Dangerous to Know

by Christina Boyd (ed)

  One evening soon after, Rose and I were walking together along the shore with her lady's maid trailing obligingly behind. Rose was looking out over the Channel, thinking, as I imagined, of her old home in France.

  “So many of your countrymen went home after Boney was crowned,” I remarked. “Why did you and your brother stay behind here?”

  An elegant shrug of her shoulders. “There is nothing left for us to go back for, Tom. We have been in England longer than we lived in France. You notice René has hardly any accent. But”—and she looked up at me mischievously—“I kept my accent because—the gentlemen like it!”

  I had to catch her and kiss her for that impudence, but she was right. I was enchanted by my Frenchwoman—my Frenchwoman—her accent, her voice, her smiles, her pouts, her grace, her laughter. I can close my eyes and see her as she was in the dusk that evening, as the tide washed over the shingle, the breeze making the curls about her forehead dance, and lifting and teasing her shawl and her skirts, now billowing, now pressing against her supple figure as she laughed and danced and twisted just ahead of me, out of my reach. What is it about love that turns people into children again?

  I do not know when I first entertained the thought of asking her to marry me, but that night I was utterly determined—I would ask her as soon as the opportunity presented itself.

  That night I escorted her to the Wilmots' home because René had gone away with Lord Delingpole to examine some horses. I asked her if I might call on her privately the next day, and she agreed.

  To my own surprise, I slept soundly that night and woke up feeling fit and fresh and absolutely knowing my own mind. No, I was not nervous or hesitant. In fact, I was impatient to pose the question; I had no doubt of being accepted. She was not an early riser, so I had to wait, impatiently pacing up and down the promenade like a fool. Finally, I decided it was late enough to call upon the Wilmots and the butler escorted me into a small parlour. Rose was there, alone, sitting at the pianoforte and playing a melancholy tune. She was wearing white muslin, I recall, with yellow trimming, and she received me very quietly, without her usual mirth, then took a seat and looked at me gravely.

  I had been practising my speech for hours and I believe I spoke well. I told her that I had loved her from the moment I saw her, but upon better acquaintance, I had learned her beauty was merely an adornment to her excellent character, intelligence, and sweet nature, perfections that I had never seen assembled in one woman before. I could not imagine life without her. I promised her security, comfort, and luxury. My name and fortune were hers if she would make me the happiest of men. Nothing new or original there, I suppose, but it was all new to me and if my words could not convey the depth of my emotions, I believe my eyes and countenance did. I knelt before her—of course—and she reached out and stroked my cheek. I had fondly imagined that at my conclusion she would embrace me, and I her, and we would share a passionate kiss. But she did not move or speak and she appeared to be deep in thought. Finally, awkwardly, I jested, “How long shall I stay on my knees before you, my love? If you tell me, ‘a fortnight,’ I shall do it and willingly, although you might provide me with a cushion to kneel upon.”

  “My dear, sweet Tom,” she said softly. “Please, please come sit beside me.”

  I sat next to her and she rested her head on my shoulder and held my hand. I wanted to think this was a good sign, but an anxious feeling grew within me.

  “Thomas Bertram,” she said at last. “When I first met you, I saw that you were so free, so happy, with no cares or worries. I did not know that your father was a baronet, who would undoubtedly expect his son to marry a woman worthy of his name and title. And when I did learn, it was too late for me. I could not deny myself the pleasure of your company. Every day with you has been like a charming dream and I did not want to wake up.

  “It never occurred to me that you would ask me to marry you, that you would do me this inexpressible honour. I believed”—she laughed softly—“I believed that you intended to seduce me, as so many others have tried! But you have always shown me the utmost of tenderness. How lucky will be the future Lady Bertram!”

  “You shall be my future Lady Bertram—I mean, my only Lady Bertram!” I exclaimed, slipping my arm around her waist and pulling her to me. She shook her head and pushed me away.

