“Oh, what a shame,” Mama continued. “How comfortable it would have been for Josephine to have her brothers close by. Tom will be at Millwalk too, you know, at the rectory.”
The rest of the dinner came and went without incident, after which we all repaired to the drawing room, the men following not long behind the ladies. Claiming fatigue and an early business appointment next day, Mr. Randolph Pierce departed as soon as the rules of civility would allow him to do so. Before he went, however, he did take the trouble of thanking his host and hostess quite handsomely, favoring me with a fine parting sentiment in recognition of my birthday, and dismissively giving his son leave to continue in my company.
Much to Susan’s dismay, Mr. Ramsey left shortly thereafter under curfew orders from his mother. Half an hour later, Tom began to make noises as if restless to go as well, citing the long ride he and his friend had before them on the morrow. Mama, of course, opposed any further diminishment our party, and Arthur showed no sign of taking himself away so precipitously. He seemed instead determined to prolong his torment at the hands of Agnes and Mr. Cox, whose flirtations had recommenced forthwith.
I did not wish Arthur away, yet I wondered at his will to linger in a situation that must only bring him pain. As the evening wore on, he repeatedly glanced from the pair of them to the clock and back again. Mr. Cox showed no inclination for an early relinquishment of his claim. At length, Arthur crossed the room and spoke to Agnes despite the presence of the third party. “I leave Bath at first light, Miss Pittman. May I have a few words with you now, before I go?”
“Certainly, Mr. Evensong,” replied Agnes, formally.
“Thank you. Mr. Cox, if you would be so kind…”
Mr. Cox began to rise.
“No, I beg you would stay where you are, sir,” Agnes told him. “Mr. Evensong can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear.”
“Agnes, please,” Arthur said with impressive self-control. “I wish to speak to you in private. Surely you owe me that much.”
“Owe you? I hardly think you have the right to demand anything from me, sir.”
“Perhaps that was an unfortunate choice of words, but I thought, after so long an acquaintance, a few minutes of your time was not an unreasonable request to make.”
Arthur waited. Agnes held her ground and kept Mr. Cox obediently by her side. As the exchange had grown more heated, it had fixed the attention of everybody else in the room. Accordingly, all eyes were turned in their direction to see the outcome. The awkward silence was unendurable. Arthur finally broke it.
“Very well, then. I will bid you good-night, Miss Pittman.” He turned and made his farewells to the rest of the company with more composure than could reasonably be expected under the circumstances. Tom recognized his cue and began his leave-taking as well. Arthur saved his parting words for me as I walked him down to the door. “I am sorry for the unpleasantness, Jo. I never meant to create a scene. This is a fine thing for your birthday.”
“Think nothing of it, Arthur. If an apology is due, I believe it should come from a different quarter. Now then, when shall we see you again?”
“I cannot say. I make for Wallerton tomorrow, to visit my mother and brothers, and thence to Oxford.”
“But you will come to Millwalk at Easter as planned, and then home again in May for my wedding.”
Arthur hesitated, a pained look in his eyes. “I doubt it will be possible. I think it unlikely that my commitments at Oxford will allow me so much time away. A short excursion at Easter may be manageable, but as for your wedding…”
“Do try, Arthur. It would mean so much to me – to all of us – to have you there.”
“I shall make no promises. If I can see my way clear, I will come. Failing that, permit me to give you my best wishes now: all imaginable happiness, Jo. Good bye and God bless you.” He pressed my hand and was gone, Tom following behind him.
17
From Bad to Worse
With the loss of Arthur and Tom’s company, little pleasure remained in the offing. The evening could not be over soon enough to suit me. I was tired from the strain of all that had passed, and yet I could not expect to rest until I claimed a few minutes tête-à-tête with Richard, in hopes of easing his trouble and making my own mind comfortable again.
