by Joan Aiken
“She suffers from such continual pain; and I believe she is sincerely fond of me; so I try to bear with her crabbed ways. You and I, Miss Fairfax, have to learn to accept the rough with the smooth; we are both poor orphans and must temper our lamb-like behaviour to the prevailing wind.”
Frank had come calling with Matt Dixon the day after Sam’s funeral to inquire after the health of the Colonel and, if possible, take the young ladies for an airing on a mild afternoon which seemed more like spring than winter. The Colonel had reluctantly parted with his daughter for an hour and she had availed herself of this sanction to walk with her husband while Frank and Jane strolled together along the deserted shore at a tactful distance behind the married pair.
“So what are your plans now, Miss Fairfax?” Frank presently inquired.
Jane sneezed; the day of the funeral had been wet, and she had become chilled during the graveside proceedings.
“Oh — when they are all gone off to Ireland, I shall seek for a position. And, I suppose, when I have found an eligible one, I shall engage myself.”
Her voice showed little enthusiasm for the prospect. She sneezed again. “But first,” she added more warmly, “I shall return to Highbury to visit my dear aunt and grandmother. And see all the friends there that I love and esteem so highly. I have not been there for so long! Not since we returned from the Indies. But what of you, Mr Churchill? Have you been to Highbury yet? To visit your father and his new bride?”
He laughed, looking a trifle shame-faced.
“Why — to tell you the truth, Miss Fairfax — and I know not how precisely it has come about — but, believe it or not, one obstacle or another has hitherto prevented my visiting that famed spot! I am really a most conscienceless, discreditable dog! With me it is out of sight, out of mind, I fear! Since I know none of those good people in Highbury, I find it difficult, I think, to take an interest in them. It will be different, I am sure, once I have been there. You must show me the way, Miss Fairfax!”
He seemed sincere in his self-denigration, yet Jane could hardly believe that he was quite so shallow or careless as he made out. Had he not, after all, taken the trouble to return to Weymouth for Sam’s funeral? And he had seemed sincerely grieved at this death; he had passed several hours yesterday sitting with Mrs Dixon and Matt, condoling, and helping to sort and pack belongings, preparatory to the departure for Baly-Craig. Such was not the behaviour of an insincere or affected man.
“Shall you return to the Campbells’ house in Manchester Square?” he next inquired. “When the party have set off for Dublin?”
It had been decided that a sea passage would be less troublesome for the Colonel’s mending hip joint than one by land, and the married pair, with Mrs Dixon and Rachel’s parents, were now planning to embark from Weymouth, all together, in two weeks’ time.
“No, I shall make my way straight to Highbury.” Jane sighed, thinking how, when they first travelled down to Weymouth, she had nourished hopes and plans of taking Rachel, on the return journey, to visit her loved friends and relations. “Colonel Campbell, in his kindness, has said that I am to travel post, and has promised me money for the journey.”
“And I wish with all my heart that I could escort you,” said Frank warmly, “but my aunt, alas, in one of her sudden crotchets, has decided that she must go to Harrogate for the waters, and I am instructed to return tomorrow and bear her company. Poor lady! No amount of experience ever seems to teach her that the air and water of one place will do her no more good than that of another.”
“Is she so very ill?”
“Yes,” he said soberly. “I am afraid that she is. The rheumatic afflictions are a superficial matter, though they plague her sorely; but her London physician, a very excellent man, has informed my uncle and me that she has a deep-seated malady of the heart which is liable to carry her off without warning at any time; and that, with the best care in the world, she may not be with us for more than a year, or two at the outside. — We therefore indulge her caprices, poor lady — my uncle has more to bear than I do. I, at least, may leave her for short periods — though,” he added with a smile, “I do not like to make these too frequent or too prolonged, since I am always certain to find myself in disgrace when I return.”
