An Eccentric Engagement

by Donna Lea Simpson

  Wistfully, Margaret said, “Do you think I’ll ever have those things?”

  Sorrow took her hands in her own and said, “I believe you can,” knowing of the girl’s fears. “But you must give yourself time to learn how to calm yourself. You’re a very special person and deserve everything in life, but you must give yourself time.”

  “You’re right of course,” Margaret said softly, her voice breaking. “How can I think of marriage when I’m afraid to even leave Spirit Garden? If it was not for your parents, I don’t know . . . I don’t know if I would still be alive.”

  Sorrow took the girl in her arms. She had seen the cuts on Margaret’s wrists when the girl first came, and knew that she had made a solemn promise to the Marchands never to do that again. She had been like a wounded bird, afraid to fly, but gaining strength and confidence slowly. “Give yourself time,” she said, releasing her. “Even if you need to stay here forever—”

  “No! I will be stronger one day.” Margaret sat up straight. “Maybe soon. Sorrow, I have begun to feel, lately, that I might learn to make my own way. I want to go to London for a visit, and Mr. Marchand has promised I might go and visit Lady Spotswycke. And . . . may I come and stay with you and Mr. Carlyle when you are married? I mean, only for a week or so, and not right away.” She blushed and turned her face away. “I know you will want to be alone together for a while, but sometime?”

  “Of course,” Sorrow said, pulling her friend back into a hug. “Of course you may.”

  • • •

  Bertram stood outside the library door, knowing Mr. Marchand was in the library going over some estate papers. He wanted to talk to him but wasn’t sure what he would say. He had so many questions about the day, and about the Marchands. Their household was unlike any he had ever visited, seeming almost like a hospital at times and at others like the most joyous family home one could imagine.

  This visit had started oddly and showed no sign of ever being normal. Dinner had been served in a series of fits and starts, with Mr. and Mrs. Marchand called away a couple of times to attend to emergencies. At that moment his fiancée, instead of being in the parlor playing the piano or netting a purse, was upstairs seeing to “the old folks,” as she called them. It appeared that Mr. Howard was not the only elderly, sickly inmate of Spirit Garden.

  He was trying to cultivate a new attitude of boldness and courage, so he raised one hand and rapped on the door. At the summons, he entered.

  The library was cluttered, with books over every surface. Mr. Marchand, oddly youthful even with his graying hair, sat on the floor among piles of books, cross-legged with one open on his lap. He looked up over his glasses and smiled. “Bertram! How good of you to visit me. Time we had a talk, eh?”

  “Yes, sir,” Bertram said, trying to think where he would sit, whether the man expected him to collapse onto the carpet with him, or should he be more dignified in talking to his future father-in-law?

  “Take a chair, young man. Just push those books to one side or pile them on the desk.”

  Bertram shifted a pile of books from a wing chair to a side table and sat down. “What are all these books, sir?”

  Frowning down at the one in his hands, Mr. Marchand said, “They’re medical books, such as they are, I suppose, on the state of the mind. You witnessed my tussle with young Joshua today.”

  “Who is Joshua, sir? If I might ask?” After Sorrow’s story he had some insight into Mr. Marchand, but was fascinated by what made such a man do what he did. Surely he had more than fulfilled expectations any spectral being had of him in exchange for his life!

  “Joshua is the son of a couple whose name you would recognize immediately, if I told you. Joshua is their youngest.” Mr. Marchand, his silver-tinged hair and silver-rimmed glasses glinting in the lamplight of his library, frowned down at the book in his hands again and then continued. “He is troublesome to them. He will allow only so much contact before he rebels and cannot bear to be touched or spoken to. I would not have chased him so this morning if his hair had not gotten into such a state. I have found that in most cases it does not help to force things on these folks.” He paused and shook his head, and with a sad tone muttered, “They used to use ties to confine poor Joshua. It only made him afraid and wild. But he’s getting better, though you would not know it by that spectacle this morning, eh?”