Agnes dismissed Mr. Cox shortly after Arthur left, and the Grahams were not far behind him in taking leave. With Mr. Ramsey gone, Susan could no longer support any guise of cheerfulness. In kindness, her parents took her home where she could be miserable with more convenience. Agnes soon made her apologies and went to bed, after which my parents discretely disappeared as well.
At last alone with Richard, I collapsed into an armchair and relaxed my countenance, abandoning any further attempt to conceal the true state of my feelings. “That was a bit of a grueling exercise, was it not?” said I. “I hardly know when I have seen a more unhappy set of people so unsuccessfully trying to look as if they were enjoying themselves.”
“Well said, my dear.” He took a seat beside me. “The trouble between Miss Pittman and Mr. Evensong was plain for all to see, but what the devil was wrong with Ramsey and Miss Graham? I did not like to ask in front of the others.”
“It amounts to this. Mr. Ramsey has nothing to live on without his mother’s pleasure, and she intends to deny her consent for his ever marrying Susan. I pray they may yet come to some understanding, but at the moment there seems little chance of it. So, you can appreciate their distress.”
“Yes, of course. How glad I am that we do not face that obstacle. Fortunately, my trouble with my father is far less serious. He and I got into a whale of a row just as we should have been leaving the house today. That is what detained us, and that accounts for our contribution to tonight’s festive atmosphere,” he finished with heavy sarcasm.
“Did you settle the matter between you at last?”
“After a fashion. He shall never admit that he was wrong, of course, but I think he is now resigned to do his duty. It is a question of basic propriety, of common courtesy really. When a call is due, it must be made without delay. I fail to understand why he insists upon making such a to-do about paying his respects to an old acquaintance.”
“An old acquaintance? Do you mean Miss Fennimore?”
“Quite.”
“You have called on her yourself, I suppose.”
“Yes, earlier today. However, it seems that she is now beneath my father’s notice, although he was friendly enough with the family not that long ago, until Mr. Fennimore’s affairs collapsed. Now he does not scruple to snub them, one and all. Yet I maintain that Miss Fennimore deserves our consideration, despite her father’s reduced circumstances!”
This little discussion, which I had anticipated being equally therapeutic for us both, had tended instead toward providing far more relief for Richard than for myself. Whilst his burden presumably lightened as he gave expression to his frustrations, that very venting served only to add to my trouble. After having observed Richard’s familiar manner with the lady at the ball the other night, his mere mention of Miss Fennimore might have been enough to disturb my peace of mind. Now I could not help noticing the feeling with which he defended her claim on his attention, the passion he suddenly demonstrated for the observation of proper civility to this “old acquaintance.”
Despite my effort to conceal it, a hint of my consternation crept into my reply. “Miss Fennimore is fortunate indeed to have such a champion looking out for her honor. I hope she appreciates your loyalty and enthusiasm on her behalf.”
“Now, Jo, you cannot seriously be jealous. I told you, she is nothing to me personally – just an old friend of the family. And as an old friend, I should hate to see Miss Fennimore ill-used by anybody, especially by one of my own relations.”
My battle for self-command waged on. “Do not say it,” I silently counseled myself. “If you are wise, you will hold your tongue for once.” However, as is so often the fate of good advice, this ex
ample also went unheeded. Instead, against every fiber of my better judgment, I escalated the confrontation. I could not seem to help myself; I opened my mouth and pure poison poured out.
“Oh, do call her Margaret, Richard,” I said, mimicking Miss Fennimore’s affected coyness credibly. “Remember, she insisted that you should. After all, you have known her ‘ever so long.’ And, as anyone at the dance could plainly see, you are on very familiar terms with her!”
Richard’s reaction to this pretty speech was immediate and severe; it struck me like a physical blow. He froze, gripped me with a cold stare, and then delivered an equally icy reproof. “Do not take that mocking tone with me, Josephine. I will soon be your husband – your lord and master, if you please. I believe I have the right to insist you to treat me with more respect. There is a fine line between pert opinions and impertinence; you have just crossed it.” He stood, adjusted his cravat, and fiercely tugged his waistcoat into smart order. “I know this has been a trying evening for you, so I am prepared to overlook your remarks. Perhaps tomorrow, by the clear light of day, you will recover your sense. For now, I must go before I lose my temper altogether. I bid you good night, madam.”
