“No. You needn’t be alarmed,” Agnes says languidly. “Mr. Trask has already been here. He has given me something for my nerves and pronounced me in no danger.” She sighs and continues. “Oh, Jo… when I got Papa’s letter in Bath… little did I imagine how bad things really were: the servants let go, our things sold at auction… and my dowry all but gone. The degradation and humiliation of it… No one will solicit our company now. We are ruined, ruined forever. Papa puts a brave face on the future and Mama tries to make out that she believes, but… it is useless. As for me, I have no more tears; they are all cried out,” she finishes flatly.
I place my arm about her shoulders, and she slumps against me.
My heart aches for my friend, and my anger rages against those whose crimes have driven her to such a state. But I must be calm for Agnes. “I know the situation appears very bleak at present, but it is bound to brighten by and by,” I offer, feeling all the feebleness of such platitudes. I long to be able to say something more to the purpose. After an interval of silence, I try again. “You must not lose hope, Agnes. Your family’s fortunes will rise again. In the meantime, your friends will see you through. We shall none of us desert you in your hour of need.”
At this, Agnes gives a cynical little laugh. “I am sorry, Jo. I do not mean to sneer at you; your sincerity I trust completely. But you give others far more credit than they deserve. Rats abandon a sinking ship, or had not you heard? We are already shunned by our neighbors, and even Arthur lost no time in forsaking me.”
“Arthur? Impossible!”
“Nevertheless, it is true. He called the other day… to condole with us – ever the dutiful young man,” she says with sarcasm. “He sat with us a full hour, working up his courage for the real purpose of his visit, I daresay. Finally, he asked to speak to me alone and it all came out. He said that before returning to Oxford he wished to… to ‘clarify’ our relationship… for my sake. ‘In light of recent events,’ as he so delicately put it, he wanted to be certain that I understood myself to be free from any perceived obligation to him. Was that not considerate? He would never admit it, of course, but he could hardly wait to be rid of me.”
“Surely, in your distressed state, you simply misunderstood his intentions, dearest. I cannot believe Arthur would be inconstant or deliberately cruel. It is not in his nature.”
“You take his part against me, then,” she accuses, pulling away with a wounded expression. “Really, Josephine, I did not expect it of you.”
“No! You have my complete loyalty, Agnes, always. I only wish to spare you the unnecessary pain that must arise from a misunderstanding between you and Arthur. I suppose, I would spare myself as well. I should feel the break up of our little group exceedingly. Are you absolutely certain he meant to cast you off by what he said?”
“Oh, yes. He used my flirtation with Mr. Cox as his excuse, but I am sure it has more to do with my reduced circumstances. It seems he will not take me without a proper dowry.”
“Abominable! Oh, Agnes, I would not have thought him capable of such a thing. Yet who am I to judge? I can no longer trust my own opinion as regards any man’s character, not after my blindness in Richard’s case. Are all men born with such avarice, or are they trained up in the art?” I go on to apprise my friend of events in Bath, those which followed her departure and hastened my own. “So you see, my dear, we have both suffered a reversal of fortune at the hands of unscrupulous men, and we are both left the worse for it. You can at least take comfort in this. When the news of my broken engagement gets out, as the fresher scandal it will take attention away from your troubles.”
We each solemnly swear to keep the confidence of the other. Agnes wishes to avoid the further humiliation of Arthur’s desertion becoming known, and I hope to stave off rumors about myself as long as possible. For my sake, Agnes vows to loathe Mr. Pierce for all eternity, and I – although I cannot commit to the same extreme measure – pledge to henceforth spurn Arthur’s company for his offences against her. When our conference of commiseration finally concludes, I leave satisfied that the session has noticeably cheered my friend, which was, after all, my primary goal. My own spirits, however, sag far lower than before under the added weight of what I have learnt of Arthur’s defection, which increases my burden on my own account as well as Agnes’s.
