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For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel

Page 19

by Shannon Winslow


  Shortly after dinner, my father summons me to his library, whereupon Mama announces that she has household duties requiring her urgent attention. Susan and Mr. Ramsey, being well able to bear the solitude, are kind enough to excuse us all.

  “You should study these papers for yourself, my dear,” Papa begins when we are alone, “but in short, Mr. Gerber is asking for your decision. These documents will authorize him to carry out your wishes if and when he receives notice from Mr. Pierce’s solicitor. As you will see in the letter attached, he does not require your reply immediately. However, if you are prepared, we can take advantage of Mr. Ramsey’s offer to carry it back to London.”

  “I still have not yet made a final decision, Papa. I need a little more time.”

  “Of course. Such a weighty matter mustn’t be rushed. A fortnight from now will do as well.” He stands quietly by whilst I read through Mr. Gerber’s correspondence, and then he remarks, “I collect that you have at least a tolerable grasp of this legal jargon, Jo, so I trust you are not overwhelmed by what you find there.”

  “Not exactly overwhelmed. The responsibility is sobering all the same.”

  “Well, you have already had benefit of my opinion on the subject. Still, if you wish to discuss it further…”

  “Thank you, Papa. I have very nearly made up my mind. I only want to let the idea rest for a while, to allow it to settle into a firm resolve, to be certain I can live at peace with it.”

  “Then, my dear, since we can do no more about it at present, we had best get back to our guests. No doubt they have been very lonely without us,” he says satirically.

  When we rejoin the couple in the drawing room, my father seems unable to resist the temptation to have a little sport at Mr. Ramsey’s expense. “Good news, Mr. Ramsey,” he says. “There is no need to delay your return to London. My daughter and I have made quick work of the documents you so obligingly brought to us. They are signed and ready to go back to Mr. Gerber at once. So you will want to be off at first light, I should think.”

  The suddenly crestfallen young man is too bewildered for words. I come quickly to his rescue. “Never mind, Mr. Ramsey; Papa is only teasing. The papers are by no means completed, and you are to remain at Fairfield as long as you wish.”

  Mr. Ramsey breaks into a wide smile. “I am relieved to hear it, for I have already discovered a great fondness for this place. I should be sorry indeed to leave it so abruptly,” he says glancing at Susan.

  Mr. Ramsey spends the whole of the next day with us, and every effort is made for his comfort. I believe we secure his highest appreciation, though, not by attentiveness but by neglect, our chief accommodation being the way we find other occupations for ourselves to afford him as much privacy with Miss Graham as proper decorum will allow.

  Unfortunately, Mr. Ramsey’s commitments in London will not allow him to extend his stay. After a farewell call the following morning, he takes himself off as planned, leaving his dear Susan refreshed for his visit but desolate anew at having to part with him again so soon.

  ~~*~~

  By now, weeks have elapsed since I received Mr. Randolph Pierce’s threatening letter. I can picture his vexation at being so long ignored, and imagine the resulting arguments between father and son over what to do about it. My somewhat-better opinion of the younger Mr. Pierce leads me to believe he will offer at least nominal resistance to filing suit when the time comes. He implied as much when we last spoke in Bath and in his letter. Yet Richard is no match for his father, I fear. I have little doubt that he will ultimately relent.

  In the meantime, I do my best not to dwell on that unhappy prospect. Susan is here to keep me busy and to prevent me taking my troubles too seriously. With her support, I venture farther and more frequently from home. We traipse everywhere together – calling at the Pittmans and on Mrs. Evensong, shopping at Colby’s, placing orders for Mama with the butcher and the baker in the village, and taking the air on the roads and footpaths round about. We even induce Agnes to break her seclusion at long last and join us on some of these outings.