How very lucky I am, Jane thought soberly, that Aunt Hetty and dear Grandmamma are so unfailingly kind and sweet-tempered. I have not had a cross word from either of them, I believe, in the whole of my life. How very different has been my lot from that of Frank Churchill or Rachel! If I am ever inclined to repine at my fate, I should remember that.
She did not feel her good-fortune with such conviction on the afternoon, two weeks later, when, having seen the party aboard in Weymouth harbour and waved her handkerchief so long as the faces were discernible over the rail, she returned to the house in York Buildings, littered with string and scraps of sacking, and all the debris of departure, to pay off the last manservant and await the arrival of her own conveyance.
Bidding goodbye to Rachel had been exceptionally painful. The two girls had embraced each other again and again.
“Oh, Jenny! Oh dear, dear Jenny!” cried Rachel, weeping. “How can I bear to lose you? You will come — will you not? — as soon as you possibly can, to visit us at Baly-Craig?”
“Of course she will come, my dear,” said the Colonel gruffly. “And will bring a handsome husband along with her, one of these times, I daresay — eh, Jane, my dear? Eh, Matt, my boy?”
Matt was very silent at the parting. He had been silent with Jane, had seldom addressed her except when strictly necessary during the past months — ever since the occasion of his declaration to her. But on the evening before the embarkation he had contrived to waylay her for a moment, as he left York Buildings, and had pressed a little packet into her hands, without a word said.
Later, seizing a rare moment of privacy, she unfolded the paper and found that it was a poem, in Matt’s writing:
“From this day on
My friend will be the moon
Who many times her light upon us two has thrown.
Her stately way
Over the fields of sky
Must pass you too, where’er you chance to stray
Since I have lost
The one I love the most
And buy my bread now at such bitter cost
O then, dear Artemis
Vouchsafe me only this
Touch my lost friend with your eternal kiss
And, as you travel by
Carry my thought across the sky
To Her, in whatsoever bourne she now may lie.”
Jane’s first feeling on reading this was indignation. He should not have given it to me, she thought; no, he should not. He is committed to Rachel now and must accept the situation completely. — But then she felt a deep woe, and wondered for the hundredth time if she had done right in encouraging the pair to marry. Would they be happy, off there in Baly-Craig? As for this poem, this paper … She snatched a chance, when no one was about, to carry it, torn into tiny pieces, and toss it into the December sea. She had no right to keep it, and it would only bring ill-luck, she felt certain.
“You should kiss Jane goodbye,” said Rachel at the parting. “She is your sister now!” But Matt did not do so, nor did he touch her hand.
From Colonel and Mrs Campbell Jane received the affectionate embraces of true parents.
“Write to us every single week,” Mrs Campbell said. “I really do not know how we shall contrive without you, Jane. We shall miss you — we shall indeed.”
“Remain in Highbury as long as you choose,” urged the Colonel. “Stay there to be nursed by your friends and throw off that dismal cold which has so beset you lately. Do not be hurrying yourself, now, into some pitiful position in any niggardly, inferior establishment; you must pick and choose, you know, pick and choose! Wait for the best! Here —” and she found he was hurriedly thrusting into her hand another small packet.
“Oh, sir! You shouldn�
�t! You should not, indeed!” she exclaimed, thinking somewhat wildly of Matt. But this one, she later discovered, contained notes amounting to fifty pounds.
“Nonsense! You’re a good gel!” the Colonel returned roughly, and strode after the others up the gangway. “Wish I could have done more for you,” he called over the rail.
Recalling these farewells later, in the dusty hallway of No 2, York Buildings, with the forlorn, hollow emptiness of the deserted rooms around her, no voice to cheer her solitude, and a small, thick rain falling outside, was it any wonder that Jane should succumb to great despondency of feeling? Or that, thinking herself secure from intrusion, she should sink down upon her trunk, which stood in the hall awaiting collection by the carrier, and abandon herself to a tempest of tears?
She had never felt so lonely in her life.
