof in her presence.
Rebecca soon felt as if they had been friends for ever, and when another month had gone by, she began to recognise in herself ever stronger signs and feelings of attachment. This dawning came upon her so gradually, that it was not until one evening as she and her father sat before the fire listening to Mr. Clifton read aloud from Shakespeare, that she was all at once struck by the full force of feeling which had overtaken her heart.
She loved Mr. Clifton! She had been in love with him for many months now! Every nerve in her body thrilled with transport at this sudden knowledge. She cast a veiled glance at him, heart pounding, wondering if he suspected, and if he felt the same.
Rebecca had little time to consider her new feelings, however, or to contemplate when and where they might carry her, for the very next day, she was obliged to travel to Medford to assist in her sister’s lying-in. On the fourth of March, Sarah added another beautiful baby girl to her family, who was called Margaret, after her grandmother. Rebecca spent several weeks in Medford helping Sarah with the children during her confinement, and found great comfort in making herself useful. She dined on pigeon-pie at Finchhead Downs with Mr. Spangle, his new bride, and her sister;—and to Rebecca’s great satisfaction, the newlyweds and Miss Wabshaw appeared, all three of them, as happy and in love as any couple half their age. Rebecca was pleased by the twins’ good fortune, and could not suppress a wicked thought: that in marrying a Miss Wabshaw, Mr. Spangle should indeed be the happiest of men, for he had got two for the price of one.
Whenever she could, Rebecca visited Mrs. Harcourt, who was in such excellent health and spirits, as to make Rebecca trust the lady would live into her nineties. As Mrs. Harcourt no longer had Amelia to spend her money on, or to reserve her fortune for, Rebecca used her powers of persuasion to convince her, in a manner as to make Mrs. Harcourt believe she had thought of it herself, to finance all the needed improvements to the vicarage at Medford, which Mr. Morris had so long desired.
While at Medford, Rebecca heard from Charles, who heard it from his man-servant, that Dr. Jack Watkins had joined his father’s practice in London, and was apparently doing well. Rebecca presumed this to be the last news she would ever receive of that gentleman, and in this she was satisfied; but one morning, as she was walking through the village on her way to the baker’s, to her surprise she encountered Dr. Watkins himself exiting the solicitor’s.
He froze upon seeing her;—then recovering, and affecting a mild expression, he walked up to her and politely enquired as to how she was.
“I am well, Dr. Watkins, thank you. May I ask what brings you to Medford?”
“I am just passing through,” answered he, as they walked on together, “to conclude some business with regard to the sale of my father’s house.”
“I understand that you are happily settled in London now, and quite the success?”
“I am working with my father, yes, and we have established a clientele. He thinks to retire soon, and I expect to take over.”
“You have given up all thought of living in the country, then?”
“The country? Why, no. That was never my object. I have always preferred life in town. A physician can reside nowhere else. You are here to see your sister, I presume?”
“Yes, and to be of some use, I hope, to her and her husband. They have a new daughter, Margaret.”
“Please offer them my most sincere congratulations. Have you seen Mrs. Harcourt during your visit?”
“Many times.”
“I have the greatest respect for that lady; although I regret to say that she thinks very highly of herself, and less so of any one in the professions, even if they are friends of long standing, who have been of valued service to her.”
“Perhaps she has reason to think less of such p
ersons, if, for example, they have in some way abused that friendship.”
“I suppose that is possible,” returned he, colouring slightly and glancing away, “although I can think of nothing which I or my father have ever done, which might have offended her.”
“Can not you? Well, it must remain a mystery, then.” Disgusted by his hypocrisy, and wishing to be rid of him, Rebecca was about to say good day, but he went on,
“I understand that you are again residing in Elm Grove, and that your father has regained his position as rector?”
“That is so.”
“I am glad to hear it. I remember how much you desired to return to that place.”
“I am very happy there.”
“I am relieved for another reason, Miss Stanhope—for I heard a most alarming report, of events which you suffered at Bath last November, shortly after I saw you there.”