On the ride home, Papa remarks, “I have encouraged Mr. Pittman to engage a solicitor to attempt the recovery of his money. He says he was cheated by some dishonest businessmen who gained thousands at his expense. Perhaps if these men can be brought to justice, at least some of his investment might be salvaged. Mr. Pittman holds out little hope, but I think it worth a try.”
We again lapse into a meditative silence. I am in no humor for light banter in any case. My thoughts dwell on the suffering heart I have just left. I am ashamed to think that I had recently begun to question Agnes’s attachment to Arthur. If she did not care for him, she would hardly be so devastated now. Still, whether Agnes truly loved Arthur or not was immaterial. She had trusted to him for her future. Of that much I am certain. His ill-timed abandonment dealt Agnes the final blow by knocking out from under her the last remaining pillar of her formerly secure world. For that, Arthur is fully culpable.
This whole episode troubles me exceedingly, even beyond my solicitude for my friend. It shakes my confidence in the human race – and in my own judgment – to the core. When unscrupulous men behave dishonestly, it surprises no one. But when an honorable man acts against his known principles, it threatens to turn to quicksand the ground on which we all stand.
Unconsciously, I believe I have long held Arthur on a sort of pedestal in my mind, as the model of what a man ought to be. I have always admired him, valued his judgment and companionship, and rejoiced in his good character for Agnes’s sake as well as his own. Even if the pair had never married, I should have liked to retain his friendship and my good opinion of him. That is impossible now. By his fall from grace, Arthur is forever lost to me. How can I bear such another disappointment so soon after parting with Richard?
When we arrive at home, we are told that Tom has a guest within – the man himself: Arthur Evensong. It seems the first test of my pledged loyalty to Agnes is already upon me. After what I have lately learnt of him, I half expect that he will look different somehow, that his outer form will now reflect the change in his conduct. If he appears the villain that Agnes represents him to be, my job may be more easily done. Yet, as I enter the drawing room, he looks precisely the same as before – the same solid frame, the same honest face, the same clear eyes. He rises when we come in, nodding to me and then paying his respects to my parents. If anything, he seems more artlessly open than ever.
When Arthur turns back to me, I unaccountably begin to tremble.
“I did not expect to see you again so soon, Jo. You are well, I hope,” he asks gently, searching my face.
I have to look away. It is impossible to say what I must whilst meeting his gaze. “Not entirely, sir. I have just come from Agnes. Seeing her so unwell and hearing the cause of her misery has distressed me more than I can say. In fact, it has left me completely unequal to idle conversation. I beg you would excuse me, Mr. Evensong,” I finish brusquely, stealing a glance at him.
A cloud passes across his countenance. “Of course,” he says uncertainly.
As I leave the room, I hear my father make excuses for me. “You must forgive my daughter’s bad manners, Mr. Evensong. I am afraid she has taken this unhappy business with the Pittmans very much to heart. And on top of her own disappointment too…”
I hastily retreat to the privacy of my own apartment, shaking and truly unwell after the encounter with Arthur. I did what I had to do, what my allegiance to Agnes required of me. Even so, I feel wretched, in my body and in my soul, for having treated an old friend so coldly.
24
Christmas
Christmas Day breaks clear and crisp over Wallerton, with only remnants of the previous day’s snowfall
preserved in shaded corners and hollows. Most of it has already dissolved with the sun. No similar warmth has come to chase away yesterday’s trauma over Arthur and Agnes, however. The chill of that memory remains fully intact. It comprised the substance of my thoughts and prayers until I fell asleep last night, and my first consideration upon waking. Still, it is Christmas, and I am determined to set the distressing subject aside as much as possible in favor of more cheerful reflections.
After morning services, the rest of the day will be spent in the friendly confines of my own family. It occurs to me that this might well be the last Christmas that the five of us will share together on our own. Although I think it unlikely Tom will marry anytime soon, Frederick is four years older and well established at Millwalk. There can be no obstacle whatever to his taking a wife as soon as he wishes. With a pang, I remember that this would have been my last Christmas at home as well had my plans with Richard not run aground – another sore subject on which not to dwell today.
