by Syrie James
Rebecca sat in unhappy silence, her heart heavy, her appetite gone. Mr. Clifton’s errand was clear: he had returned home to Highchester to fetch his grandmother’s ring, and to propose to Miss Russell.
CHAPTER X
Rebecca spent the subsequent week in very melancholy reflections. The house, with only her father for company, seemed very quiet indeed. The weather only added to the gloom. A heavy rain began to fall, the wind howled through the trees, and the roads turned to mud. The picture which Rebecca drew in her mind of the months ahead was very dismal indeed.
How ironic it was to have lost her heart to a man, who was now lost to her for ever! Mr. Clifton was to be engaged to Miss Russell. Miss Russell! A woman who, Rebecca felt, was not entirely amiable, and did not deserve him;—nor did she see how her society could make him happy. While awaiting his appointment at Beaumont, it was Miss Russell that he would think of, her society which he would seek. In the interval, he would continue to live here—in this very house—and every day, Rebecca should be obliged to see him and converse with him, while struggling to hide her own breaking heart. This could go on for many months, or even years—for who knew how long it would take for the position to become vacant? In time, the lovers would marry and settle at Beaumont. Rebecca would most likely never see Mr. Clifton again.
She could not refrain from a heavy sigh. Her former happiness at the prospect of being once again at her beloved home, with her father as her companion, and all things exactly as before, was now ruined. She saw before her only misery, loneliness, and heartache.
The storm abated, but left the roads in terrible condition. Mr. Clifton did not return as expected. Three days beyond his anticipated arrival date, there was still no sign of him. As it was a frigid and blustery day, Rebecca and her father stayed in by the fire. Unable to concentrate on the novel she was attempting to read, she picked up her pencil and sketch-book instead. She thought to draw her father as he sat reading in his chair, but this notion came to an end when he abruptly announced his intention to take a nap. Left alone, Rebecca was obliged to content herself drawing the room itself instead. She had outlined its proportions, and made some progress on the details of its furnishings, when, of a sudden, she heard an approaching carriage.
Glancing out the window, she observed Mr. Clifton stepping down from the conveyance. Her heart quickened. He was home! As she watched him pay the driver, while their man-servant brought in Mr. Clifton’s trunk, she strove to collect herself. Whatever he said of his journey, and of the results of it, she must bear it as best she could. She would be calm.
She let the curtains fall back, returned to her chair, and picked up her sketch-book and pencil. There were the sounds of the front door closing, and footsteps in the passage; some bustle, which she supposed to be him removing his great-coat and hat; and then he entered the room and moved straight to the hearth.
“Miss Stanhope.” He smiled wearily. “You are a welcome sight. I cannot tell you how glad I am to be home at last. Such a terrible storm!”
“Were you caught in it while travelling?”
“Yes, and the roads were so bad, I was obliged to break my journey by staying several nights at a small and drafty inn. Are you and Mr. Stanhope well? I hope you stayed in and kept warm and dry?”
“We are, and we did.” She rose and put down her work. “You must be frozen. Shall I ring for tea?”
“That would be lovely, thank you.”
She ordered refreshment for the both of them, then resumed her seat. There was much Rebecca wished to ask, but being unsure she could bear the answers, she remained silent. He stood before the hearth and warmed his hands, his air preoccupied. At length, his attention falling upon her art materials, he said,
“You are sketching. May I?”
“Be my guest.”
He studied her work in progress with a smile. “You have captured the charm and essence of this room: a snug, comfortable retreat. The clock on the mantelpiece, and the fire in the hearth, are particularly well done. Although—if I may—”
“Please, go on.”
“The scale of this chair could be improved, I believe. It is larger than you have depicted it. And the window is too small.”
“Ah, yes. I see your point. Thank you, I must fix that.”
Mr. Clifton handed her the sketch, but although she sat back down, he remained standing, again holding his hands before the fire as if lost in thought. “How have you occupied yourself while I was away?” asked he abruptly.
“We have been very quiet.”
She felt his eyes on her. He seemed to be trying for a more complete view of her face. Why? Was he hoping she would ask him something? Her discomfort only increased. For a moment or two, nothing was said. At last he spoke again.
“Shall I tell you where I have been?”
“Oh, I already know,” responded she quickly.
“You do?” He stared at her in surprise.
“Yes, I have guessed it—well, your sister guessed it before she left. She said you were gone to retrieve a very old piece of jewellery for—” She could not go on.
He continued to look amazed. “I have been on such a quest. But how could she have known? I said nothing to her or to any one about it.”
“Perhaps you did, and have forgotten.”
“No, it is impossible.” He frowned and shook his head. “But—do you mean to say that you truly know all about it?”
“Yes, yes.”
He looked at her, puzzled by her response. “You do not seem overly enthusiastic. Are not you interested in how it turned out?”
Rebecca looked at her hands in her lap. How could he even think that she should wish to hear about this? Was he truly so blind to her own feelings? Then she chastised herself for being uncharitable. Clearly, this was something he wanted to share with her. A true friend—and if she could not have more, she acknowledged, she did very much value his friendship—ought to be willing to listen to any thing he might have to say. Attempting to smile, she said,
“Of course I am interested. Were you—successful in your—quest?”
