Jane Fairfax

by Joan Aiken

  “No, I do not,” said Jane, thinking of Charlotte.

  “That confounded debt! It has hung over me for two years now. Racing — Newmarket — what a fool I was ever to get involved with such a set. I would never, ever do so again.”

  “Oh I do hope not, indeed,” said Jane warmly.

  “But now I am so strapped for cash — if my uncle should discover — then it is goodbye to —”

  “Don’t despair! Pray don’t! Surely there must be other ways to raise the money — loans, mortgages —”

  “My uncle would be sure to hear of any such measure. He is so stringently against gaming — and the last thing I wish is to distress my mother just now —”

  “Is there nothing you could sell? No one you could turn to for advice? Colonel Campbell?”

  “Colonel Campbell!” he exclaimed with a groan. And then, recovering himself a little, “Miss Fairfax — Jane — I beg you, do not think too hardly of me! To you I must seem like the most pitiful wretch — but, I assure you — those feelings I spoke of — they are real! They come from the deepest level of my heart. Only — I see now — they must be useless — wasted; they can lead nowhere.”

  “You must not feel that!” she urged him. “True feelings, I believe, are never wasted. They will help you — they will guide you. Oh, trust me, believe me, it must be so —” Her voice was almost choked with tears.

  But, with a broken exclamation, he had left her, striding off into the recesses of the old town.

  Horribly shaken and discomposed, Jane returned to the Esplanade where, luckily, the dim light enabled her to rejoin Colonel and Mrs Campbell and a group of their friends without her long absence or the perturbation of her countenance being remarked on.

  And there, strolling among the others, she was able to review her interview with Matt in such sobriety and sense as she could command; and to feel that, on the whole, and considering the turmoil of her own emotions, she had acquitted herself well.

  Which self-congratulation did not prevent her, later that evening, in the room shared with Rachel, from lying awake far into the hours of the morning, both cheeks and pillow soaked with silent, bitter tears.

  Chapter 10

  Three days later Rachel came to Jane with a troubled look and said,

  “Jenny, I must talk with you. I want to ask your advice. Where can we g-go to be undisturbed?”

  “Let us cross the ferry and climb up on to the Mount. Then we can call in Trinity Road and make inquiries about Sam on our way home.”

  A slight cloud appeared to cross Rachel’s brow at the mention of Trinity Road, but she said, “Very well; I will tell Mamma,” and in a few minutes the young ladies were on their way. Both maintained a silence along the sea-front which was interrupted only by necessary greetings to friends; and it was not until they had ascended the steep Nothe headland and were seated on a bench near its summit that Rachel broke her reserve. Behind them the slit windows of the fortress peered vigilantly towards France; in front lay the harbour, full of masts, the great curve of the bay, and the hilly coastline running eastwards towards Poole.

  Rachel said: “Matt has asked me to marry him.”

  “Oh, Rachel dear! I am so very glad. It is what I had hoped.”

  Jane was able to bring out her reply with energy because it was true.

  Rachel swung round on the seat and studied her friend sharply, with close attention.

  “Did you hope it, Jenny? Did you really do so?”

  “With all my heart. You and Matt will be right for one another.”

  “But what about Charlotte?”

  Jane had almost forgotten about Charlotte.

  “Oh, that was nothing — a mere butterfly fancy. A year hence you will both laugh to recall it. It was because she pursued and teased him so. It will be a salutary lesson — no more.”

  “But, Jenny, listen: it is not simple, it is complicated. This is the way it happened. You know I went to see Sam yesterday. And his mother took me up to his room. He was sitting in the bow window. And, Jenny I — I can see that he will not l-long be with us. His hands are so thin — and his wrists. The light shines through them. He said to m-me —” Rachel’s voice quivered — “he said, ‘Rachel, I love you dearly. And I once hoped that you would be my wife. But as that cannot happen, it would m-make me very happy if you and Matt were to m-marry. I know Matt loves you very much. And so does my mother. I would s-slip away from this world so peacefully if I knew that you two were going to pass your lives together. Will you please think about this, dear Rachel?’?”

  “Oh, good God,” murmured Jane. Although it was a warm day, she felt a throbbing chill run over her flesh. “So what did you say to him?”

