Glass Roses: A Victorian Fairytale

by Britain Kalai Soderquist

  “You brought Mrs. Kirke…” he began, but stopped, seeming confused. I felt my cheeks warm slightly. On his magnificent horse he seemed to tower over me, and I realized too late that I had not thought to ask his permission to take such a liberty with his housekeeper. My embarrassment quickly turned to annoyance, however. Why should I care whether or not he approved of my actions? It had been the right thing to do.

  “She told me that she had not seen them for several years, and I thought it was a shame that she should be kept by her health from visiting them when I had a carriage and could take her myself.” The Duke merely looked at me, his brows contracted under the brim of his large hat. I raised my chin slightly to show that I did not regret my actions. “As we are expected to take tea with them, we must leave or we shall be late.”

  My words seemed to rouse him from whatever he had been thinking. He touched his hat and grunted an apology for detaining me before spurring his horse into movement. Puzzling over the Duke’s behavior, I rejoined Helen and we walked back to the carriage.

  We returned to find Mrs. Kirke sitting happily beside the fire in the front room of the cottage, a quaint little parlor with wooden floorboards and a large braided rug. The furniture was simple but well cared for, and the room was as tidy as any fine manor house. The baby was sleeping contentedly in Mrs. Kirke’s arms while the other children played with a set of hand-carved toy sheep. Never ones for shyness, Henry and Arthur quickly joined the group on the rug.

  Eliza Kirke welcomed us warmly, and soon Helen and I were supplied with tea and some biscuits. Our hostess proved to be a bright as well as pretty woman, full of affection for her husband’s mother, and a deft manager of her household. We discussed a number of topics before the subject of our visit to the village was mentioned. Eliza glanced knowingly at Mrs. Kirke once, but she politely turned the subject as soon as possible. Even with this strange reluctance to discuss the Duke’s affairs, the afternoon was pleasant; indeed, it was difficult to leave when the time came. In what I felt was private defiance of the Duke, I arranged to bring Mrs. Kirke back for another visit next week, and it was clear from the way her eyes sparkled that it was just what she wished.

  Nothing unusual occurred when we returned to the castle, but the Duke seemed more brooding than usual at dinner this evening. I was seated at the pianoforte, and Helen was mending one of Arthur’s stockings, when the gentlemen joined us in the drawing room. Papa joined Helen by the fire, but to my surprise, the Duke moved toward me. I continued to play in spite of this singular occurrence, although I nearly stopped out of shock a moment later when the Duke actually spoke to me.

  “I find I am obliged to you, Miss Copley. I was not aware that Mrs. Kirke was unable to make the walk down to the village. Had I known, I would not have allowed her to go so long without seeing her family.”

  “I might wonder why a responsible master would not be aware of a change in his housekeeper’s health that would cause such a significant alteration to her daily routine,” I replied, although I had not intended to speak my mind so freely. We were silent for several moments. “Forgive me,” I said quietly. “I spoke out of turn. You need not feel obliged to offer me thanks, for I only did what I felt to be right.” Again I fell silent, biting my lower lip as I realized that this was not much better than the frank accusation I had flung at him before.

  “You are right to speak boldly. I have been a neglectful master,” he replied softly after some more moments of silence in which only my accompaniment could be heard. “Were I a younger man, I might seek to excuse my behavior with a recitation of past wrongs, but I have passed the age at which such acts are allowable. I shall endeavor to do better in future.” Inclining his head, he seated himself in the armchair closest to the instrument and took up a book, leaving me in utter astonishment. I had unconsciously stopped playing during this last speech, and it was several moments before I noticed. At length I resumed playing, though my cheeks warmed again as I realized the Duke had seated himself in such a way as to have my face in full view as long as I remained at the instrument.

  Is not this most exceedingly odd? I am once again uncertain what to think about the Duke of Stirling. His words reminded me of the very odd reference Mrs. Kirke made to some unknown trouble that her master once suffered. Had he been about to tell me what it was? I almost wish he had, for my curiosity has been awakened to a particular degree. Perhaps it has something to do with the villagers? I fear I do not know enough to solve this mystery on my own.