Before I could say a word to stop him, Richard turned on his heel and was gone. No kiss; no embrace; no tender parting word. I was left alone and utterly wretched. It was a misery of my own making, of course; that glaring fact did nothing to ease my pain. Richard would never have gone away angry had I not been so horrid to him. His annoyance with me was completely justified.
For half an hour, I stared out the drawing room window, down at the darkened street, praying that Richard would return so that I might humbly beg his pardon. When he failed to appear, I resigned myself; I had no alternative but to wait until the morrow to make amends. I went to my bed that night with a heavy heart, my confidence in the power of our mutual affection to overcome this difficulty my only comfort.
~~*~~
During the course of my uneasy night, I resolved to linger in suspense of Richard’s forgiveness no longer than necessary. The trouble had been my doing – solely mine. Hence I intended to be the one to seek out the remedy as well. Yet before anything could be done toward that end, another event intervened. While we were all at breakfast, the morning post arrived with a letter for Miss Pittman. Stating that it was from her father, Agnes opened it, silently read the contents, blanched alarmingly as she did so, and hastily excused herself from the room.
The remaining three of us looked at each other in puzzled amazement.
“Perhaps I should go to her,” I proposed. “Shall I?”
“Best allow her time to recover her composure first, my dear,” Mama advised. “She will not thank you later for witnessing her current suffering, whatever the cause. I wonder what Mr. Pittman could have communicated to unsettle her so completely. I do hope none of her family has been taken seriously ill.”
In deference to my mother’s recommendation, I tarried longer than my own sensibilities would have advocated before going to my friend. I found her in a state of considerable agitation, crying fitfully and filling her trunk.
“Agnes, dear, what on earth has happened? Why are you packing your things?”
“Here. See for yourself,” she said, thrusting her letter toward me. It read as follows:
My Dear Child,
I do hope that you have enjoyed your stay in Bath. Unfortunately, I must now insist that you return home at once. This will no doubt come as quite a blow to you – both cutting short your holiday and the reason for it – but it cannot be helped. You see, my dear, I have suffered a severe financial setback, the complexities of which I will not attempt to describe here. Suffice to say that we must retrench immediately. My attorney has drawn up plans for economy which I hope will save us from total disgrace, but it will require great sacrifice on the part of us all. Do thank our dear friends, the Walkers, for their hospitality, and beg their continued fellowship through the difficult time ahead. Pray, get yourself home as soon as possible, Agnes. Your presence is wanted at every moment, most particularly by your mother, who has been very cast down by this grave disappointment.
Your Loving Papa
“Oh, Agnes, I am so sorry.”
“Our family is ruined, Jo. Ruined! I shall never be able to show my face in society again. What will become of us? Are we to be cast out to starve in the hedgerows?”
“Do try to calm yourself, dearest. Surely the situation cannot be as desperate as that.”
But Agnes would not be comforted. The depth of her distress was beyond the reach of my ministrations. Indeed, there was little of use that I could do, except to assist with the practical preparations for her departure and to solicit my father’s help in arranging her transportation. Within the space of three hours following the arrival of the ill-fated news, Papa had supplied Miss Pittman with the necessary funds for her journey, and safely deposited her and her luggage on the next outbound post chaise for Hampshire.
“What a sad business this is, Jo,” he lamented as the coach pulled away, wheels rattling on the uneven cobbles. “I feel the loss of our young guest and the misfortune of her family exceedingly. At the very least, I wish Miss Pittman might have remained until we could deliver her to Wallerton ourselves in another week or two. I hate to see her traveling post. Still, I can understand her father’s impatience to get her home. A family must close ranks at such a time.”
I saw Agnes’s forlorn face once more as the coach turned the corner before passing out of sight.
