I was the product of what was called, in my presence, a happy but unfortunate union. My mother was the beautiful and reserved Miss Churchill, whose ancestral home was a grand estate called Enscombe. By all accounts, she was not only comely but also quite accomplished: she played the piano-forte, sang with exquisite taste, and possessed a shy smile that drew the eye of many a single gentlemen. The summer after she reached her majority, she traveled to Brighton to visit some friends, the Braithwaites, and take in the sea air. There she met my father, Captain Weston, a militia officer from a respectable family that had been successful in trade for several generations. His family had recently purchased a rural house near Highbury, a small village in Surrey, but the Westons were definitely not gentility.
The attraction between Miss Churchill and Captain Weston was a rapidly progressing love match which surprised no one except my mother’s brother, her only living family member, and his wife. That couple renounced the new Mrs. Weston when my parents married, and I suspect my aunt, in particular, found it offensive that my parents appeared to be quite happy in their “unfortunate” choice. I have always heard my father spoken of—in cold, civil tones—as almost a charlatan, for his charm and handsomeness stole my mother from the bosom of her family.
Why, you might inquire, do I speak of my father, a man who lives and breathes to this day, as if he were dead and gone? It is because, to me, he is as good as gone. I have not laid eyes on him since I was two years old, and I am now at the advanced age of twenty-three. Before I had completed my third trip around the sun, my mother succumbed to a wasting illness. During her infirmity, my aunt and uncle did take pity on her and visited her several times, and during those visits, I was the means of cautious reconciliation between the Churchills of Enscombe and the Westons of Highbury. After my mother’s passing, my aunt suggested that she and my uncle assume my care, as they could provide for me in ways my father could only imagine. They were older, had no children of their own, and I, now a child of fortune, could live sheltered by the great estate—which was my heritage—attend the best schools, and become the gentleman that Miss Churchill’s son was always meant to be. I even completed the metamorphosis to well-bred gentleman by formally assuming my mother and uncle’s surname as my own.
Sometimes in the stillness and isolation of the night, I wondered how my father could so easily give me up. When I was in a generous and forgiving mood, I gave him the benefit of the doubt. I suppose a family member with a child’s best interest at heart might persuade a man in the throes of grief to relinquish a child, even if that child was beloved. Other times, with a sour taste in my mouth and bitterness in my spirit, I considered the likely scenario that he simply did not want a young son underfoot.
At any rate, I arrived at Enscombe, a frightened, young lad with a thumb in my mouth and clutching a blanket, according to the nurse hired by the Churchills to see to my daily care. Mrs. Roberts was a young widow whose husband had left her no money, so she was grateful to my aunt and uncle for her position. She had no children living—a son had passed away in infancy—which perhaps induced her to indulge me a tad too much. She laughed at my antics, called me her “charming, little gentleman,” and saw to my every need and whim. This warm, maternal adoration was in sharp contrast to the attention I received from my aunt. Please understand, I do not mean to say that Mrs. Churchill was a cruel woman, for she was not. She had always been, in fact, quite fond of her adopted son and heir, as she constantly reminded me. These affirmations of affection, however, were typically followed by the ever-present “but”:
“Frank, you know how dear you are to me, but there is much of your father’s charm in you that could lead you astray.”
“Frank, you know that I could not love you more if you had been my very own, but Enscombe will need a wise and competent master, and your tendency toward impulsiveness will have to be tempered.”
“Frank, you know how fond I am of you, but you must guard against the frivolous sides of your own nature, lest some avaricious, impoverished woman with a pretty face lead you into ruin.”
I should add that all this was spoken while my uncle looked on in sad acceptance of my shortcomings and nodded his head in sanguine concurrence.
Thus, I reached my twenty-third year, a most fortunate young man, with the world at my beck and call. My uncle’s health was excellent, and by all indications, his life would be a long one, sparing me the responsibilities of running my estate for much of my time here on Earth. Having finished my education, and my Grand Tour (a marvelous trip of sensual delights and magnificent adventures, which is a story for another time), I spent my days trying to avoid idle dissipation. I attempted listening to my uncle as he instructed me in the responsibilities of running Enscombe and visited my various friends from university at the best watering holes in His Majesty’s kingdom: Bath, Brighton, and Harrogate.
In late June of 1813, I received correspondence from my friend, Mr. Hayward, asking me to join him in taking single gentlemen’s lodgings at Weymouth. After a spirited discussion, my uncle prevailed over his wife—an atypical occurrence, I grant you—and I was given permission to accept Mr. Hayward’s invitation.
To Weymouth, therefore, I was to go.
* * *
The distance from Yorkshire to Weymouth was a long, arduous journey, so I broke the trip with several stops, including one in London, where I visited White’s for an evening of whist, and, shall we say, other entertainments. Glad to leave the city, for the heat in July was unbearable, I set out for the coast in the early morning hours. The turnpike from Dorchester to Weymouth was dry and dusty, but the air improved as I descended the Narrows leading to the town itself. I stopped for a brief moment to breathe in the tang of the salty, sea air. In another life, perhaps I should have been a sailor, or a merchant like my father’s forebears, living an ordinary existence in some harbor town. At times, that simple life appealed to me—the freedom to go where I wanted, do as I pleased, with no responsibilities, and no servants to observe my every movement. Yet, as my aunt often reminded me—in a veiled threat of disinheritance—my mother learned too late for her health that poverty is a heavier burden than familial duty.
