by Fanny Finch
Still, he could tell that he was not the only one noticing the strange mood that hung in the air that night.
The discussion and bridge playing and such that went on after dinner was oddly strained and subdued. People seemed to have trouble carrying on conversations.
Miss Perry endeavored to play the pianoforte to lighten up spirits. There was a bit of dancing that came about because of it but it all felt forced. As though everyone was making themselves have a good time.
It was not that the atmosphere was uncomfortable, exactly. It was that something else was going on. There was an undercurrent beneath the main flow of the conversation. A second set of energy.
James could sense a great deal of frustration from Miss Weston. She seemed easily distracted and almost absent-minded.
Could it be that he had said something in his letters that had upset her? That he had unwittingly caused her to want to run into the arms of Mr. Carson?
He could not think of what he might have said that would cause such a reaction. Their last letter had been discussing the latest novel by a new writer.
Although, he had mentioned something about himself. About how he felt as though in public he had to pretend to be different, to be more, than he truly was.
Had that put her off somehow? Had she taken offense to that?
He could hardly see how it would, seeing as she was similar. Miss Weston was in her letters a much softer and vulnerable person than she let herself be in person.
An hour or so after dinner guests started to dissipate. James was locked into a game of cards with Mrs. Weston, Miss Perry, and another gentleman.
That was his excuse as to why it took him so long to notice that Miss Weston and Mr. Carson were conversing off to the side.
It was practically a private conversation. They were not around the corner where they were unable to be seen. But they were in the dining room. It could be seen from the sitting room, since the doorways opened onto each other. But nobody could hear what was being said.
James glanced up as the card game ended and noticed that Miss Weston’s eyes were gleaming. They only looked like that when she was upset and struggling to hide it.
He doubted that Mr. Carson or anyone else who did not know her well would realize that was what it meant. Miss Weston, he had learned from her letters, was very good at hiding her emotions.
Especially those self-deprecating emotions and emotions of sadness and fear.
James stood, clearing his throat. “I think that it is best that we all retire for the evening. I myself will be heading out shortly. Miss Perry, will you need an escort home?”
Miss Perry demurred and said that the other gentleman—James struggled to remember his name—would escort her.
James was not all that surprised. Miss Perry was one of those women who was lovely in personality but far too eager to attach herself to the nearest young gentleman in the hopes that he would marry her. Being married was more important to her than who she was married to.
He watched as the final guests left. He assisted Mrs. Weston in getting up and going to her room as well.
“I think you should talk to your daughter,” he told her.
“Miss Weston and I have already had words this evening,” Mrs. Weston replied. James was taken aback. “She can find her own way to bed. And if she is truly eager to say goodnight to me then she knows which bedchamber is mine.”
James knew that Mrs. Weston had a reputation as being sharp-tongued for a reason. He dearly hoped that she had not been too hard on her daughter.
He bid her goodnight. At almost the exact same moment Mr. Carson bid Miss Weston goodnight and then left.
It was only him and Miss Weston now.
“Mr. Norwich?”
He had rarely heard her voice so small and so upset. He crossed to her at once. “Miss Weston.”
She quickly wiped at her eyes. “I apologize. You must think me quite the child.”
“Never. Did Mr. Carson upset you?”
“Oh, not intentionally. I managed to hold in my tears in front of him, thank the heavens for that. It is only that I feel—I feel quite stupid. And silly.”
“You are neither of those things, I can assure you.” He took her by the arm and guided her to sit down. “What is troubling you?”
“I cannot speak of it.”
James’s heart thumped painfully in his chest. The only thing he could think of was that Miss Weston had been too bold at last. That she had finally stepped over a line that she should not have crossed.
That she had made it clear to Mr. Carson that she had feelings for him. And he had rejected her.
It surprised him that Mr. Carson had rejected her. The man had explicitly stated—or as explicit as one could be as a gentleman—that he was going to do his best to court Miss Weston.
Had something changed? Had Mr. Carson decided that Miss Weston was too bold for him? Too witty? Too energetic?
Had that old saying of familiarity breeding contempt held true? Could it have been that the more Mr. Carson came to know Miss Weston the more he realized that she was not the woman for him?
James would normally have been quite happy at such a development. But not when it so distressed Miss Weston.
A part of him, to his shame, felt anger. Anger that she continued to write to this mysterious gentleman while having feelings for Mr. Carson. Anger that she could not simply tell her correspondent that she did not feel for him and that there was another man in the picture.
Yet, he could not commit himself fully to that line of feeling. He could not find it within himself to feel only that rage.
He could understand why it might have been hard for her to reject her letter companion. It was always hard to say something that you knew would hurt someone.
And perhaps she appreciated the intimacy of their letters. Her ability to confess things to him that she could not say to anyone else. Perhaps she had been hoping in time to morph that into a friendship?