“Did you?” She was interested in hearing what he had to say on this matter.
“It has come to my attention that you were obliged to leave under a cloud of some kind.”
“That is true; we suffered through great difficulties and privations on that occasion, due to an unfounded rumour which was circulated, which maligned my father’s integrity.”
“How shocking. Did you ever learn from whence this report originated?”
“It was said that it came from you, sir, through your valet, while you were staying at the White Hart Inn.”
“Through me? And my valet? Indeed? But that is very extraordinary. I can recall nothing which I might have said to my valet, which could have been at the root of the evil. If I was, in some way, unintentionally responsible for your distress, you have my deepest apologies.”
“I appreciate that, sir. Thankfully, all was resolved, and my father and I suffered no lasting ill effects.” They were outside the baker’s now, and Rebecca, anxious for the conversation to be over, added, “Here is my errand. I wish you good fortune, Dr. Watkins, in all your endeavours.”
“And you in yours,” replied he with a bow.
Rebecca hastened inside the shop, glad to leave him behind. She was conscious of the fact that in their interview, Dr. Watkins had never mentioned any thing with regard to his proposal of marriage to her; nor had he inquired after Amelia. She tried to think if any thing he actually had said might have cleared him of any blame; but sadly, she found only the reverse. His insincerity and disingenuousness only proved, in her mind, his complicity in the terrible events which had transpired at Bath; and were she ever to encounter him again, she knew that she could not believe any thing further he might have to say on the matter.
All during her stay at Medford, Rebecca thought about Mr. Clifton. She replayed in her mind all the special moments they had spent together, and conversations they had shared, since that first day at Bath when he had come to see her. How good he had been to her and her father! Looking back over the past months, she thought she perceived in him, the same symptoms of affection for her, as she herself felt; and she was filled with happy expectation.
Upon her return to Elm Grove, Rebecca was met with exceedingly good tidings. Sir Percival had heard through his sister that the living of Beaumont, which lay only twelve miles distant from Medford, and came with an income of three hundred and fifty pounds a year, might soon be available; and so he had bought it for Philip. The vicar of Beaumont was elderly, and when he died, the position would be Philip’s.
Mr. Clifton was grateful, and Rebecca delighted. Secretly, she cherished a hope that this employment would bring about the joyful circumstance of which she had been dreaming. If Mr. Clifton did return her feelings—it was true they could not yet marry—but an engagement under such conditions was not unheard of.
Several days passed, however, with no change—no offer. The moments Rebecca spent in Mr. Clifton’s presence were an anxious trial. Were his recent acts of generosity merely examples of his inherent decency and kindness? Was she only imagining his regard? She had sensed a growing distance in him of late, and a distressing notion occurred to her: that he might have sensed her growing attachment to him, and become alarmed. Perhaps he considered her only as a friend. Perhaps his heart belonged to some one else. All at once, with dread, Rebecca realised who that some one else might be: Miss Laura Russell. She had doted on him for years. Did Mr. Clifton love Miss Russell? The very notion made Rebecca sick and miserable.
Rebecca was glad of a distraction which she hoped would rescue her from these unhappy musings—but sadly, it only proved to aggravate matters further.
Miss Clifton came to visit—the first time she had been to Elm Grove in many years. Although her aunt and uncle invited her to come to Claremont Park, she insisted on accepting Mr. Stanhope’s offer to stay at the rectory. It should have made for a delightful reunion—for the sister and brother were bound by both blood and deep affection; the two friends had become very dear to each other; and a great deal had happened since they were last together, ensuring animated conversations over breakfast and dinner, while sitting by the fire, and while walking on the paths through Rebecca’s favourite meadows. However, the gathering proved to be pure torture for Rebecca, for in Mr. Clifton’s presence, she perceived his indifference, and she could not see Miss Clifton, without thinking of Miss Russell.
One morning, while Rebecca and Miss Clifton were engaged in a stroll and a tête-à-tête, her friend said,
“My uncle is very generous, is not he? To buy the living at Beaumont for Philip?”
“He is.”