  Bertram watched Sorrow’s father, considering what she had told him of the man. He was as unlike Bertram’s own father as two men could be, and he wondered what the two fathers would make of each other when Lord Newton arrived later in the week. But first he wanted to have some understanding himself, so he could try to explain this household and this family to his father.

  He had no doubt that if Lord Newton had known the depths of the Marchands’ eccentricity he would never have considered his son marrying into the family, but now that it was accomplished, now that he had Sorrow to plan for as his future wife, Bertram had no intention of giving her up for anything. The kisses they had shared that afternoon had left him strangely elated and with the oddest feeling of walking on clouds, and he wanted to feel that more, and more often.

  “Mr. Marchand, why do you do what you do? I mean . . . Sorrow has told me about . . . about her origin and how you came to adopt her, but why do you continue? Surely you have done enough good in your life and should enjoy your time now.”

  The older man leaned back against the chair behind him and set aside his book. He took off his glasses and met Bertram’s eyes for the first time. “In truth, when I started, though I felt much enthusiasm, I didn’t know what I was doing. My only goal was to help people. Whoever needed it. But when I opened my eyes it was to see how terrible we are here in this country at looking after those who do not fit into our narrow strictures of proper behavior.”

  “Sir, pardon me for saying this, but . . . you don’t really believe you were . . . were visited by a being or . . . or ghost, do you?”

  “You are not so closed that you dismiss outright the possibility, are you?”

  “Well, I suppose—”

  “I don’t know what happened that night. I don’t think we know enough about the miracle that is our brain,” Mr. Marchand said, tapping his head with one finger. “Did I invent the being to give myself hope and courage? Did it indeed give me the power to stay alive until help came? I was very badly hurt. Or was I truly hovering between this world and the next? Do you claim, sir, to have a definitive answer to that which has plagued men for centuries?”

  Bertram felt foolish, suddenly, to even question this man who had so clearly thought much on the topic. “No, sir, I would never dream of claiming some special knowledge.”

  “Bertram, you’re allowed to doubt any part of my story. I was in a great deal of pain at the time and may have imagined the whole thing. However, regardless of the impetus, this . . . this way of living,” the man said, waving his arms around to indicate the whole of Spirit Garden and all of its inhabitants, “has been a godsend. I was aimless before, wandering, with no purpose, and a man without purpose is fulfilling only a particle of his function on earth. Just think of the possibilities,” he went on, leaning forward and tossing the book aside. “Just think, if every person who was able would do everything they could in life to better life for those around them . . . well, the world would be an astonishing place. No hunger, no pain . . . peace!” He sighed. “Formidable. It would be formidable, sir!”

  His enthusiasm, while infectious, was frightening in its intensity, and Bertram didn’t quite know what to say. Bewildered and confused, he said nothing.

  Chapter 4

  If the whole of Spirit Garden disappeared in the morning mist it would leave the world impoverished, Bertram thought the next morning as he took an early walk around the grounds. He looked up at the mellow brick and stone, ivy climbing the walls, roses beginning to bud against the stone fence, and wondered if that was what mankind had been placed on earth for, to help each other and learn that every person was so connect
ed to the other that the pain of one impoverished the species.

  And in the next moment he wondered what had infected him with such strange thoughts, for he had never before mused on the purpose of life.

  A low fog gathered in the hollows of the meadow beyond the gardens. Through the fog he saw a woman, not young but not old, moving at a measured pace. She carried a basket filled with greens and seemed to be deep in concentration. When she looked up as she came to the garden gate, she stopped and gazed at him steadily for a long moment, no smile on her calm round face, and then said in a soft tone, “You must be Mr. Bertram Carlyle.”

  “You have the advantage of me, madam, for I don’t know you.”

  She chuckled, fumbled with the gate latch, and nodded a thanks when he rushed to open it for her. “I know you by description. I arrived back at Spirit Garden late last night, returning from the sickbed of an acquaintance.”