“I was. It took longer than I expected, but at last I prevailed.”
“I wonder that it took longer—or any time at all. I should have thought it would have been the work of a minute.” Rebecca regretted the words the moment they were spoken, and blushed.
“The work of a minute? Why do you say that?”
“Well, under the circumstances—considering that—” Rebecca checked herself. “May I offer my congratulations, sir?”
This remark seemed to confuse him utterly. “I do not understand you. You seem to make light of what was in fact an exhausting process. I had very little to go on.” He was searching in his coat pocket now, and brought forth a small jeweller’s box. “It was almost a miracle, really, that I found the thing at all. Perhaps it did not mean as much to you as I thought it did; but here it is.” He thrust the box at her. “Go ahead, open it.”
Rebecca stood and stared at the little box in her hands, as if it were on fire. “Why have you given this to me? Should not Miss Russell have it?”
“Miss Russell? What on earth has Miss Russell to do with this?”
“Is not she meant to be the recipient of your grand mother’s ring?”
“My grandmother’s ring?” He stared at her in bewilderment; and then she saw comprehension dawn in his eyes, and he cried, “Dear God! You thought I went home to fetch my grandmother’s ring, to make an offer to Miss Russell?”
“Is not that—?”
He burst out laughing. “No! God, no! My dear Miss Stanhope, I assure you, that was never my intention at all. Please do me the honour of opening the box.”
Rebecca was now very perplexed, but did as bidden. Upon lifting the lid, she caught her breath in astonishment, for the box contained not a ring at all, but a gold and pearl brooch.
“Oh!” exclaimed she in wonder and delight. “Is this for me?” At his nod, she continued, “Thank you! It is e
xactly like the one which belonged to my mother!”
“It is exactly like it, because it is one and the same. It is her very own brooch.”
“What? But how—?”
“I have not been to Highchester,” explained he. “I went to Bath. I saw how much this memento meant to you, and I travelled there expressly to track it down. I admit—I took something of yours with me, to help in my search. I hope you will forgive me.” From his inner coat pocket, he produced a scroll of paper, which he carefully unrolled. It was the sketch Rebecca had made of her mother.
“My drawing!”
“The likeness you drew of the brooch was very detailed. It was my only clue—that, and your mention that you had sold it at a shop in Milsom Street. I visited every single jewellery shop on that road, until I found a man who recognised the article, and remembered buying it from you. Unfortunately, he had already sold it, but he had a record of the sale. So I paid a visit to the party who had bought it—a very amiable lady, as it turned out—and convinced her to sell it to me.”
“Oh! Mr. Clifton. I hardly know what to say. You cannot imagine what this means to me. How can I ever thank you?”
“You already have. It was my pleasure, Miss Stanhope.”
Rebecca was overwhelmed, and so happy to have the brooch back in her possession, that for a moment she forgot their earlier confusion, as to the substance of their conversation. But the smile lingering on Mr. Clifton’s countenance reminded her of it, and she blushed as he said,
“All this time that I was talking about a quest, you thought I was going to fetch a ring for—Laura Russell, of all people?”
“Yes.” Their miscommunication struck them both as comic, and they laughed.
“What ever gave you that idea?”
“Your sister was the one who supposed it.” Rebecca told him what the cook had said, adding, “Catherine mentioned that you had asked about your grandmother’s ring, and about Miss Russell, nearly in the same breath.”
“Did I? Well, Laura is a particular friend of Catherine’s, so I regularly ask after her; but I have no interest in her myself.”
“You do not?”
“No. I never have.”
So deeply relieved was Rebecca, to discover that all her worries on that score were groundless, she could make no reply. At the same time, her mind leapt forward with a new question, which she did not feel appropriate to ask. Thankfully, Mr. Clifton answered it of his own accord.
“I did ask about the ring,” said he in a low voice, moving closer, and stopping immediately before her, “with a view to its—hopefully—being worn one day by a very special lady, but—I had a different person in mind.”
He looked at her so earnestly, and with eyes so expressive, that Rebecca could not speak. He went on:
“My dearest Miss Stanhope. All these years, I have never been able to find the words to express my feelings while in your presence. For a long time, I sensed that you did not like me. When you left Elm Grove—I did not blame you for resenting me, then—but my affection for you has never wavered. I have long dreamt of this moment, and now that it is here, I find—Surely, you cannot be in ignorance of how I feel.”—He broke off, his voice catching; but soon resumed, in a tone filled with sincerity and tenderness—“I believe I have loved you all my life, since we were children and played together up the road at Claremont Park. I used to count the days until my next visit, because it meant I would see you. You grew from a lively girl into a beautiful, intelligent woman, and with your sweet loveliness and your many talents, you took—you take—my breath away. When I look to the future, I cannot imagine my life without you at my side, as my wife, my love, and my dearest friend, sharing all our thoughts and feelings, and all the daily blessings of life. What say you? Will you share my life with me? Will you marry me?”