  “No, no, I cannot. Please hear me. We may be happy today, Tom. We may be happy for a time. But the difficulties, the problems, they cannot be overcome. We are from two different worlds. And I know one thing—the day would come when you would regret choosing me for your wife.”

  “Rose! No! Never, my darling, never!”

  I tried to protest, but she laid her fingers against my mouth and continued.

  “I have no dowry, which is sufficient cause for most families to disapprove of our marriage and to prevent it if they could.”

  “I am of age, my love. I can marry whom I please!”

  “But that is the least of it. I sing for money. We cannot deny it. Some of the friends you might invite to Mansfield Park have seen me at some concert or another. I am a performer—you could not proudly call me your wife, if you knew what”—she paused and bit her lip anxiously. “In many people's eyes, I am not even a gentlewoman. No lady would display herself in public as I have done.”

  “And what of it! I defy them all!”

  “Would you defy your own father? Mr. Wilmot told me he is a most upright, formal gentleman. Can you be indifferent to the pain you will cause your father when you present him with a daughter-in-law whom he would think is little better than a courtesan?”

  “No, but once they come to know you, Rose….” I tried feebly but with a rising feeling of panic.

  “And what will your father say, what will your mother say, what will your brother, who is to become a clergyman, say—when you tell them that you are going to marry a Catholic?”

  I did not suppose I had given the matter much thought. Any thought, in fact. Perhaps Rose went to mass on Sunday morning, but if she did, it was while I was sleeping off Saturday night. We had never discussed religion. “My dear one, if it does not matter to me, or you, why should it matter to others?”

  “But it does matter to me, my love. Our children, Tom. How will they be raised? As Protestants?”

  “Why, I imagine so…. Otherwise they could not go to the right schools and so forth.”

  She sighed and continued. “I do not say this with the resentment. I am not blaming your family for rejecting me. My parents would reject you, if they were still alive. They would forbid this marriage absolutely. And in their place, my brother will say the same. Because you are not of the true Church.”

  “René does not strike me as being particularly devout! And, while I confess I have nothing to boast of in that regard, why should René care, one way or the other, about which church I do not attend regularly?”

  “You are still a Protestant whether you go to church or not, mon cher. That is who and what you are. Unlike Catholics, you can stand for Parliament and follow your father's footsteps. But if you have a Catholic wife, you will always be under suspicion and so will your children. You know that, Tom.”

  Yes, I knew it. Still I disputed with her for at least another hour, repeating the same arguments, again and again. I said that love conquers all. She tried to tell me that a great many things can conquer our happiness and even destroy our love. She got me to calm down at last and to stop and imagine what my father would say, how distressed my mother would be. Then I could picture it. I could see myself handing Rose down from the carriage and presenting her to my parents as my wife. I could see my father's face as he endeavoured to command his emotions, the formality and coldness of his address of welcome. And, I realized with dawning horror, even if my father refrained from expressing his true sentiments, my aunt Norris would not! She would torment my sweet Rose and be completely miserable to her every time we came together. Everyone dear to me would regard my choice of wife as a piece of wild folly, and my l
ove for her would compel me to reject them in turn.

  “That is what it means, Tom. It means spending every Christmas apart from your family. Or having to choose between your wife and your family at every important event in your life. Or, it means watching as they snub me, seeing their cold looks and their lips like they were sucking at a lemon! As for me—if my children are not raised as Catholics, all of the dear old refugees who took care of me after Maman died, the good priests and nuns who educated me, they will say that I have shut my children out of Heaven for all eternity! Your friends will have contempt for me. My friends will condemn me—cut me out entirely!

  “I have almost nothing left from my old life, Tom, and it would grieve me deeply if I had to give up what little I have. Can you not see?”

  I had thought I was giving her everything she did not have. It never occurred to me what sacrifices she would have to make in return. Perhaps, I would have given up everything, if I could only have her for my own. But she would not consent to it.