  “I hope you left your acquaintance better?”

  “I did.” She passed through the gate and took his offered arm.

  She was a lovely woman in her forties, he thought, though he was no judge of age, and perhaps she was a relation. For she was not ill, nor was she deranged. She seemed calm and lovely and perfectly sane.

  He guided her to the front door, where she stopped and said, “Are you coming in to breakfast, sir?”

  “In a moment. I was just . . . the garden is very peaceful in the early morning.”

  “And conducive to thinking,” she said. She put out her right hand. “I am Mrs. Liston.”

  “Are you related to the Marchands, ma’am?”

  She smiled and looked up at the house. “Only by ties of the heart. They rescued me from . . . from penury. Or worse.”

  “Oh.”

  She met his gaze again. “Ah, you had hoped you had finally found one person here who was not one of their pensioners. That would not be me. I have much to be grateful for in life, chief among them the Marchands. You are getting a gem in Sorrow.”

  “I know it,” Bertram said, turning away. “But what is she getting in me?”

  “I beg your pardon? I did not hear the last part?” she said, hand on the doorknob to go in.

  “Nothing, ma’am,” he said, turning back toward her, ashamed of his muttering. “Please, do not let me keep you from your breakfast.”

  “Come in soon, Mr. Carlyle. You will be able to meet everyone that way.”

  “There are more than I have already met?”

  “Yes, of course. There are always more, and the breakfast table is where we all meet. We have breakfast early here. Do come in soon.”

  She entered as Bertram watched. More. There were more people? Would Sorrow expect her life to be like this? Would she make of their home this . . . this madhouse? He was ashamed the next moment for thinking that way, but still could not erase his fears. He was not certain that he could manage a life like this, and surely that meant he was lacking in compassion, or benevolence or something. Was he heartless? He had not been used to thinking so, but maybe he was. He had thought that he and Sorrow were very well suited, but he was now uncertain of anything. There was only one thing to do, and that was to talk to her about it. He squared his shoulders and entered.

  • • •

  “Oh, Mrs. Liston, I’m so happy for you,” Sorrow said, hugging the plump widow and patting at her tears. Sorrow’s father had just told Mrs. Liston of the letter he received that finally guaranteed her her rightful widow’s portion of her late husband’s income. It was not a fortune, but it would allow her to live. “But does that mean you will be leaving us?”

  “Yes, my dear, even as you will be leaving Spirit Garden. I met your young man outside as I came in. He seems very . . . nice.”

  Sorrow noted the reservation in the woman’s tone and the hesitation, and wondered what the lady had sensed to be lacking. Mrs. Liston, though, had suffered gravely at the hands of men and was not very trusting. Perhaps it was just that she didn’t know Bertram yet.

  Her fiancé that moment entered the breakfast room and looked around at the gathering. There were eight at the large round table, including Sorrow, Mrs. Liston, Sorrow’s father and Joshua. But there were also Margaret, of course, and three others.

  Sorrow greeted him and said, “You know most of us, but there are also Nancy Smith, who comes up from the village every day to help us with the old folks,” she said, indicating a shy, plump girl with a port wine birthmark that covered her cheek, “Billy, who only has breakfast with us,” she said, indicating a young legless boy in a Bath chair, “since he is too busy in the conservatory with the plants for the rest of the day, and Mr. William.” She indicated the last man, a quiet, older gentleman who made his way through a plate of eggs and herring, not seeming to notice the hubbub of the room.

  “Mr. William?” Bertram gazed at the man, perhaps expecting an explanation.

  Sorrow leaned toward her fiancé and whispered, “I will tell you about him later.”

  “Sit, Carlyle,” Sorrow’s father said, indicating the empty chair beside him. “We don’t stand on ceremony for breakfast. You can see it is our largest meal. The rest of the day many have trays or just get something from Cook.”