So much has changed lately that I appreciate the constant and the familiar more than ever before. Other than my family, and a dwindling list of true friends, I can think of nothing else so constant in my life as the church. The scriptures, liturgy, and hymns I have known since childhood never fail to bring me comfort when my own small troubles threaten to overwhelm me. As we walk into the village, I hope for that same consolation again.
The whole community will be in church; the pews are always full on Christmas Day. How glad I am that news of my failed engagement has not yet got out. At least the day will not be spoilt by the fear that every look and whisper makes me its object of derision. I am safe from that fate for now. Even so, I will likely have to endure some uncomfortable comments and questions. The possibility of another confrontation with Arthur worries me more.
We arrive just before the start of the service, and file into our pew without incident. The Pittmans, not surprisingly, are missing. One fleeting look confirms that Arthur is present, however, sitting with his mother and brothers straight across from me in the Evensongs’ customary place. He catches my eye; I immediately withdraw it to focus on the words before me in my Prayer Book.
I lose myself temporarily in the music and message of the service. Afterward, Mrs. Oddbody makes her way with purposeful haste to my side. She is a talkative old lady with a nose for gossip, the very sort I should wish to avoid just now. Yet there is no evading her today.
“My dear Miss Walker, how glad I am to see you are come back. And looking so very well too!”
“You are too kind, Mrs. Oddbody.”
“It is no wonder, after such a refreshing holiday in Bath – refreshing and fruitful, from what I hear. A little bird told me that you are to be congratulated, my dear,” she says in a knowing way. “You understand that I am very fond of news – any kind of news but especially romance – so you can well imagine that I was uncommonly pleased when I heard of your engagement. Since I have had the great good fortune to get my own daughters so respectably married and settled these many years, I have made it my concern to see to it that all the other young ladies of the parish are similarly well disposed of. So I am simply bursting with questions. Tell me about your young man, my child. Is he a gentleman of good fortune? And how did you find Bath? Was it as delightful as the reports we hear? I have never been, you know, and I suppose I am not likely to at my age. You must pity me that and give me benefit of your experience. You have such a way with words, Miss Walker. Paint me a picture with your colorful descriptions.”
As I cast about for some means of escape, I catch sight of Arthur hovering nearby, apparently waiting his turn to speak to me. Another awkward conversation with Mr. Evensong seems more to be dreaded than the one to which I am currently captive. Therefore, pretending not to notice him, I return my attention to Mrs. Oddbody with a plan in view.
“Oh, Bath!” I exclaim. “I could go on and on about the beauty and style of the place, Mrs. Oddbody. And the fast-paced society. I daresay, some of the stories I could tell you about what goes on in that town would stand your hair on end. We are both going in the same direction, are we not? Let us walk together…”
With a running narrative on Bath, embellished enough to hold the old lady’s interest, I keep other subjects, and Arthur, at bay. His own home being in the opposite direction, he can hardly persist in trailing after us like a stray dog; he has little choice but to give up the attempt altogether.
“…And here you are at home again, Mrs. Oddbody. Goodbye,” I say, beginning to move off.
“But you have not yet told me about your young man, Miss Walker. Come in and take tea with me, my dear, so we may continue our little chat.”
“I thank you kindly, Madam, but I must get home to my family. It is Christmas, after all. Another time perhaps.” I hurry along before she can raise any further objection. With a peek behind to reassure me that no one else follows, I rejoin my parents and brothers for the remainder of our way.
“That was very charitable of you, Jo, to humor Mrs. Oddbody for so long,” says Mama. “I daresay she is as good-hearted a creature as ever lived, but she does try one’s patience with her constant chatter. And I have never known her equal for poking her nose into other people’s business. I hope she has not wheedled any secrets out of you, my dear.”
“No. Doubtless she shall have her earful of news before too long, but she’ll not have it from me for a Christmas present.”
~~*~~
Our family party passes the afternoon quietly at home with no interruption from outside. Dinner is kept simple, most of it having been prepared in advance to lighten the servants’ duties in honor of the holy day. Mama and I – neither of us a great talent – take turns at the pianoforte to add to the festivities. Still, the gathering is not spirited enough for her taste.