  “I said, ‘Does Matt know what you are asking?’ and he said, ‘No. I am not speaking on his instructions. But I know that Matt loves you. I thought I would find out first how you felt. Could you marry him, Rachel?’ And I said, ‘I don’t know, Sam. This is queer. I need to think.’ And Mrs Dixon (who was there) said, ‘Oh, dear Rachel, do think! Do help my boys if you can!’ So I told them both that I would think, and I came away. — Oh, Jenny, what shall I do? I have been thinking about it all night. Why did not Matt himself ask me?”

  “He is a humble person — he has a lack of confidence in his own —” But here Jane’s voice faded away.

  Rachel repeated, “Jenny, what shall I do?”

  God help me, thought Jane. She spoke in her strongest voice.

  “Do? Why, there can be no question. You marry Matt. He is a sweet, good fellow, and one day he will be a great name. You will marry him — and you will make a very happy marriage of it! His mother loves you — Sam loves you; you are almost part of that family already. I am sure your parents will be overjoyed when you tell them.”

  “But — but Matt told me he has gaming debts,” Rachel said unhappily.

  “Well! Your dowry will pay them. And he will avoid gaming from now on.”

  Will he? Jane wondered. Did he speak the truth when he said, “I would never, ever do so again”? Probably. Young men had to sow a few wild oats. Everybody knew that.

  “And — and suppose he flirts with another person — as he did with Charlotte?”

  “He did not flirt with Charlotte; she flung herself at him. I think he would always love you best,” said Jane firmly. “And, as to the gaming debts, I think — I have a strong feeling that there Matt has learned his lesson. The debts, after all, were contracted several years ago when he was younger, and new to the world. I hope I am right. You will have to wait and see. Matt is not perfect.” She paused and drew a breath. “But he is a dear, dear creature, and I am sure you can be very happy together.”

  “In Baly-Craig?” Rachel said doubtfully. “It is such a long way away. What about — what about my career as a political cartoonist?”

  “You will have to wait until your children are grown and then come back to London. By then Matt will be a famous poet and you will have illustrated his poems. Besides drawing a great many mountains and Irish peasants.”

  “Oh Jane. Are you sure? At one time — not long ago, I thought — I thought that it was you Matt loved. You — you t-take such pleasure t-talking together.”

  “Of course we do. He will be just like my brother. How could I have borne it if you had married somebody I detested? And,” said Jane, looking steadily down the path, “here he comes now. He must have seen us walk past the house. He has come to ask you himself. And I am going to leave you. Mind, now, that you give him a good answer.”

  She kissed Rachel lightly and started off at speed. Encountering Matt, at the second turn of the path, she told him, “Go and ask her! She is waiting for you,” and hurried by, concentrating all her attention on the noble view of cliffs and countryside lying to the north and east of Weymouth town.

  When Rachel Campbell and Matt Dixon announced their engagement there was great, if sober rejoicing in both families concerned. Colonel and Mrs Campbell were happy to see their daughter settled with
a young man whom they had known and liked for so long; and if, with her twelve thousand, she could have made a more brilliant match in London society, yet, considering her shyness and reserve, and her speech disability, they were glad to know that her future was assured in a family that esteemed her so highly, and would use her so kindly, as the Dixons. Matt’s great-uncle, Lord Kilfinane, informed with all speed, returned his approval by post with cautious promises of future assistance and possible augmentation of their income until Matt should succeed to the title and the estates pertaining.

  Mrs Dixon had long looked on Rachel almost as a daughter and received her as one with every demonstration of joy; and Sam was filled with silent content.

  The single stipulation he made, on hearing of his brother’s successful suit, was that the wedding should be soon.

  “Otherwise, you know, if I should be taken off suddenly, you would have to wait through a mourning period, and that would be so stupid,” he pointed out. “For my sake, dear Matt, dear Rachel, won’t you have the knot tied here, now, in Weymouth? Indeed what is there in the world to prevent you?”