  Mrs. Marchand entered just then. “Good morning, dearest,” she said to Sorrow, giving her a hug. She dropped a kiss on her husband’s silvered head and ruffled Joshua’s hair and then Billy’s.

  Bertram was looking very pale and ate his breakfast in silence. Sorrow watched him.

  Of all the men in London, he was the only one she thought might understand her family and their way of life. She and her mother exchanged worried looks. This had been Mrs. Marchand’s fear, that this prenuptial visit would frighten Bertram away. But Sorrow’s reasoning still stood. There would have been no way to prepare him for her family life. It would have sounded like insanity.

  In truth, it worked far better than anyone had a right to expect, but that was because over the years the Marchands had developed a tolerance for chaos. Bertram, raised by the dignified, pompous Lord Newton in his quiet household and the hard discipline of good schools . . . how would he react?

  After breakfast, she said shyly, “Would you like to see my favorite spot on the estate?”

  He nodded, still wordless, and she took his hand and led him outside, through the garden, out the gate and across the long lawn that led down to the brook, toward an oak tree that stood in lonely majesty near the edge of the wooded copse that signaled the end of the Marchand property. The early fog had burned off and it was a glorious June day with a sky so blue it hurt her eyes just to look. A light breeze ruffled her new gown, a pretty dotted lawn confection of pale rose and green. She thought she looked well enough in it, but wasn’t sure the style suited her.

  Finding a dress to suit her simple and specific tastes was almost as hard as finding a husband to suit her heart’s desire. In London she had known from the beginning that she might never find a man who fit her needs and was also attracted to her. She had seen Bertram long before he appeared to notice her, but once he did, and made the attempt to get to know her, they had gotten on fine.

  Perhaps that was why it had sorely disappointed her to hear that the impetus for Bertram to look in her direction had come from his father, but she stuffed back the doubt. Did it really matter how it had happened? It had, and she had liked him from the start, and had hoped he liked her just as much. There were far prettier girls in London, certainly, and though he had had a couple of disappointments in the past—his courting misadventures had been the gossip of their circle—she had paid the chatter no mind.

  They finally stood in the shade of the oak tree. “Isn’t it magnificent?”

  He sighed. “Yes, I suppose.”

  “Let’s sit down,” she said, indicating the soft grass under the tree.

  “But it is so damp! You will stain your pretty dress!”

  “I don’t care about that. Do you really like it? I wasn’t sure.”

  “It makes you look like a flowe
r,” he said, smiling finally. “It is almost pretty enough to do you justice.”

  She sighed happily. “You say such lovely things, Bert,” she said, standing on tiptoe and kissing his cheek.

  He took her in his arms and kissed her then, and she closed her eyes, surrendering to the sweetness of his mouth on hers and the security of his arms around her. She put her arms around his neck and kissed him back, letting all of her hope and fear and longing pour out of her. They sank down together and he pulled her close, their bodies reclining in the shade of the tree and their mouths joined still, their breath mingling, their separateness melting away in the warmth of their joined heartbeats.

  When he stopped kissing her and she opened her eyes, it was to find him staring down at her with a fierce, yearning hope in his gray eyes. She rested her head back on the comfortable firmness of his arm and reached up, pushing one lock of dark hair behind his ear. “Bert, what is it? I have been feeling . . . oh, I don’t know. I’ve been worried this morning. You seemed . . . different.”

  He pulled away from her and sat up, his elbows on his drawn-up knees. He stared down to the stream, glinting silver in the brilliant sunshine. When he glanced back at her, his doubtful expression melted into a smile. “Whenever I look at you, I feel this . . . this surge of hope that we can work it all out.”

  “Work what out?”

  “Our lives. Sorrow, we’re so different, and our lives have been so different. What if . . . what if we want different things? We haven’t even talked about that. You didn’t tell me about any of this in London.”

  “This?”

  “This! All of this, how your parents are, and how you were raised, all your . . . all the people!”