My lodgings on one end of the Esplanade were simple but satisfactory, and since Hayward would not arrive until the next day, I decided to explore. Up one side of town and down the other I roamed, listening to the conversations as they drifted by me, hearing the seagulls cry, and appreciating the many fine-looking women bustling about, some walking arm-in-arm, some with stern-looking chaperones.
I had written a letter informing my family of my safe arrival, so I stopped at Harvey’s to post it. A queue had formed to pay for postage, so I joined in, rocking back and forth on my heels while I waited.
“Lovely day,” I commented, to no one in particular. The young woman in front of me turned her head and nodded curtly, barely sparing me a glance. She appeared to be one of those shy, wallflower-type creatures that found male attention terrifying, so naturally, I tried to engage her further.
“I say, miss, do you happen to know where a man might find a coffee around these parts? You see, I have just arrived, and I am still not familiar with the best places for food and drink.”
She turned her head again, in such a way that I could only observe her profile, and answered in a quiet, yet melodic voice. “Granger’s is but three doors down.”
I grinned, now more determined than ever to make her face me. “I believe I might be interested in a tart as well.”
“Granger’s sells mincemeat tarts, I believe, sir.”
“I think I fancy a jam-tart instead. Pray, might I inquire where are the best jam-tarts in Weymouth?”
She turned to face me now, deep set, gray eyes slightly rounded with surprise, pink flags in her creamy, delicate complexion. She narrowed those eyes, a most unusual color, now that I took more notice of them, and said with a quirk of her eyebrow, “I imagine that depends upon your taste, sir, for what is considered best for one is n
ot for another.”
Impudent—and simultaneously elegant! She was certainly not intimidated by my double entendre, although her expression indicated that she had apprehended it, and that intrigued me. Alas, we had not been formally introduced, so the interaction could not be sustained much longer in the polite society of a public post office.
“Pardon me, madam, you are exactly correct in your observation. So, in which directions lies Granger’s?”
She pointed and turned back around as the postmaster beckoned her forward. I listened as she requested postage in the amount to send correspondence to Highbury. Interesting, as Highbury was the town of my birth, and where my father still resided. I wondered vaguely who this delicate looking flower might be, and if I should know her, but then she turned and marched out the door without looking my way. I watched her go, and then promptly forgot her as the postmaster called me forward.
* * *
The public assemblies in Weymouth mirrored those I attended in Bath: the crush of people, the heat, the swirl of dancing. Hayward pushed his way through the door and into the next room, while the music assaulted our ears. A pleasant bombardment, in my opinion. There was so much vivacity there in such a confined space. I could have stayed all night.
I was talking with a friend of Hayward’s when I heard my friend shout, “Dixon!” A man of average height, with the bright red hair of the Irish and a rather plain countenance, laughed and lifted his hand in greeting.
“Hayward!” he called above the fray, and we wrestled the crowd as we made our way toward each other. Introductions and bows were made all around.
“I have news,” Dixon said, beaming with self-satisfaction. “I am to marry.”
“Congratulations,” Hayward answered. “Who is the fortunate young lady?”
“A Miss Campbell, daughter of Colonel Campbell. She’s here tonight with her parents and her closest friend, Miss Fairfax.” He stood on tiptoe to look over the heads of everyone in the room and spotted his party, directing them to a large dancing hall where, hopefully, there would be enough room for us all to stand together.
I took my customary glance around the room, evaluating the dance partner possibilities, as Dixon led us over to his fiancée.
“Gentlemen, may I present Miss Campbell? My dear, this is Mr. Hayward, a friend from London, and his friend Mr. Churchill, of Enscombe.”
“Mr. Frank Churchill,” I said with a courtly bow. “I must distinguish myself from the elder Mr. Churchill, my uncle.”
“Pleased to make your acquaintance, gentlemen. My parents are taking tea in the other room, but may I present my dear friend, Miss Fairfax?”
Miss Campbell stepped back and took her friend’s arm, directing her to face us, and I took in her appearance with a jolt. It was the young lady from the post office! Eyes the color of light rain clouds and fringed with long, dark eyelashes opened wide with surprise. Her equanimity returned quickly, but it took several seconds for a smile to move across her features. Those endearing pink flags appeared in her cheeks again.
“Mr. Hayward. Mr. Churchill.” She bobbed a curtsey.
As Hayward and Dixon talked with Miss Campbell, I alternated my attention between the ladies. Miss Campbell, though pleasant enough, was a rather plain girl with nothing to recommend her, except maybe a sizable fortune. Not needing to marry money myself, I rarely paid attention to a woman’s financial status, but some gentlemen required a dowry in a wife. Regardless, she was spoken for, so I stole a closer look at her friend.