  “Tom, you were born to be a baronet. It is impossible that you would give up your life to have me, and not, in the end, resent me for it. On my honour, I did not mean to hurt you this way. You are so sweet, so trusting. I cannot take advantage of your good nature and condemn you to a marriage which will cause you such harm and bring you lasting regret.”

  She was unbending, and I am afraid I did not behave very well. I was angry—at her, at her brother, at the Pope, at everybody's bloody-mindedness. Finally, she began to hint that it was best that we part.

  More brandy, please.

  Yes, more, damn you.

  What are you insinuating? That since I could not have her as my wife, I should have offered to make her my mistress? As a token of my great love, respect, and esteem for her, to ruin her absolutely? No, I did not, but thank you for your kind enquiry.

  All right. I thought of it. I confess it. As long as I am confessing everything else. I was burning for her and could never have her. In my resentment, I almost forgot myself. I grabbed her by her shoulders and she gave a little cry of alarm. My mouth came down on hers and forced her lips apart. I held her tightly to me, so that she could feel the heat surging within me. My hands roamed all over her body. I left a trail of passionate kisses down her jaw, her neck, her shoulder, her bosom, and I heard a moan of pleasure escape her lips, even as she struggled feebly to push me away. In answer, my hand tangled itself in her hair and I pulled her head back to kiss her savagely. Then suddenly I had a vision of Carbuncle and Pox-face, and the way they had used her—and I released her. I was panting like a wild beast.

  “Oh, Rose. Forgive me, Rose.”

  She waved her hand feebly and turned away from me. “I think you are not accustomed to not having what you want,” she said in a low voice. “I, alas, am all too used to it.” She looked up at me with a brave, little smile on the lips that were swollen from my kisses. “Please, my love, let us not part in this fashion. Let us try to remember the joyful times together, yes? Please say that you will remember me with fondness, as I will always remember you.”

  I do not know how I managed to collect my hat and bring a close to this interview which was so disastrous for my hopes and wishes—certainly I could not sufficiently command myself to be gracious or easy when I bid her adieu. My poor valet had to receive me at the hotel, hours after I had set out, so cheerfully, and I gave orders for us to depart Weymouth immediately, never to return to the cursed place.

  So, summer was over, and I crawled slowly back to Mansfield.

  I had lost the love of my life, and everything was ashes. Have you ever experienced anything like it? Have you ever travelled along a peaceful country lane, with the gloriously beautiful countryside unfolding in a dozen shades of green and brown before you, a breeze tickling your hair, birds singing all around—and everything is ashes?

  I dreaded every sunset and every starry night, and I hated opening my eyes in the morning, and I especially hated rainy days, and I hated music, and I was in no humour to confide in anyone about my wounded heart. I hit upon the idea of inviting everyone I could think of to come and visit us at Mansfield—that way, I would never be home alone, en famille, where my brother or my sisters might observe that I was not quite myself. Fortunately, my new acquaintance, Yates, was at liberty, and my sister Maria's tiresome fiancé was often hanging about, in addition to the Crawfords. Edmund had been making some progress with Miss Crawford, by the bye, and she had transferred her affections from me to him, which was the only consolation I could take for the ruin of all my own hopes.

  I know I was restless and in an ill-humour, try as I might. Luckily, Yates proposed that we put on some private theatricals and most everyone fell upon the idea with great enthusiasm. Here was the perfect diversion for my mind and my spirits. At first, we quarreled as to which play we should attempt. I wanted The Heir at Law—then at least I could secretly relive a private memory of Rose—but, no, we settled upon Lover's Vows, which is a little risqué, and I knew my father would have disapproved, for my sisters' sake. But he was overseas, so I did not care. I declined to play the role of the lover because I could not bear to draw laughter upon myself after my tragedy in Weymouth. So, I took the part of the Butler, a comic fellow who sneers at love, in keeping with the character of the Tom Bertram that everyone knew—before.

