“Take care, Tom. You cannot afford to jeopardize your ordination by neglecting your other studies,” my father cautions. “This idea of Frederick’s is all very well, but you must still look to the church to earn your daily bread.”
25
Goodbyes and Correspondence
Our whole family makes a repeat visit to the Pittmans a few days later. They fare much the same as they did before: Mrs. Pittman wears a worried, vacant expression; her husband seems ill-at-ease in his own skin; Agnes continues as listless as before, with her siblings in somewhat better condition. Although Frederick goes out of his way to be agreeable, and Tom, who is always quick with a joke, does his best to lighten the general mood of the gathering, it is to no avail.
As we make ready to go after an extended stay, Tom informs the Pittmans, “Unfortunately, I will be unable to call on you again for some time, as Arthur and I return to Oxford tomorrow. But doubtless he has informed you of that himself.”
“No, indeed,” says Mrs. Pittman. “We have not seen the dear boy since before Christmas. I wonder that he stays away so long, but I suppose he has been much occupied at home with his mother’s health being so delicate. I expect we shall see him before he goes, however. He would not leave without saying goodbye to you, Agnes.”
Agnes lets the remark pass without comment. Her parents still know nothing of the falling-out between her and Arthur. Her low spirits raise no suspicion, since they can reasonably be attributed to the same business that oppresses the rest of the family.
I give my friend a sympathetic look and an embrace. “I shall come again in a day or two,” I promise her.
Witnessing Agnes’s overpowering woe helps me regard my own troubles as trifling by comparison. Not a day passes without many minutes spent anguishing over Richard, yet in truth, I feel much sorrier for my friend, with her limited inner resources, than for myself. I am the strong one. It is accepted between us without apology or reproach on either side. Hence, years ago I fell into something akin to a maternally protective role with Agnes. I like taking care of her; I consider it a privilege granted by virtue of my greater natural fortitude. Although it was out of my power to prevent the damage in this case, I am determined to supply whatever consolation my loyal service can afford her.
The next morning, Arthur calls at Fairfield to collect Tom for their return to Oxford, just as he did before Michaelmas term. How different are my sentiments on this occasion. Then, I welcomed the chance to spend a few minutes with him, and regretted his departure. Now, Arthur cannot be gone soon enough to suit me. I would avoid him altogether if I could. However, for me to refuse to see him would alert everyone that something is amiss, which Agnes still wishes to avoid doing for the time being. So I join the others in the drawing room with the resolution to be civil to him, but no more than civil. I do not speak unless spoken to, and my every glance in Arthur’s direction I carefully transmute into an icy glare.
Although I have had several days to become accustomed to the alteration, I still find this forced coldness painful. Deeply embedded bonds of friendship are not rent asunder without a bitter sting, I find; each one tears away a little part of me as it crumbles. I know Arthur is not insensible to the change in my demeanor, which he astutely attributes to the proper cause, as I discover presently.
When he and Tom have made their good-byes and are ready to go, he takes me by surprise, saying, “Jo, it is a fine day. Will you not accompany your brother and me outside, to see us off as you have done so many times before?”
I stammer, vainly searching for a reasonable excuse to decline.
“Come along, Jo,” Tom cajoles. “Give in gracefully. Do not make us beg. After all, it has become something of an honored tradition, you taking up your post on the porch to see us ride away. You cannot deny us this small favor when we shall be deprived of home and of your company for months to come.”
I have no alternative but to comply, so I take my wrap and follow them. Once outside, though, Tom makes an excuse to return to the house for some supposedly forgotten detail, leaving me alone on the porch with Arthur. The awkward situation now made infinitely worse, I turn from him, pondering a strategic retreat.
“Pray, do not run away, Jo,” Arthur hastens to say. “In consideration of our longstanding friendship, I beg you would listen to me for one minute. Let me speak my peace, and then you shall be rid of me.”
I remain, but I steel my heart against whatever he may say, lest I be completely taken in again.
With my implied consent, he continues. “I know what you must think of me. I believe I can guess what Miss Pittman has told you, and no doubt you have accepted her interpretation without question. Your loyalty and devotion to your friend do you credit. Indeed, I would have expected nothing less of you. I am glad for her sake that Agnes has such a champion beside her now. Despite what you probably believe, I do wish her well and happy.
“Jo,” he says with infuriating tenderness. “I value your friendship more than I can say. To have lost your good opinion, even temporarily, pains me deeply. Nevertheless, I will not force upon you an explanation that I fear would only distress you further. I am patient; I choose to forbear. God willing, in time both you and Agnes may see things differently. I shall trust to that eventuality for my vindication. In the meantime, I pray you will not judge me too harshly. Well…”
While he stands, as if meaning to go, but not going, I sense he is waiting for some sign of encouragement. I stubbornly refuse to give it, denying him the comfort that a single word or look might supply.
“Well…” he says again as Tom reappears. “I must be off. Goodbye, Jo, and God bless you.”