“Miss Fairfax!” exclaimed a familiar voice. “My dear — my very dear Miss Fairfax! Good God! You must not distress yourself like this — alone — when I have a shoulder to offer. Why, you are shivering like an aspen-leaf! You are freezing! Here, let me wrap my greatcoat round you.”
Jane, limp and sobbing, offered no resistance. She felt the coat go round her, and a pair of warm, comforting arms.
“Come, lean your head on my shoulder. If you must cry, cry in comfort! What is a friend for? There, let me lend you my handkerchief — yours, I fear, is wholly drenched.”
Jane allowed herself the luxury of another burst of tears but, as is often the case, the being given permission to cry ad lib had the effect of drying up the source. She let her head remain in its place for a short while, however, then blew her nose resolutely and, looking up into the solicitous countenance of Frank Churchill, said, “What a poor creature you must think me.”
“Indeed I do not! I think —” he checked himself. “Never mind what I think. But what a sad crew of curmudgeons those Campbells and Dixons are, to go off on their ship and leave you so, all alone, to fend for yourself.”
“They invited me to go with them. Ever so many times. But I — would not.”
“And who’s to blame you? I could see how you were situated; I could see that clearly enough.”
Preferring to ignore the implications of this, hoping she misunderstood him, Jane said, “But, Mr Churchill, what are you doing here? I thought you had escorted your aunt to Harrogate?”
“And so I should have, but she changed her mind, as she so frequently does. My uncle escorts her to Bath instead. So I snatched the chance to make a detour — I am to meet them there, but came to Weymouth first. How glad I am that I did so! For now I am available to offer myself as companion, attendant, purveyor, friend, whatever you require, until you leave this place. At what time does your carriage come for you?”
“Not until noon.”
“Then,” said he, “I suggest that we take our way to Harvey’s Library. The clouds are lifting; see, the sun begins to shine. I shall buy you a cup of coffee — scandalizing all the gossips of the place, if any remain here — and find you some wonderful novel to amuse you on your journey and distract your sad thoughts. Do you remember how we both laughed over Mysterious Warnings? I shall find you another equally mysterious, I promise you!”
Somehow, Jane found herself persuaded into this programme, though she stipulated that she must first wash her face and tidy her hair.
When they had taken coffee together, and he had bought her the novel, besides a bag of sponge-cakes for the journey, at Ryall’s, and a beautiful shell with a pearly interior — “So that, sometimes when you look at it, you will remember Weymouth and your friend Frank —” he suggested that they should go and stroll on the Esplanade. Weymouth was almost deserted in this late December season; they had the whole promenade to themselves.
“For I have had a very good, in fact a sovereign idea,” Frank said. “And I wish you to give it your earnest and undivided consideration.”
Jane, through all his course of small kindlinesses and attentions, had had little to say, despite her gratitude for the comfort; her throat was tired and closed-up from tears; she said nothing now, but followed him passively, walked with him languidly, and leaned obediently beside him on the balustrade when they had followed the curve of the bay to its southernmost end. The waves rolled in roaring, whitecapped, but the sky had cleared to a pale and tender blue.
“Now:” said Frank, “here is my plan. It may very easily have escaped your notice, dear Miss Fairfax, that during these months at Weymouth I have fallen much in love with you, and indeed cherish towards you the very warmest feelings, both of affection and admiration. Circumstanced as I have been, on the edge of your small, happy group, it has been possible for me to observe and understand, perhaps, more clearly than those closer to you, the emotions, the good and beautiful motives that have been prompting you recently on, on several occasions.”
Jane opened her mouth to speak but with an uplifted hand he forestalled her.
“Miss Fairfax, I do not ask any questions. I have no wish, none in the world, to be prying or impertinent. I honour you deeply — to me, indeed, you seem like a kind of angel. I almost worship you!”
She tried to speak again, and again he prevented her.