  Whereas it is too soon to expect a letter from Mr. Pierce’s solicitor, we do hear from both Frederick and Tom concerning the forthcoming outing to Millwalk. They have settled the particulars between them and determined that it will be as well for the two from Oxford to travel directly into Surrey rather than first making a lengthy detour to Wallerton. Mama approves the plan, proposing herself as chaperone to accompany Agnes, Susan, and myself on the trip.

  I relay the information to Agnes. “…So it appears that Arthur does intend to come after all. Shall you mind so very much?”

  “No, not in the least,” she declares haughtily. “My confidence grows day by day. It no longer signifies what Arthur Evensong says or does. I care no more for his presence or his opinions than for an indifferent acquaintance’s. To object to the notion of seeing him would be to pay him too high a compliment.”

  “Bravo! I must say I shall be proud to see you put him in his place. As for me, I admit I would rather avoid him altogether. However, if you can abide his presence, surely I can. Your behavior shall be my guide. Do you still wish to conceal the fact that there has been a break between the two of you? I do not know what Arthur may have told Tom, but Mama and Frederick could have no idea of it, I suppose.”

  “I confess I did drop a hint about the alteration to your eldest brother last time he visited. Yet for your mother’s sake and for the geniality of the gathering, I shan’t make an issue of it.”

  “Then nor shall I. I can exert myself to be cordial to Mr. Evensong if I must. Let us hope he will make an effort to keep up appearances as well.”

  “If he is any kind of a gentleman, he will let it seem as though it is my idea that we go our separate ways. When the time comes, that is what I intend to say. That is what I told your brother, in fact.”

  The more we discuss the excursion to Millwalk, the more my anticipation increases for going. Agnes’s excitement for seeing Frederick’s estate, and her sanguine attitude toward Arthur, are contagious. Listening to her talk, my own expectations for success improve likewise.

  I have pleasant memories of Millwalk going back to when I was a small child. My uncle always made such a fuss over me when we came to visit, calling me his “little princess” and giving me a bedchamber done up in keeping with the title. He stabled a pony especially for my use, which I rode near the house until I was old enough to keep up with my brothers on the bridle paths throughout the park. Millwalk is something of a second home to me, so much time have I spent there over the years. It will be good to see the place again, yet strange that my uncle will not be there to greet us on this occasion, or indeed ever again.

  Two days before the trip to Millwalk, Mama orders the carriage and drives into Wallerton to discharge her errands. She returns just an hour later. “Jo, dear, get your things. I desire you should accompany me to call on Mrs. Evensong. I have just heard in town that she is unwell. Miss Graham will excuse you for an hour or two, or she may join us if she likes.”

  Susan, having just received a letter from London in a gentleman’s handwriting, is perfectly content to remain on her own at Fairfield for the rest of the morning. So Mama and I set off without her. We find Mrs. Evensong in her cozy parlor, wrapped up warm near the fire with her maid Annette fussing over her comfort. She does indeed look very poorly compared to when I saw her Sunday at church.

  “My dear Martha,” begins Mama, “How distressed I was to learn you are unwell. When we heard, we came straight away. What ails you, old friend?”

  “’Tis nothing alarming – just another bout of my usual complaint, Doris. The apothecary has been here and prescribed the standard physic, but I believe a visit from such friends as you will do me more good.” A coughing spell interrupts her conversation. As we wait for it to pass, the maid offers a dose of medicine, which her mistress waves off. When Mrs. Evensong has recovered herself, she goes on. “I am especially pleased to see you, Jo. One likes t
o have the liveliness of young people always about the house.”

  “You have two of your sons with you. They must be good company for you, Mrs. Evensong,” I suggest.

  “Yes, I shall always have little John with me; he will remain a child forever. Robert, though, is very much occupied with business since his father died. He has grown so severe!” she says in good humor. “I declare, he is become quite an old man in his manner now. Still, I cannot fault him for that. The mantle of responsibility fell upon him so unexpectedly. Arthur would make me the best companion if he were not away so much of the time. I know it is necessary, but I cannot help feeling the loss most acutely each time he leaves.”