“Well, well, there’s nothing more to be done for them at present, I suppose,” Papa continued. “And since this mission has brought us out into the town, I believe it shall be as well for me to take myself to the Pump-room now as later. Will you accompany me, my dear, or do you have errands of your own?”
The sorry business with Richard flooded back into my mind. “Now you mention it, I do have something to do on Bond Street, if that’s all right.”
“Perfectly, perfectly. I daresay your time will be better spent there than waiting on me. Go about your business and I will see you at home later. But keep your wrap close about you; it is very chilly this morning.”
I fully intended to go to Bond Street as I had told my father I would. But I had to see Richard first, to make my apologies without further delay. I should have gone even earlier, with Agnes in tow for propriety’s sake, had not fate taken a hand. Now my determination to be restored to Richard’s good opinion gave me the boldness to march up to the door alone. The servant who answered recognized me and reported that the gentlemen were not at home. Since he expected them shortly, he invited me to await their return upstairs in the drawing room.
Not many minutes passed before I heard noise below – the sound of the front door closing sharply followed by the raised voices of Richard and his father quarreling.
“But, Father, why must I come away so abruptly? Give me another week.”
“Absolutely not! This was never intended as a holiday, as you well know. Now, with our business successfully concluded, any more expenditure would be a pointless extravagance. You have thrown away enough of my money, sir. It is time you came home and earned your keep.”
They were moving in my direction. As I considered my awkward position and if I should make my presence known, the opportunity to do so was lost. I remained where I was, immobilized by Richard’s words, which I could not help overhearing.
“I have done everything you demanded of me, sacrificing my plans and the woman I preferred in order to secure you a rich daughter-in-law. Have I not earned a little gratitude for a job well done?”
“Gratitude? No, I’ll not thank you for your trouble nor pity your sacrifice either. Need I remind you that securing Miss Walker’s fortune would have been entirely unnecessary had you not gambled away so much of your own? You have no one to blame but yourself for your current situation.”
With that, the two men opened the drawing room doors wide and discovered me within. They stared at me
and I at them, all three of us momentarily stunned silent. Then, with an involuntary cry of anguish, I fled the room, the house, and Richard.
18
The Painful Truth
Richard attempted to detain me, babbling some sort of explanation, I suppose. I could hear nothing above the menacing roar building in my head. Once out into the street, I broke free of him. I simply had to get away, to extricate myself from the nightmare, to leave the horror behind. I cared nothing for the curious faces that swam before my eyes or for whither I ran. I hurried on as if pursued by a fearful apparition, striving to outdistance the specter of Richard’s hideous betrayal.
How long and how far I fled, I know not. What little conscious control I retained was entirely employed in the office of self-preservation, which took the form of denying what I had just heard with my own ears. Whenever Richard’s incriminating words rose up before me, I thrust them back down again. I refused to believe it could be true. It must be some sort of ugly joke, I told myself. Or perhaps I had misconstrued some critical portion of the conversation. Mr. Pierce might be to blame, but not my Richard. I could rather believe every creature of my acquaintance leagued together to ruin his reputation than believe his nature capable of such cruelty. He loved me; he must be innocent! I willed it to be so, for to suppose otherwise would be insupportable. With all the strength at my command, I endeavored to shut tight my mind against any dissenting voice, to resolutely deny the unthinkable a foothold in my consciousness.
On I ran. I did not surrender without a fierce struggle. Yet gradually, as I tired and the pace of my flight slackened, the real state of affairs began to overtake me. Importunate questions plagued me, demanding answers. Were he truly innocent, why had Richard’s look been so guilty upon seeing me? What possible explanation could there be for what I had heard other than the obvious? And who was the woman Richard had forfeited by his father’s mandate? No, it would not do. Despite my fervent attempt, I could deceive myself no longer. It was impossible that any contrivance could represent the matter in such a way as to exonerate Richard from the crimes of treachery and fortune hunting. Thus sank all my hopes of domestic bliss, and with them, my last ounce of strength.
For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel Page 11