  Oh! I quite forgot that I have yet another piece of interesting news to relate. Helen received a letter from her husband this morning. He wrote that his ship, the HMS White Rose, has been ordered to return to England from the West Indies. It was dated several weeks back, which means Lieutenant Potter should arrive sometime late next week. Helen has not seen him in almost a year and is most anxious to be with him. Papa and I both encouraged her to return to England.

  “But what shall you do about a companion? I suppose as removed as you are from society here it would not be so very against propriety, but I—,”

  “Papa and I shall find a way,” I said reassuringly. Helen chewed on the inside of her cheek, a sign that she was not happy with the situation. We were discussing our options in the drawing room this evening, and had nearly decided to try and find an elderly lady in the village who might be willing to be compensated for serving as my companion, when the Duke spoke up unexpectedly from behind his newspaper.

  “All this fuss over nothing; it would be much easier if your husband joined us here, Mrs. Potter.” This speech, given in his usual blunt tone, took us all by surprise. No one spoke for several moments while we tried to collect our thoughts.

  Finally Helen found her voice. “You are very kind, Your Grace, but I fear we would be an imposition on you.” The Duke huffed his opinion of that remark and straightened his newspapers, but did not speak again.

  Uncertain whether or not this was an answer, I spoke up. “Which port did you say your husband will be sailing into, Helen?”

  “Portsmouth, but he can take passage with a friend as far as Liverpool.”

  “Perhaps you might take your children in our carriage and meet him there, and then decide,” Papa suggested with a side glance at the Duke.

  “It will only be for a short while, you know,” I said.

  No other plan seemed better suited to the situation, so Helen finally agreed. As we went to our rooms for the evening, I took a moment to privately assure her that I was comfortable with the plan.

  “It will not be so very different from the way Papa and I normally live, now that my governess is gone,” I said. Helen nodded, but bit the inside of her cheek again, no doubt thinking that at home we did not have a single gentleman of large fortune living with us. Her concern for my well-being is most appreciated, but I have no worries of my own. The Duke is so careful to avoid meeting with me, and Papa is feeling so much better, that I doubt very much if I shall see any more of my host than I do now.

  To speak the truth, I am secretly looking forward to having some time to myself. I love Helen and her dear little boys, but I miss my solitary afternoons spent reading. The Duke’s library holds much fascination for me, but I have spent very little time there as yet. And I shall be able to explore more of the countryside. Helen’s fear of the local wolves has restricted most of our ramblings to the environs immediately surrounding the castle. If you were here, we could go riding out every day. I imagine there are some splendid paths through these hills and valleys that you would be in raptures over. Alas, I was not thinking of such things when I left, and so my horse remains in Kent along with my paints. You have most likely had some pleasant rides through the parks in Paris. I am certain that the gentlemen of your acquaintance must ride in the superior style with which they seem to do everything else.

  That is the end of my news for now. Write soon and tell me of all your doings. I miss you dreadfully. If I could choose any companion to share in my present adventure, it
would be you.

  Love,

  Isabella

  2 May, 1845

  24 Rue de Verre, Paris

  Dearest Isabella,

  Thank you very much for your letters and the continued news as to the improvement in your father’s health. Papa has been quite worried about him and asks me for information every time I receive a letter from you. Even Step-mamma was concerned when she heard that he had been taken with fever. It did not induce her to cancel the dinner party and informal dance she had planned for the evening, but one comes not to expect such things of women like Step-mamma. Regardless, it is a relief to us all that he is regaining his strength.