“At times like this, I do so wish we had a larger family, my dear,” she laments to my father. “Now your brother is gone, it is only we five together on such occasions. We are become too quiet and sedate. What we need are children about us to provide a little noise and disorder, to make us sit up and take notice. That would be the very thing. I often think that I should have liked to have had one or two more to keep us company in our later years.”
“’Tis too late now, I suppose,” Papa says dryly.
“I should think so, Mr. Walker! I am afraid there is nothing to do but to wait for grandchildren.”
Tom, just returning from the next room, hears the last. “Grandchildren? Is that not a bit premature? You will be a very long time waiting indeed if you have any such ideas with regard to me. Fred, here, is your man, but you must first find him a wife, Mama.”
“I am quite capable of finding a wife for myself, I assure you,” says Frederick.
“Really? You have shown very little aptitude thus far, I must say,” Tom rejoins. “Have you a promising candidate for the office secreted away in Surrey? Ah, it is the curate’s spinster sister, no doubt. Miss Claudia Summeride – once considered a great local beauty, I believe. How long has she been such a favorite? And pray, when am I to wish you joy?”
“Miss Summeride is not the woman. I will tell you that much. The rest is none of your affair,” Frederick says, unperturbed.
“As you say, dear brother. Nevertheless, I shall have my eye upon you.”
My mother intervenes. “That will do, Tom. Leave poor Fred alone. And I do not see why he should necessarily be the first to marry. You will be very well set up yourself soon – ordained and installed as the rector of Millwalk parish in a few months. Any young woman will be proud to have you then.”
“Thank you for that fine endorsement, Mama. I will not deny that it is a very good living. Nevertheless, I cannot countenance the idea of settling down to be a country parson. Not yet. There is still so much I want to do first.”
“What grand plans might you have, little brother?” inquires Frederick.
“If you must know, I wish to travel and to learn more about the world; to see the pyramids of Egy
pt; to explore the Roman Coliseum, the canals of Venice, the Parthenon and the Acropolis – all the great monuments of human civilization.”
“You see, Tom has a private passion for architecture,” I explain. “I heard him speak quite eloquently on the subject in Bath.”
“Is that what you would do with your life if you could have your own way?” Papa asks him. “Would you choose to build houses and plan cities rather than serve God?”
“Surely not,” says Mama.
“I would do both together if I could. An architect can serve God just as well as a clergyman, I believe. But have no fear. I shall never have the option to choose. I must take the living that has fallen to me and be grateful for it. To pursue any other course would require capital that I have not got. I only wish to experience a little more of what the world has to teach me before I take up my post. That is all.”
From here, the conversation moves on to other things. Later, however, Frederick reopens the topic. “I say, Tom, perhaps you can do both after all,” he remarks thoughtfully.
“What do you mean, sir? I have not the pleasure of understanding you. Of what are you talking?”
“I speak of your wish to practice architecture as well as serve God. Perhaps there is a way for you to do both at Millwalk. I have a mind to make some improvements to the estate. What would you say if I were to put you in charge of them?”
For a moment, Tom is quite speechless, but I take up the plan at once. “What an inspired idea, Fred! Tom, you could do it. I am sure you could.”
“Well, I would certainly like to try. I never thought to have such a chance come my way. I must say, it is very decent of you, old fellow.”
“I’m not promising, mind. You get some plans together and we shall see. If all turns out well, I might be in the position to send a little more work of that kind your way now and again.”
Tom and Frederick continue with their heads together on the subject for the better part of the evening – the young squire describing the improvements he has in mind, the would-be architect asking questions and taking copious notes. With his intimate knowledge of the estate and a vivid imagination to assist him, Tom obviously has no trouble picturing each of the projects before and after the proposed modifications. He begins spouting ideas at once for how to go about the work and what the finished product will look like. In his enthusiasm, he proposes to begin his research immediately upon returning to Oxford, and to bring drawings of his plans to Millwalk at Easter.
For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel Page 15