He was not sure. But he knew that he could not judge her when he did not have all the facts. Especially not when he had been the one to put her into such a precarious and strange position in the first place with this letter writing.
“Well, you know that you need not ever speak of anything to me if you do not wish it. I shall not press you.”
He passed her a handkerchief, which Miss Weston took gratefully. She dabbed at her eyes and then carefully blew her nose.
“I must apologize. I know that it is not proper for you to see me in such a state.”
“Miss Weston, we have known one another for many years now. I should hope that if there were any woman I was comfortable seeing cry it should be you. And that if there was any man you were comfortable crying in front of, it should be me.
“Besides,” he added, attempting to lighten the mood, “this is not nearly so bad as the time when you fell out of the tree you were determined to climb.”
Miss Weston smiled wanly. “I remember. Mother thought that I had died but I only got the wind knocked out of me for a moment. I was quite a wild young thing, was I not? Hardly the proper lady.”
“You have never been accused of being too proper and I hope that you never shall be. It is a part of your charm.”
“Careful, Mr. Norwich. That was dangerously close to a compliment there.”
He smiled at her, glad to see that her spirits were starting to rise again. “Well, when you are so down on yourself, I suppose that a small concession or two might be in order.”
Miss Weston smiled again at him, this one a little softer and more genuine.
“You have a right to your privacy,” James told her. “I would never wish to intrude. But I hope that you know if there is anything that you need to unburden yourself with, you may pass that burden onto me. I am more than happy to assist you in whatever you need. Even if it is only a shoulder to cry on.”
“It is ever so kind of you to offer,” Miss Weston replied. “I am glad to know that I have such a loyal friend. But than
k you, I will manage on my own. It is not precisely a matter about which it is proper to speak.”
James understood. If she had been turned down she must feel horribly embarrassed about it. And she would not want the information about it being spread.
Of course he could be trusted not to say anything. And he knew that she trusted him with that. But it was better to not say anything at all. Just in case.
After all, he had not told a single soul about his feelings for Miss Weston until confessing them partway to Mrs. Weston. He had not even written to his brother about them and his brother was safely across the ocean on a ship.
He nodded at her. “Of course. Would you like me to ring for some tea for you or something of that sort?”
“No, thank you. I think it is best that I retire to bed.”
“You do not have to be alone if you do not wish it. I could ring for your maid?” It would not be proper for him to be alone with her for too long of a time.
Miss Weston shook her head. “No, truly, your kindness is immeasurable. But I fear the company of another would only dampen my spirits further.”
“I can understand that. There are times when solitude is important.”
He rose, but took her hand and bowed over it. “If you have need of me, you need only let me know. I shall leave you to your thoughts.”
Miss Weston shot him a look of gratitude. “I do appreciate it. I hope that I am not putting you out with my refusal.”
“Not at all. I stay or go only on your pleasure. You are the injured party and it is to your needs that I attend.”
He smiled at her in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and departed from the house.
James was filled with frustration and fear. He did not want to be her second choice as the letter writer. Would she become more flirtatious and forward with the letter writer now that Mr. Carson had rejected her?
Or would she back away altogether, unsatisfied with him?
It was clear to him that he could not confess now. Not now that Miss Weston was so upset and in love with another.
What would his confession do except for upset and confuse her?
No, he would wait and see what she wrote in her next letter to him. Her reaction and her behavior would tell him how to proceed.
He could not avoid the feeling of melancholy that sank in as he headed home. He supposed that it would be impossible for any man to completely resist feeling a bit gloomy after receiving confirmation that his beloved did not love him.
Especially after he had risked much, and compelled her to risk much in turn, in order to have a chance with her.
But that feeling was secondary. He had to shove it aside, as a proper man must. He would not let it sink him entirely into despair.
Instead he would wait and he would see what Miss Weston did next. It was fortunate that it was her turn to send a letter. He did not think that he would be capable for quite a few days of writing one himself.
His impulse would be to ask how she was doing. If she was all right after what had happened. He would be too likely to slip up and say something that would reveal who he was. Or otherwise too tempted to use his position of intimacy to find out information.
No, it was fortuitous that she was the one who would have to write to him.
James retired for the night, trying to sleep but far too worried for dreams to come easily. He could only hope that Miss Weston was not too distraught. That she was not feeling too low about herself.
For she would beat herself up about this, he knew that she would. He had read far too many of her letters for it to be otherwise.
He knew how Miss Weston truly felt about herself. How she thought that she was too annoying. That she spoke too much. That she was too forceful in personality.
She would blame herself. She would think that it was a fault of her personality. Something about her that was simply not good enough.
If only he could tell her—but hopefully he would get a chance to tell her. In the letters.