Tom kisses my cheek, and then he and Arthur mount up and ride away. As in the other instances, I stay rooted on the spot until they are out of sight. I should properly be sorry to see my brother go, but I feel only relief that Arthur’s unsettling presence is not likely to trouble me again, at least not until Easter. The more time and distance between us, the better. I still find it impossible to reconcile my past regard for Arthur with my current disapprobation. Each time I encounter him, the effort to do so leaves me more miserably perplexed than the last. No, complete separation is the only safe solution.
~~*~~
With Arthur and Tom now gone, life at Fairfield settles into a quiet routine. I keep mostly to home to avoid the curiosity of my neighbors who, whenever they do see me, are sure to inquire about the wedding date or when my “young man” will be visiting Wallerton. Perhaps it is my imagination, but it seems to me, from their pointed questions, that a general suspicion of my trouble has already been aroused. Since the whole story will come out eventually, I would prefer to publish the truth of the matter at once – declare it in the town square and have done – rather than be left perpetually at the mercy of rumor and innuendo. Yet, since we have been advised to postpone any such announcement as long as possible, I must keep up the pretense that all is well.
I quite deliberately submerge my own troubles beneath the work of ministering to Agnes, making it my first project to see to it that she is weaned from the mind-numbing laudanum which Mr. Trask has prescribed to calm her. In its place, I supply liberal quantities of my own companionship, along with any other diversion I can contrive for her amusement. I read aloud to her from Mrs. Radcliffe’s new novel and whatever book of poetry takes her fancy. We go for long walks in the garden when the winter weather permits. And I eventually manage to get Agnes interested in netting a new reticule. Frederick, who has postponed his return to Millwalk indefinitely, often accompanies me on these visits, contributing what he can to Agnes’s entertainment. Her improvement is steady but painfully slow.
With Arthur safely away at Oxford, I resume calling on Mrs. Evensong as well. And all through January we continue to hope that the Grahams will come to add variety to our confined society. However, in the end, a letter arrives instead. In it Mrs. Graham confers the family’s warmest regards along with their regrets at not being able to stop at Fa
irfield, their unwillingness to be separated longer from their younger daughters being sited as their reason for returning directly into Kent. A week later I receive a missive of my own from Susan.
My Dearest Jo,
Not a day goes by that I do not remember my friends in Hampshire with the greatest fondness. I wonder how you do, and how you are managing your cruel disappointment. I believe you to possess a particularly courageous character. So, I console myself by imagining that you rise above it all, refusing to give in to any serious despair. Am I right to think so sanguinely of you? Perhaps it is unfair to hold you to such a standard. You have as much claim to feel sorrow and as much justification to self-pity as anyone, I daresay.
Parting from you was trial enough, but there were more hardships to come. Mr. Ramsey and his mother followed you out of town immediately after Christmas. I wish I could report that the season stirred up the spirit of charity and goodwill in Mrs. Ramsey’s heart, causing her to look with a friendlier eye upon a match between her son and myself. Alas, no such miracle took place and we are left with little hope that it ever shall. Yet George assures me that he will never give me up. He is so good, Jo. I cannot think what I have done to inspire or deserve such devotion. At all events, he has great plans for the future that do not depend upon his mother for success. He asks me to entrust my happiness to him, and of course I do with all my soul.
Our journey to Kent was a bit of a nightmare, what with the continuous rain, dirty roads, and not one, but two carriage breakdowns. You can imagine how glad we were to finally be at home. I was very pleased to see my sisters, who fairly squealed with delight upon our return. I do not doubt their affection, but I suspect their cause for rejoicing was somewhat selfish at the core. They longed for news of the outside world after so many weeks in comparative isolation. The late hour of our arrival notwithstanding, they could not be persuaded to retire until I related to them all my experiences in Bath. Mama and Papa have promised to take each of them thither in turn, when they are older. In the meantime, they are desperately envious of me.
Oh, how I miss you and our shared adventures in Bath. Despite the way things have turned out, I cannot look back on that time with any serious regret. I am certain that I was never so happy in all my life as in those short weeks there with you and our mutual friends. What excitement we had! It has taught me to be dissatisfied with the relative dullness of my life in Kent. Papa says that I may come to you for a visit before Easter, however. That and Mr. Ramsey’s faithful promises give me much to anticipate with felicity.
Let me hear from you very soon. You must write to reassure me that you are well, and to inform me when I may come to you with the most convenience. My best regards to all your excellent family.
Devotedly, Susan
P.S. I thought you would wish to know that, before I left Bath, Mr. Cox called on me to inquire after you and Miss Pittman. Apparently, he had been round to your house in Pultney Street first, but found you all gone away. He asked to be remembered to you, should I have opportunity to make such a communication on his behalf. And, judging from the earnest desire he expressed to see you both again, I should be surprised if Mr. Cox does not find some pretext for visiting Hampshire before many weeks have elapsed.