Throughout this speech, Rebecca was filled with such agitation, and a happiness so overpowering, that she felt as though she must be imagining it. Yet this was no dream. Mr. Clifton was indeed standing before her, and he had uttered every syllable with a heartfelt openness. In a rush, she saw the truth of all that occurred between them in years past—his strange reticence over the years, which she now understood to be due to his strong feelings for her. She now comprehended the reason behind his many selfless acts over the preceding months—his determination to clear her father’s name—his travelling all the way to Leatherhead, and Bath, and the Kamschatka Inn, and Bath again on their behalf—the pianoforte—the brooch—all reflections of his kindness and generosity, but more importantly, expressions of his love for her! She had never met a kinder or more thoughtful man; and she loved him with all her heart.
With great emotion, she expressed her own feelings in return, and answered him in the affirmative. She would be honoured to be his wife;—she could think of no greater honour.
His happiness on receiving her reply was equal to her own, and it was coupled with both amazement and relief. For all the while that he had been endeavouring to return from Bath, and waiting for the weather to clear, he had been in a very distressed state of mind, preparing the words he had so long yearned to say, with no certainty of their reception. To discover that she now felt the same affection for him, as he did for her! This was felicity itself, and the answer to his prayers.
This exchange, which in the space of a quarter of an hour, revealed the truth of their feelings for each other, and completely altered every thing, was yet only the beginning. There was much that each still wished to say. As Mr. Clifton took Rebecca’s hands in his, however, his eyes shining with affection and profound happiness, there came footsteps in the hall, and Mr. Stanhope entered, to express his delight at Mr. Clifton’s return. The latter directed a silent, significant look at Rebecca, who took his meaning, and immediately invented some excuse to leave the room.
She waited in a flurry of excitement, knowing what Mr. Clifton was about: he was asking her father’s consent to the marriage. She had no reason to think her father would be any thing but approving; and indeed, when the door finally opened, and Mr. Clifton came to retrieve her, he was all smiles. She returned to the parlour, where Mr. Stanhope embraced her, and shook Mr. Clifton’s hand, admitting that he had been praying for just such a conclusion for many months, and was happy to see that his observations of the two of them had not been wrong. He declared Mr. Clifton to be the best of men; that he proved himself even more worthy in his choice of bride, for there was no finer jewel in the kingdom than Rebecca; and that his daughter could not have chosen a more ideal companion for life, had she searched the world over. They would be very happy together, and he could not be happier for them.
That evening, when the three sat down to dinner, the discourse which had always flowed freely between them, and covered a great many topics of interest, was even more animated than before. They talked of the future with hope and delight. After Mr. Stanhope turned in for the night, the lovers returned to the parlour, as they had done so many evenings over the preceding months, but now with a very different aspect to their conversation. New avenues were opened, for at last they were free to speak all that was in their hearts, and to ask many questions which were burning in their minds.
Philip was concerned that Rebecca, after all her adventures, and after singing before such an admiring crowd at Bath, might be sorry to spend her life with him, in the seclusion of the country. Rebecca disabused him of any such notions.
“It was thrilling for a moment, to sing for a roomful of strangers,” admitted she, “but they were people I shall never see again. They cared nothing for me, only for the performance. They were ready to turn on me in an instant, and did. I cannot imagine that I would enjoy the itinerant life required of a singer, nor do I have any desire to live in town. How much more gratifying it will be, to have a quiet life in the country, and to sing and play for our own enjoyment, and that of our friends; for you are the people who know and love me, who matter in my life, and who will stay by me. You are the treasured company who make me feel co
mplete.”
Her answer relieved him of worry, and he was content.
Rebecca wanted to know at what age Mr. Clifton first knew of his feelings for her.
“I believe it was the first time I heard you sing at Christmas at Claremont Park, when you were nine years old,” replied he.
“Then why did you and your cousin make such fun of me?”
“Precisely because I liked you. I was thirteen years of age. I was starting to feel quite grown-up, and you seemed to me, then, as just a little girl. I think I was embarrassed by my feelings; I hardly knew what to make of them. So I did what all boys do. I behaved most abominably.”
“Every time I saw you after that, you were so aloof, so reserved. With others, you could be jolly; but you hardly looked at me, and barely spoke a word. I thought you despised me.”
“Quite the reverse. I liked you better with every visit—and that was my downfall. I could speak freely and easily with any one else, but not with you. I used to play out conversations with you in my mind, and rehearse phrases which I hoped to say to you. But once in your presence, I was all nerves and anxiety, afraid I would say or do the wrong thing. And so I said nothing. I would go away completely infuriated with myself.”
“I wish I had known. I would have tried to put you at ease.”
“This went on for years, and never really improved, until I came to see you that day at Bath.”
“You were not at a loss for words, then.”
“I suppose it was because I felt I had nothing to lose. I knew you greatly resented me already. Nothing I could do would make it worse—only better. And I truly had something important to say.”
“I will be for ever grateful for what you have done for my father and me—that day, and every day since. I do not deserve you, Philip.”
“My dearest Rebecca: I am all amazement to find myself where I now sit, and feel I do not deserve you.”