  And in view of these considerations, as well as Rachel’s great aversion to London and horror at the thought of a large fashionable wedding, and Mrs Campbell’s dislike of fuss and needless expenditure on fripperies, it was agreed by all the parties concerned that the ceremony should take place as soon and as simply as possible. A date early in October was fixed on, much to the outrage of Mrs Fitzroy who did not see how a proper set of bride-clothes could possibly be assembled in so short a time. “And what about their carriage? And what about their house? And linen? And house-ware and furnishings?”

  “But, Mamma, they will be going off to Ireland directly after, to Baly-Craig; it has been decided that they should wait and buy their carriage in Ireland; and the house, you know, is waiting for them there, all complete with furnishings, I daresay.”

  “Disgraceful! A most paltry business!”

  The voices of Lady Selsea and her daughter were not to be heard among the many raised in congratulation. For Charlotte the grapes were sour indeed: Sir Osbert, hearing some word of the French lace transaction, had, as Mrs Fitzroy prophesied, removed himself from the proximity of a young lady who might choose to engage herself in such questionable dealings, and Charlotte was too proud to fall back on his friend Mr Carlisle who had only four thousand a year. Lady Selsea therefore contrived a pressing engagement in Scotland and when Rachel civilly invited her cousin to act as bridesmaid, Charlotte made curt reply that she was unable, for on that date they would be at Lady Clanredesdale’s. At the small and unassuming ceremony in St Mary’s Church, Jane was Rachel’s only attendant.

  The single feature of the occasion which transcended the bride’s wish for quiet unpretentiousness was an arrangement put in hand by Colonel Campbell’s friend Captain Curtis who secretly contrived that the band of the — th Dorset Dragoons should be drawn up outside St Mary’s to play the happy couple and their friends back to the Royal Hotel, where the wedding breakfast was to be held.

  And this kind thought ended in disaster.

  Colonel Campbell with his daughter had ridden to the church in one carriage, Jane, Mrs Campbell and Mrs Fitzroy in a second, the Dixons in a third. On the return journey Rachel, of course, rode with her bridegroom, Jane with Mrs Dixon (Sam had not been well enough to attend the ceremony) and Colonel Campbell was to accompany his wife and mother-in-law. But just after he had handed Mrs Fitzroy into the carriage and stepped in himself, the regimental band broke into such an earsplitting blast on drums, fifes, cornets, and other military instruments that the horse pulling the Colonel’s curricle, a young, excitable beast, bolted away up St Mary’s Street and on to the sea-front, where the carriage overturned and its occupants were flung into the roadway. The Colonel and his wife escaped with some injuries but Mrs Fitzroy, thrown clear over the balustrade and on to the pebbly beach below, was picked up lifeless.

  Naturally such a calamity at once put an end to any thought of celebrations. Poor Rachel had already arrived at the hotel with her husband when informed of the accident; Colonel and Mrs Campbell were carried straight to York Buildings where medical assistance was summoned immediately; and it was discovered that, while Mrs Campbell had escaped with nothing worse than bruises and contusions, the Colonel had a badly broken hip-joint, besides a severe concussion.

  So the day that had begun with such joy and promise ended in dismay and total confusion. Rachel insisted that, until her parents were out of danger, she must remain with them, and, Matt and his mother perfectly sympathizing with this filial anxiety, she returned, for the time, to their house, and the Dixons to theirs in Trinity Road, while plans for the journey to Ireland were, for the moment, set aside.

  Jane’s plans, likewise, received a check.

  Before the wedding Rachel had said to her: “Jenny, you will come with us to Baly-Craig — will you not? Matt wishes it, I wish it, so much; Papa and Mamma, as you know, are promised to us for a long visit very soon after the wedding; and Mrs Dixon and Sam will come when — when Sam is ready to travel; will you not accompany them? We all want your company so very much. Indeed I do not know how I can manage without you.”

  But Jane had, with the utmost firmness and tenacity, set her face against all such persuasions, though they were made repeatedly by Rachel and her parents as well as the Dixons. Nothing could sway her. The time had come, she said, when she must make her own way. It had always been agreed that, on reaching the age of twenty-one, or, when Rachel was happily settled in life, she, Jane, must set out upon her allotted career of teaching. And now this moment had arrived. She must delay no further.

  The accident had postponed, but only temporarily, this decisive step.