  I find that I am quite as puzzled as you are over the Duke’s behavior. I have read your letters several times without coming to a conclusion with which I feel satisfied. My guesses are no doubt similar to your own. Did you not tell me that Agnes Duncan said he had suffered a great disappointment and now views all women with disdain? Perhaps your good sense and utter lack of vapors and insipid conversation is changing his impression of young ladies? Or perhaps he is simply becoming more used to having company about him. If he truly lives so secluded from society, it must have been a long time since he was last in company with any regularity.

  The one part of his behavior I cannot excuse is his shameful neglect of Mrs. Kirke, though I am somewhat appeased by his frank admission of his own faults. But who knows how long Mrs. Kirke would have had to wait for help if you had not come along? At least you will be able to keep your engagement to take her to the village for another visit before Mrs. Potter requires the carriage for her journey to Liverpool.

  I am quite of your opinion that it is perfectly unexceptionable for you to remain at the castle while Mrs. Potter is away. Uncle Matthew will be there, as well as Mrs. Kirke, and you could always have one of the maids sit in a room with you if you felt it absolutely necessary. Mrs. Potter is kind to place so much importance on ensuring you are comfortable, but in the wilds of Scotland it cannot be more than a formality to always need a chaperone when one’s father is present and one’s host is quite absent. Such things are not done in London, of course, but then it is likely for the best if girls like Fanny are able to find trouble even with their chaperones present.

  I appreciate your indignation on my behalf regarding the proposed trip to Vienna, dear Isabella, but I beg you not to be too inconvenienced by it. Step-mamma may have halted the scheme for now, but I am sure Papa is still considering Vienna and that he very much wishes to go. My hopes are much higher than they were when I last wrote to you. He will find a way, and if it is at all possible, he will not leave me behind.

  You are kind to put me on my guard about Baron Wilhelm, and I shall endeavor to take your advice despite your belief that I will not. I trust you will not take offense if the result is that I am fully prepared in the event that he does make his addresses to me. I admit that Baron Wilhelm (whose title in Germany is slightly less important than the same title in Austria) continues his attentions to our family in general, and that those attentions could lead toward a more pointed goal. But if that is the case, I cannot determine which of us has captured his interest. Perhaps his attentions are only given because he is fond of our society after all. Should he not have made the object of his affections clear to us by now otherwise? And in spite of your warning, I find it most amusing and highly unlikely that I am his choice. My ideas of a lover’s attentions are quite different from the Baron’s behavior. If he were truly interested in me, would he not be offering me his arm on walks in the park, or taking pains to secure me as a partner for supper at balls? Would he not contrive to always sit next to me whenever we are in company together or at the opera? Would he not ask to dance with me slightly more than is appropriate? His behavior has not sparked any comment or gossip, which is a sure sign that no one among our mutual acquaintance has a suspicion of his being in love at all. Would this be so if he were truly in love, with me or with one of my stepsisters?

  I have just now reflected on some of our more recent engagements in which Baron Wilhelm took part, and I cannot see an increase in any of these behaviors toward me or Fanny or Hettie. Indeed, he did not even dance with Fanny at the last ball. He danced a country dance with Hettie and two waltzes with me. And the other night at the opera he sat between Hettie and me and did not speak to either of us very much at all. True, the Baron is a music lover, and whenever we attend the opera he prefers not to interrupt the music with talk, but is this not simply more proof against his being in love? We dined in company with him only last evening, and while he did take me in to dinner, that does not much signify, for you know the hostess arranges such things beforehand. And he was no more enthusiastic about me playing a third piece for the evening entertainment than Nanette Duponte, who had requested a particular song she liked.

  Only time will tell, I fear. I have pondered somewhat on the question you asked in your letter: would I accept the Baron’s hand if he offered for me? In truth, I do not know. He is certainly a respectable man, one of intelligence and good temper, the kind of man one feels honored to know. But I cannot help feeling that his manner is too placid for my liking. Nothing moves him to exuberance, although he is most civil and attentive.