  And I think I would have restored some of my composure by leading my little theatrical company had not everything and everyone conspired against me. There was Edmund, as solemn as a funeral, pulling his long faces at me; that rascal scene painter I engaged spent half his time flirting with our housemaids, and even my little cousin, who would not say “boo” to a dormouse, refused to oblige me by taking a trifling role! Oh, and by the bye—I had insisted that Miss Crawford must play Amelia because I had assumed Edmund would leap at the chance to take the part of Anhalt and play her lover—and if you can credit it, Edmund refused! Unbelievable. But she overcame his scruples in the end.

  And then—oh, it gets worse—at the worst possible moment, my father returned from Antigua! It took all my diplomacy and dispatch to smooth matters over with him. But that all belongs to another story, I suppose.

  So, I kept busy with hunting and riding until the weather turned, feeling like a man carved out of a block of wood, moving my legs and arms and opening my mouth so I could put food into it. Saying the right things and doing the right things. The evenings after dinner were the worst, when the family gathered in the sitting room. Maria or Julia would play the piano, or we would sit around in silence and say “yes, sir” and “no, sir” whenever my father made some remark. I could not endure it. I needed the solitude that could only come from being in the city, surrounded by multitudes. I did not even stay at home for Christmas but went up to London.

  I expected—I thought—I desired, that I would come to regard Miss Laval as only a pleasant memory and certainly no cause for lasting bitterness or regret. But in the city, I learned what it was to be always looking and watching for a certain walk, a certain turn of the head—to be listening for a particular voice, for a silvery laugh—and sometimes thinking there she is, just up ahead at the corner, or, is that she, just entering the theatre? But it never was her. I tried to take myself in hand, the devil take me if I did not. I believe you saw me at every gathering around Town, and in tolerable good humour. Winter gave way at last, and while I was still privately longing for Rose every day, at least I was becoming accustomed to it, to a dull ache of pain, a constant absent-mindedness, and a conviction that I could never love another woman as I had loved her. By the time March turned to April, and George invited us all to Newmarket to watch the races. I was glad to be one of the party.

  Yes, now at last, the incident you are really curious about. You want my explanation about what happened with Miss Laval and me at the racecourse. And if you refill my glass, I shall tell you.

  All right, all right. After we all arrived at George's house, I washed and changed my linen and then rode over to the racetra
ck. I left my horse at the stables to go for a walk through the crowd, looking for any old friends I might meet. It was a pleasant scene and a beautiful day. There were the punters, looking to place their wagers; there were the townswomen with their trays hanging about their necks, crying meat pasties and baked apples and toasted chestnuts; there were the important little jockeys leading their horses to the starting line; and people from high and low—elegant ladies, fat merchants, merry widows, and pale, shabby clerks stealing a half day's holiday.

  And suddenly I heard a woman's scream nearby, high-pitched, frightened.

  “Oh non, non, messieurs! Please, I have done nothing!”

  I froze.

  Had I gone mad? Had my memories of last summer overpowered my reason? But it was clear from the reactions of the people around me, they heard it too. They were looking and craning and pushing to see what was causing the commotion.

  “Hold still, you artful baggage! How dare you steal an honest man's purse! Return my friend's property, and do it quickly, or it will be the worse for you!”

  We all moved closer to the sound, and, since I am taller by a head or more than most fellows, I could hear and see everything, even when standing at the back.

  There was my Rose; with her brother holding her by one wrist, and a second man holding her by the other. She struggled and squirmed between them.

  “Non! I swear by St. Catherine, I have not stolen anything! I am an honest woman!”

  “Now, there's a blasphemous lie!” cried the other man, and I suddenly recognized him. He was my missing blackleg, the old boxer with the mashed-in nose. “Don't make matters worse for yourself, missy. Give over with my purse, or you may very well swing from a rope.”

  I felt as though I was one of those archery targets made from straw, and every thing they said was like an arrow shooting straight into my heart.