“This paves the way, at last, for my brother to marry.”
Rebecca’s heart fluttered apprehensively, and her face grew warm. “Do you think so?”
“He never had the means before. He has ten thousand pounds from my father, but that income can only go so far. He required his own living—and now he has it. I am so happy for him—and for Laura. She is confident that she will soon receive a proposal.”
Rebecca’s blood froze, this awful news confirming all her fears. “Did your brother—did he confide in you on the subject?”
“Not yet. However, I know him well—he is agitated about something—and I will share with you a secret. Yesterday he asked me quietly, in passing, if I thought my mother might be willing to part with my grandmother’s ring. Of course I said mama would be only too happy to give it to him, should he ever require it. Very quickly thereafter he inquired as to how Laura was faring, and whether she was travelling next month or not.”
So distressed was Rebecca upon hearing this news, it was all she could do to put one foot in front of the other. She contributed very little to the conversation for the remainder of their walk, and was very glad to get home. The living at Beaumont she now saw as a great evil, for it was the means by which she should be separated for ever from Mr. Clifton. How she wished Sir Percival had never thought of it!
Miss Clifton left the next day, and although Rebecca was sorry to be deprived of her companionship, she was glad of the reprieve from conversation upon a topic which only brought her pain.
The morning after her friend’s departure, Rebecca was seated in the parlour, lost in very agitating thoughts while engaged in drawing—an occupation to which she had recently returned—when Mr. Clifton found her, and asked what she was doing.
Her heart beat faster in his presence, but she was so filled with sadness that she could not look at him. Struggling to retain her composure, she said, “It is a picture of my mother—or an attempt at one. It is difficult to draw any thing from memory, particularly a likeness, but it pleases me to try nonetheless.” She showed it to him.
Mr. Clifton pronounced the drawing very good, and its object very beautiful.
Distractedly, Rebecca said of her drawing: “This was my mother’s favourite gown, and the pearl brooch she always wore—the ornament I was obliged to sell at a shop in Milsom Street, so that we might make our escape from Bath.”
“A terrible loss for you.”
“Yes; it was my only memento of hers, an
d now it is gone for ever.”
Rebecca felt Mr. Clifton’s eyes upon her, and she glanced up at him. His countenance was very calm; but although she strove to maintain an impassive expression, she believed her efforts were in vain, and that her deep feelings for him were revealed in full upon her face. He quickly averted his gaze. Frowning, he said inattentively, “My mother has just such a memento of her mother. I imagine if any thing were to happen to it, she should be very sad indeed.”
Oh! Rebecca thought. Mr. Clifton did perceive her feelings, and they made him uncomfortable! She was in agony. “As papa reminds me,” she replied, exerting herself to make conservation, “these are only things. I—I suppose we give too much importance to articles which we can do without. I have my mother’s memory to comfort me, and that is all I really need.”
Mr. Clifton pronounced this a sound outlook, and he soon quit the room.
Rebecca was so mortified by this awkward exchange, that for the ensuing fortnight she avoided Mr. Clifton whenever possible.
One morning when she came down to breakfast, to her surprise, she learned that Mr. Clifton was gone.
“Gone? Why?” inquired she with apprehension.
“He asked leave for four or five days,” explained her father. “He said he had some business to attend to.”
“What kind of business, papa?”
“He did not say.” Mr. Stanhope turned to the cook, who had come in to ask if any thing else was wanted. “Did Mr. Clifton tell you where he was going, Martha?”
“No sir, he just come in very early like and ask for his breakfast, and told me he had to go, but never said two words about where he was off to, or why. However he did say one thing that puzzled me: he asked after my ring.”
“Your ring?” repeated Rebecca.
“Yes ma’am, my wedding ring.” Martha held up her reddened hand, which bore a simple band on one finger. “He asked after it, liked to know whose it was. Did my poor dead husband, God rest his soul, give it to me, or did it belong to one of my own family? I told him, it was my mother’s ring, and I have never took it off since the day I was wed. He nodded real solemn like, and just eat his eggs, with saying nary a word more.”