Hopefully she would confide in him. She might not tell the entire truth. He would not, if he were her. He would not only be too embarrassed, but he would think it an insult to the gentleman with whom he was corresponding to mention having presented his feelings to another.
But it was possible that she would tell him at least a little of it and seek some sort of comfort from him. He would provide it for her, however he could.
He still tossed and turned a bit throughout the night. Wishing that he was with her. Wishing that he could give her what she needed. What she wanted.
But he was not what she wanted. She wanted someone else.
His only chance to support her was as her letter writer. He would have to wait for her letter, then, and see what it said.
Chapter Thirteen
Julia’s day was simply not going well.
The entire thing felt like one long, slow disaster. Like a shipwreck, or a battle, everything falling to pieces the more that she tried to hold it all together.
First, she was in a state of great nervousness. She wanted to figure out if Mr. Carson was the man with whom she had been corresponding.
But it would be a risk. If he was not the man then she could easily be making a fool of herself.
Or she could give him the impression that she was being too forward and he would find her distasteful. Ladies had to navigate a strange balance when it came to romance.
They had to show their interest in a gentleman so that he would know that he could advance into courtship without being offensive.
But they also could not show too much interest. Otherwise it would be construed that they were loose. That they had no morals.
It was a difficult and rather annoying balancing act, if you asked Julia.
She would have to proceed with caution. It was tying her stomach up into knots.
Secondly, Mother seemed to be in a fine mood. And by ‘fine’, Julia was being sarcastic with herself.
Mother was the sort of person who had a reputation for a sharp tongue. It had gotten only worse once she was married and no longer had to curb herself. Before, she might have scared off potential husbands.
Although, Father had always said that it was her cutting wit that had drawn him to her and first led him to respect her.
After her marriage, though, there was no reason for her to hold herself back anymore. It had grown even worse than that, however, once she had truly fallen ill.
Julia could understand. Truly, she could. Her mother was ill. She could not participate in society as she had been wont to do. She was often sickly and in pain. Or confined to bed. She grew tired easily.
It only made sense that she would have less patience when it came to the prattling of others. That she would feel that life was too short for the nice little lies that everyone told.
However, while Julia could understand, that did not mean that she appreciated it when it was directed at her.
It felt as though nothing she could do that day was correct. Everything was wrong. She was too slow, too lazy, too impertinent.
“Mother,” she said at last, “what on earth is the matter? Would you like me to send for the doctor?”
“I am in no need for that quack,” her mother replied crossly. “I am allowed to chastise and educate my daughter when she is out of line.”
“What am I doing that is so out of line? It cannot be only that my pianoforte is too loud. You are not normally so cross with me. Have I offended you in any way?”
“Offended me?” her mother started out in outrage, and then sighs. “Julia. My dear. You must learn discipline.”
“That is not why you are vexed with me, Mother. And I know it. If you thought I ought to learn discipline then you would have said something years ago.”
“And maybe I should have!” her mother replied. “If I had, perhaps I would have a daughter who appreciated the people in front of her. And who did not take a day and an age to get married!”
It felt like a slap in
the face. But at least she now was at the heart of why Mother was so upset with her.
“Have I been lax in my duties to you as a daughter?” she asked quietly. “Other than the obvious way in that I am still unwed. I am well aware of that.”
“Are you?” her mother replied archly. “Are you truly? It has been nearly two months and you have not yet selected a husband. Indeed, you have only one suitor and he is what one would call… reticent. It is almost as though he is not receiving the encouragement that he needs from you.”
“If you are speaking of Mr. Carson—”
“Who else would I be speaking of? It is not as though any of the other men have received any encouragement from you. There are several people around you and in your life that are far more dedicated to you than you are to them.”
“Are you suggesting that you wish me to marry Mr. Carson?” Julia was full of confusion. Her mother was fond enough of Mr. Carson. But she had seemed to possess no special affection for him.
Her mother sighed. “I am not saying that I wish for you to marry any particular man. But I am saying that you take the people around you for granted and I for one am quite tired of it.”
“Do I take you for granted then, Mother?” Julia could feel tears approaching and struggled to control them. Where was this coming from? It seemed to be out of nowhere.
Mrs. Weston merely sniffed, looking incredibly irritated. As if there was something right in front of Julia that she was missing and she couldn’t believe that her daughter couldn’t see it.
“I only fear that you are losing out on a chance at happiness,” her mother said. She sounded almost sad. “I worry that you will choose a life that is less satisfying. Because the people who love you will only wait so long to see if you will return their affection.”
“Perhaps if you were not being so cryptic—”
“I am not being cryptic. I am only stating a fact. I could be talking about multiple people, you know. I have seen how various men look at you.
“Any one of them could make you a good husband. But you do not see them. You see only what you want to see. You don’t have a care for how they might feel or what emotions they might be harboring.”