“I know that you have no dowry — that Colonel Campbell is unable to help you. I know that! Just as I know,” he added irrelevantly, “that you are the most beautiful young lady I have ever seen, and worthy to grace a ducal establishment — even if you have not Mrs Fitzroy’s jewels. — Did Miss Campbell get those, on her marriage, by the way?”
“Yes! she did,” said Jane laughing, “but they proved to be a very modest collection.” He was so odd a mixture of humours that she hardly knew whether to take him seriously.
“Good, I am glad to see you laugh. Too much of this comedy at Weymouth has been played out as high tragedy, and I never like tragedy. I enjoy dancing, dear Miss Fairfax (you are the best dancer I have ever been privileged to lead out) and singing, and piano music, pleasant company, conversation, jokes, and beautiful gardens. Do you not think that we should suit? Do — please — say yes, I beg you! To tell the truth, my heart has been set on you ever since we danced together at that first Assembly when you had done Miss Campbell’s hair so cleverly.”
“But, Mr Churchill —”
“Now! Do not be raising a whole host of unreasonable objections! Pray take time to think carefully about my offer. You have had, I conjecture, several other offers since you came to Weymouth. But none of them are anything like so eligible as mine! I am very good-tempered, I shall, one day, have command of a handsome fortune, and I love you devotedly. What more could you ask for?”
“I —”
“Yes, there is that,” he agreed, without waiting for her to say more. “You do not at present love me. I am aware of that sad fact. But, dear Miss Fairfax, I am a very well-meaning fellow. And I, on my side, love you most faithfully — do not you think that, given time, you might find it in your kind heart to reciprocate? And — and put out of your heart any other image that might perhaps have taken up lodging there?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps … But,” said Jane, and now she spoke firmly and resolutely and would not let him stop her, “none of this is to the purpose. We both know, Mr Churchill, that your aunt would never, ever, for one moment, countenance an alliance between you and such a humble, unconnected creature as myself. You know it, and I know it. So how can you, even for one moment, consider it?”
“I am afraid that is quite true,” he agreed seriously. “Good, beautiful, gifted as you are, my aunt would see only that you have no great relatives to give you consequence. So — if you are to accept my offer, which I hope with all my heart that you may — we should be obliged to keep our happiness to ourselves.”
“A secret engagement, do you mean?” said Jane with distaste.
“There! That is what I love about you!” he exclaimed. “The nail hit on the head every time. No evasions, no circumlocution. Yes, dearest Miss Fairfax, it would mean a secret engagement. I love the idea no bet
ter than you, I assure you. I would accept it with joy, nonetheless, since because of it I would feel secure of you. I would not have the agonizing fear of losing you, which has kept me posting back to Weymouth on all possible occasions, always in terror that some other, equally discerning suitor might have anticipated me and snatched the prize from under my nose.”
Jane sighed and looked out at the boiling surf. Her expression was very troubled.
“You do not like the idea,” he said. “I cannot blame you. But look at it this way, my dear. I — I have good reason to know that at this moment you are lonely and heartsick, that you have lost the family you love (and somebody else besides whom you did not deserve to lose); you have a bleak, uncertain future to face, with no friends and no funds and nowhere of your own to lay your head. Would it not cheer you, in this pass, to know that you do have a friend, a secret friend; to know that, instead of the hazardous future, you would, by and by, on the contrary, be sure of a comfortable establishment and a loving companion to share it with you? — And all that is true, and must come to pass,” he ended vehemently. “It is only a matter of waiting with a little patience.”
“I hate the kind of waiting that depends upon — upon somebody else’s misfortune — upon their death,” said Jane bluntly.
“You could not do so more than I. And yet we have our own rights too. Do we not? Look,” he urged, “let us leave it this way. I shall consider myself bound to you — by every tie of honour and devotion. You, on the other hand, may feel free as a bird, so that you need be troubled by no scruples as to — as to the waiting.”
“But that would not be fair,” she said at once. “If one is bound, the other should be too.”