About the middle of February, another correspondence arrives, this one not nearly so pleasant. Addressed to my father, it is from Mr. Randolph Pierce. He therein outlines his grievances in the most outspoken language imaginable. He writes in part, “On behalf of my son, it is incumbent upon me to remonstrate against your daughter’s outrageous conduct.” He goes on to describe his complaint against me in these terms: desertion… unaccountable dereliction of duty… calculated cruelty… trifling with a true and loyal heart… the young man’s emotional devastation… potentially blighted future… insulted honor… etc., etc. “Unless Miss Walker is prepared to complete her marriage contract as planned, my son will be left no alternative to taking proceedings against her in his own vindication. Should the wedding date pass unconsummated, you may be assured that the matter will be turned over to our solicitor for prosecution,” and so on and so forth.
Thus dies my hope that Richard would reign in his father’s thirst for litigation.
Papa puts the matter into perspective. “It is precisely what our solicitor in Bath told me to expect. The demands, the rhetoric, and the self-righteous posturing are designed to intimidate us. No one, including Mr. Pierce, really wants the expense and notoriety of a court case if it can be avoided. Still, now that the first salvo has been fired, it behooves us to seek some professional advice in the matter. There is no need to panic, but we must take all prudent precautions, I think. I shall go to London myself and consult the man who was recommended to us; I believe his name is Gerber. Then we shall see what is best to be done.”
The same as any sensible person wrongly accused, I feel the pressing need to defend myself, to clear my name, yet there is no way to confront my enemy at present. I find the only release for my resulting frustration in sharing it first with Agnes, and then with Susan in a letter. I write…
…Could you have imagined that it would come to this? I could not. It is inconceivable to me that I should be put in this compromised position by the scheming of persons whom we called our friends, by the collusion of the man who still claims to be in love with me. Papa soon leaves for London to seek out a solicitor who can advise us in the matter, and I hope to persuade him to take me along. We shall not be away more than a few days, however, so do come as soon as you can, Susan. I need my true friends about me now more than ever.
26
In London
My father at first objects to the idea that I should accompany him on his London undertaking, sighting the difficulties of travel and the disagreeable nature of the mission as reasons to spare me that inconvenience. “You had much better stay at home and let me handle this,” he says.
“No, sir, I strongly disagree. I got myself into this muddle; it is my responsibility to discover the best way out. As you said before, it is my decision to make since I am of age. And you cannot dispute the fact that I am the only person in a position to give the solicitor a full account of what transpired in Bath. Besides, I had much rather be doing something useful than idly waiting at home. I am quite determined to go, Papa, and I promise I can bear whatever unpleasantness it entails.”
Allowing the justice of my arguments, Papa ultimately relents.
I have been to London several times before to see my great aunt Augusta, a very formidable woman. This trip promises to be no more a pleasure scheme than those visits. It will be strictly business – no social calls, shopping, or excursions. We are to consult on our legal affairs with Mr. Gerber in Freeman Court, and then return home directly, which suits me perfectly well. I am in no humor for frivolity, and I do not care to be very long away from Agnes, whose spirits are still occasionally depressed. Fred’s offer to look in on her whilst I am gone has relieved my mind considerably on that score, however.
It is my father’s idea that Mr. Pittman should accompany us, in the hope that our solicitor might be able to help him as well, or recommend someone else who can. So we three travel together, and it is a comfortable if not lively party.
We arrive in London quite late and are met by Mr. Ramsey, to whom we sent word of our plans. Due to his familiarity with the part of town which concerns us, he engaged to arrange suitable lodgings for us there. After being introduced to Mr. Pittman and escorting us to the inn, he joins us for a light repast. It is very good to see him again, and I say so.
“I only wish we could have been brought together by more pleasant circumstances,” he tells us in response. “The need for legal services is rarely a happy event, but you will be in good hands with Mr. Gerber.”
“You know the man, then?” I ask.
“Oh, yes. He was my father’s solicitor briefly, and he has proved himself a great friend and mentor to me since I began my study of the law. I believe you will find him an honorable as well
as a clever man.”
“Excellent. Yes, this is most encouraging,” says my father. “Two recommendations are always more reassuring than one, especially where matters of consequence are concerned.”
“I venture to say that Mr. Gerber will be able to advise you on any manner of problem.”
“You have come to our aid as well, Mr. Ramsey,” I say. “We are so grateful.”
Papa adds, “Yes, do allow me to show my appreciation, Mr. Ramsey. Join us here for dinner tomorrow, if you will.”
“Thank you, sir. You are very kind, but regrettably, I must decline. I keep terms at Lincoln’s Inn, and I am required to dine there nearly every day. My holiday in Bath has put me somewhat in arrears with my studies as it is. I must keep my shoulder to the wheel from now on, for I am determined to make a success of it – for myself and for the sake of another who depends on me.”
Before he takes leave, Mr. Ramsey wishes us success in our discussions with Mr. Gerber and promises to look in on us again in a day or two.
That night in my bed, as I wait for sleep to overtake me, I consider what the morrow may bring. From what we have been told, I have no doubt that Mr. Gerber is a highly competent man. But will he be sympathetic to my cause? My father has cautioned that there may be unpleasantness involved in the interview. Yet, in an odd sort of way, I look forward to the meeting since it will offer me the first chance to take a positive step in my own defense. The novel prospect of having a look inside the legal system appeals to me as well, although I believe I would much rather learn about judicial process in a less personal way.
For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel Page 16