  “As soon as your parents are recovered,” she told Rachel, “I shall return to London and enroll my name with one of those agencies in Wigmore Street.”

  “Oh, Jenny!”

  “No, Rachel, it must be so. I have waited too long as it is. The day has come.”

  But the day, as events were to prove, still remained some distance away in the future. The Colonel’s injuries took an unexpectedly long time to mend. Strangely enough, while he continued so very unwell, there was nobody so dear, no person so necessary to him as his own daughter. It seemed as if her imminent loss had suddenly awakened him to her value. He complained every time she quitted his chamber and seemed to sense, in some telepathic way, if she ever ventured out of the house to take a walk with her husband. He pined, fretted, and waxed captious and unreasonable unless she were continually by him. Indeed, during this period the relation between father and daughter grew far closer than it had ever been before: Rachel at first performed almost every service for her father; when he was well enough to enjoy it, she read aloud to him untiringly; and the marvel was that, in the occupation of reading to him, her stammer almost completely left her, and returned only at rare intervals thereafter.

  Nobody had loved Mrs Fitzroy; nobody felt much grief at her departure; indeed, Rachel, Jane, and the Colonel perceived her absence from the family circle as a positive benefit; she had never attempted to conceal her low opinion of the Colonel or her distrust of Jane and, with advancing years, her temper had only shortened and her prejudices strengthened. Although for Rachel she had at times evinced a kind of waspish, cantankerous preference, this had by no means been reciprocated, and, of the three, it was perhaps Rachel who admitted the greatest relief at her passing. “If only it might have happened sooner; then there need not have been all that dispute about my presentation.” “But then we might not have come to Weymouth,” argued Jane, “and look how fortunate that proved for you.” “Oh, but as soon as I knew that the Dixons were here, I should somehow have contrived to persuade Papa,” said Rachel, who, since her marriage, and despite being separated from her husband, had, during the ensuing weeks, acquired a remarkably increased degree of self-confidence; when she did contrive to slip out and spend an hour with Matt, she always returned with pink
cheeks and sparkling eyes. Jane, sighing in painful bafflement over her own frustrated and unprofitable emotions, could only wonder if all male attachments were so fleeting and changeable. Matt, with his vehement passion for truth and beauty, his strong notions of right and wrong, had seemed the last person so readily and speedily to transfer his affections from one object to another. — She could not help recalling his tears, his apparent deep distress. Well, there could be no profit in brooding over a state of affairs she had taken pains to bring about; Jane shook off these thoughts when they assailed her, and went to make herself useful to Mrs Campbell, the only member of the family to experience any real sorrow at Mrs Fitzroy’s sudden and unexpected demise. Although latterly there had been scant sympathy between the two ladies, the ties of childhood can never be entirely forgotten, and the loss of a parent, however divergent in tastes and habits, must always carry a disquieting impact; furthermore Mrs Campbell remained, for some weeks, too shaken and bruised to resume her normal activities. During this period Jane, by helping with correspondence, making extracts, reading pamphlets aloud, and also by a great deal of sensible affectionate conversation, was able to be of considerable comfort, and to ameliorate the time of confinement.

  October, November, and December thus passed away. And on a mournful day in December, the remains of Sam Dixon were laid to rest in the graveyard of St Mary’s where the wedding ceremony had taken place. No military band played on this occasion, but the voices of the small congregation were raised in music such as Sam had loved during his lifetime.

  Frank Churchill came back to Weymouth for the funeral; his aunt and uncle had, of course, long since returned to London, where they were to remain until February. Mrs Churchill had indeed appeared at the funeral of Mrs Fitzroy (which was considered by many an amazing and distinguished mark of esteem, for Mrs Churchill practically never graced such common occasions with her presence). Jane had studied the great lady with interest as she sat in her carriage but found nothing to admire or wonder at; she was a smallish, very proud-looking personage of uncordial aspect with a sallow complexion, who held herself very upright and looked straight ahead; she was much wrapped up in furs and spoke to no one. Jane sincerely pitied Frank for being under the dominion of such a relative. — But when he returned to Weymouth for Sam’s obsequies he spoke of his aunt cheerfully enough.