Miss Fairfax. Now she was a charming creature: fair of face, porcelain complexion, pleasing figure, and that smile! When it appeared, it transformed her countenance. I tried to find a fault—somewhere, anywhere in her, and could come up with nothing on this cursory acquaintance. Granted, her features were not regular, but the arrangement of the parts made for a pleasant whole. Very pleasant indeed!
She noticed me noticing her, and her gaze dipped to the floor even as her smile widened. I waited, what I deemed an appropriate length of time, and after a break in the conversation, I asked, “Miss Fairfax, if your dance card is not filled, might I request the next?”
Hayward looked over at the young lady with a dash of disappointment, but I had already staked my claim. It was his misfortune; he should have been paying attention rather than talking with Dixon about hunting in Ireland.
“I am not otherwise engaged, sir,” Miss Fairfax replied.
“Excellent!”
We conversed with the ladies until the next set was to begin. Following Dixon’s lead as he escorted his fiancée to the floor, I offered my arm to Miss Fairfax, and we assumed our places in the quadrille. The music began, and we started the stilted, frequently interrupted conversation that couples carried on while dancing.
“How do you like Weymouth?” I began.
“Very much.”
We turned and crossed and came together again.
“Have you been staying long with the Campbells?”
She smiled. “Only since I was about nine years old. I have been with them since the death of my mother.”
“My mother also passed when I was very young. And your father?”
“He died in the war.”
“My condolences.”
“I don’t remember him at all. It has been a very long time.” She added, “But thank you.”
Again, we parted, turned and came together again.
“Our situations are similar.”
She looked at me with a dubious expression. “You are the young master of an estate. I am the orphan daughter of a military man and a vicar’s child. Forgive me, but I don’t understand how our situations could be remotely similar.”
“We are both forgotten children, abandoned to the kindness of those outside our birth family circle, and given over to the whims of Fate.”
“What drama you speak! You appear to have been quite lucky for a ‘forgotten’ child, and I have had many more opportunities than one might expect.”
“Due to the charity of Colonel Campbell?”
“Among other things. The Campbells have always been like family to me, but in addition, I have always had the love and interest of my grandmother and aunt in Surrey, for example.”
“In the village of Highbury?”
Her eyes widened again in surprise, but any words she might have spoken were lost when the dance took her away again. When we joined gloved hands once more, she asked, “How did you—?”
“How did I know you had family in Highbury?”
She nodded.
“Oh, nothing nefarious, I assure you. I overheard you ask the postmaster the amount to deliver your letter. I was born in Highbury, you see.”
Her eyes lit up as she moved the puzzle pieces into place. “Frank Churchill! Mr. Weston’s son. Why, of course!”
“My reputation precedes me? Oh, I hope not.”
“No.” She blushed and lowered her eyes.
Charming. Why do I keep thinking that word as I look at her?
“My grandfather was the vicar, and so my grandmother and aunt know everyone in Highbury, including your father.”
“And here we are, two souls displaced from our Highbury homes and thrown together in this far-flung watering hole.” The dance had ended, and I escorted Miss Fairfax to the punch table, where I presented her with a cup accompanied by my most gallant bow. “You do know what this means, Miss Fairfax?”
“What is that, sir?” She sipped her punch and glanced around the room, before regarding me with interest.
“It seems Fate has intervened once more.”
* * *
I made sure Hayward wrestled an invitation to the Campbells’ later that week. It was not a difficult task; the colonel’s family was one of the most sociable in Weymouth that summer, and any friend of Dixon’s, along with any friend of a friend of Dixon’s, was welcome to join the family for dinner and the evening’s frivolities.
When the gentlemen separated from the ladies after dinner, I attached mys
elf to Dixon in the hopes of hearing more about the charming Miss Fairfax, and he did not disappoint. To be honest, he seemed more than willing to speak of her, with a warm regard I found a trifle disagreeable, coming from a man who was engaged to someone else.
“She sings like a nightingale and plays the piano-forte with a taste rarely displayed, even in the drawing rooms of London. ’Tis a pity, though, about her situation.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, unable to stop myself.
“All that beauty and charm, and kindness too. My Miss Campbell would never have so close a friend who was not also kind. But Miss Fairfax has no fortune to entice a suitor. The colonel and his wife are her only protectors, and that will soon come to end.”
“Why?”
He looked at me askance but went on with his explanation. “When we marry in October, Miss Fairfax will most likely go into service as a governess. It’s an all-too-familiar tale. My fiancée frets about her friend and wishes for her to find a secure situation, but nothing has been forthcoming so far. I invited Miss Fairfax to come along when we go to Ireland, but she will not join us.”
I tried to look uninterested in the fate of Miss Fairfax, although I listened intently as I poured a brandy.
“She probably doesn’t want to interfere with a man and his new wife as they set up house.”
Dixon’s cheeks turned as red as his hair.
“Will Miss Fairfax stay with the Campbells then? When you and the new Mrs. Dixon go to Ireland?”
“No, they are coming to Ireland as well—after we settle in. Jane is to visit with her grandmother and aunt in Surrey.”
Dangerous to Know Page 21