  I fear I am not explaining my meaning properly. It is as though we are taking one of our rides through the parks in Paris. For the most part the French are indifferent riders, more interested in having the ability to ride than in perfecting or enjoying it. The few times I have ridden here have been no more exciting than a stroll through a garden. And this is how Baron Wilhelm’s manner appears in my eyes: as quiet and calm as a stroll through a garden or a slow ride through the park. He lacks a certain animation in his actions and words, and it is that fault which makes me hesitate to say that I could accept him. He is stiff and proper, although kind and not unwilling to engage in conversation. But there is something wanting, and I feel as though even after all this time we are still only acquaintances.

  But I am allowing my thoughts to run away with me. Do forgive my nonsense and write to me soon. Your stories of Scotland are stimulating in the midst of the tedium of Parisian society.

  Your bored cousin,

  Eleanor

  6 May, 1845

  Castle Stirling, Scotland

  Dear Eleanor,

  Your feelings about Baron Wilhelm are quite understandable, considering the view you have of his temperament. You alone can judge the degree to which any man will be able to make you happy, and I think you are wise to have put such careful attention into studying your feelings on such subjects. How many of our sex can say the same? I have only lived nineteen years in the world, and have traveled less than you, but within my own neighborhood it is apparent that many do not know themselves as well, or if they do, have allowed the concerns over matrimonial prospects to take precedence.

  Having expressed myself thus, I do feel somewhat inclined to suggest that the Baron may gain from the influence of a spirited wife. If he is indeed interested in attaching you, he shows no dislike to the idea. But you said you felt you were only acquaintances even after so many weeks spent in one another’s company; if that is truly your feeling, then you are wise to be cautious.

  I am pleased that you do not completely despair of visiting Vienna in time. I have been contemplating schemes to convince Aunt Sylvia that a removal to Austria would be in the best interest of the family, but my efforts have not served my purpose. Nothing short of either a lack of suitors or fashionable company would induce her to change her situation. Perhaps you could discover the peer of whom Hettie is enamored and convince him to go to Vienna? Hettie might then make enough fuss to require Uncle Charles to take Lord Warner’s offer.

  On Monday I was able to keep my engagement to take Mrs. Kirke to visit her family in the village. Her daughter seemed especially pleased that a young lady of consequence would care enough about her husband’s mother to keep a promise that might seem onerous to others. I can only say that if the task were indee
d onerous, I could not think it so after having observed the joy so clearly visible in Mrs. Kirke’s countenance long after we have returned to the castle.

  Sadly, I will be unable to repeat the kindness unless Helen chooses to return here from Liverpool. She and the children left yesterday to meet Lieutenant Potter’s ship and should arrive within a day of him. Papa was firm in assuring her that if her husband would prefer to return to their home in Portsmouth, they were to have no scruples about using his carriage and horses for the journey. Indeed, I myself gave Saunders strict instructions to be sure this occurs if it is the Potters’ wish. Saunders would then return home to Kent, and Papa and I would travel by post as soon as he is fully recovered. Otherwise, we expect to see them at the castle again within a fortnight.

  I have another slight instance to add to the mystery of the Duke’s behavior, although this is only because he has been more in evidence this week than at any other time. He has begun taking all of his meals with us now that Papa is well enough to join us downstairs with more regularity. Perhaps he feels more comfortable with another man in evidence. Indeed, the Duke’s improving manners seem to be in direct proportion to Papa’s improving health. The weather was fine enough this last week for Papa to spend several hours sitting in the garden and watching Helen play with her children. It has been quite the pleasant change, sitting in the sunshine with Papa and a book while Henry and Arthur squeal with delight as Helen chases them up and down the grassy slope of the lawn.

  The Duke has joined us on more than one occasion, speaking of scientific matters with Papa and sometimes watching the children with a somewhat distracted air, as if his mind was engaged elsewhere. This is the one time when we are together that I am somewhat free from his concentrated gaze, for it is difficult to hide such attentiveness outside of the drawing room. Indeed, our situations are somewhat reversed, for I find myself taking advantage of my book and his more verbose moods to study his countenance and personality.