  “I often think,” says my mother, “that there is nothing so bad as parting with one’s children. One seems so forlorn without them. I miss my sons dreadfully, but a sensible daughter is a great mainstay. Jo is a real comfort to me. It looked as though I might lose her to Surrey, but she has changed her mind about that, thank heavens.”

  “Mama! The less said about that misadventure, the better. Besides, nothing has been officially announced yet.”

  “Never mind, dear; I will tell no tales,” Mrs. Evensong assures me. “Although I daresay it is very selfish of me, I am glad to hear you will be staying in Wallerton. You are the nearest thing I have to a daughter of my own, and I should have been very sorry indeed to see you go away.”

  30

  To Millwalk

  On the Thursday before Easter, the carriage is brought round to the door at half past nine in the morning to receive Mama, Susan, and myself. We set off for Surrey in short order, collecting Agnes along the way.

  Of the four of us, my mother may be the most enthusiastic about the much-anticipated excursion to Millwalk. For someone of her sociable disposition, being cooped up at home for three months together has been a severe trial. This outing constitutes not only her release from an unnatural isolation, but also a chance to see both her sons again. However, the real prize – the reason she most wishes to go, according to her own admission – is to behold her eldest comfortably established as lord of the manor. Her chance to witness that glorious spectacle lies only four hours and some thirty-five miles hence.

  Having traveled the route many times before, I serve as guide to my two friends, pointing out anything noteworthy along the way. Yet nothing captures Agnes’s particular interest until we are within a few miles of the estate. Then everything related to Millwalk takes on extra significance: the nearest serviceable market town, which she pronounces “adequate”; the tumbling river that parallels the road over the course of the last mile or two; and especially the parsonage, for the closer inspection of which the carriage must be brought to a complete stop by her command.

  “So, this is destined to be your brother Tom’s home,” she says to me. “I must say, it seems exceptionally fine for a parsonage. I should not have imagined anything half this size. Indeed, I think with six or seven well-trained servants, one might be tolerably comfortable here. Do not you think so, Jo?”

  “I quite agree, although I think the place could hardly support so large a staff as that. As for me, I have always been extremely partial to the house. It is too substantial to be called a cottage, and yet it has that sort of appeal, the way it is done up with window boxes and shutters all round, and the walls thick with ivy.”

  “The garden is delightful,” adds Susan, casting an eye over the neat lawn and tidy surrounding shrubberies. “And listen… you can hear the river in the distance.”

  “A curate lives here now, since the death of the former incumbent,” my mother informs them. “He serves as temporary vicar, holding the place for Tom. I daresay he will be very sorry to leave this house when the time comes.”

  “Yes, yes,” I say, becoming impatient at the thought of Mr. Summeride. “Let us be on our way before we disturb the man. We are not here to call upon him.”

  Mama signals the driver to go on.

  “I am glad to have seen the place at last,” says Agnes. “Now, how soon shall we reach the Great House?”

  “Just a few more minutes,” I answer. “You will observe it on the left as soon as we round the bend and clear this fine grove of birch trees.” All eyes strain for the first glimpse. “Wait a moment… There! Is it not an excellent prospect?”

  Although the parsonage has been approved as charming, it cannot compare to Millwalk Hall itself, which far exceeds it in size and grandeur. The sight of the house across the expansive park immediately draws appreciative gasps and expressions of admiration from the two uninitiated on-lookers. Susan declares it “a very stately house” and Agnes swears it is “even more handsomely situated” than she had pictured from Frederick’s description.

  I am moved as well. It is a sweet view – sweet to the eye and the mind. Indeed, the elements combine to show the place to uncommon advantage as we arrive. A shaft of sunlight graces the façade, causing it to stand out nicely against the dark backdrop of a glowering sky. The white-fleeced sheep, scattered in random pattern on the surrounding hills, play up the pastoral setting to perfection. And, as the comfortable end to our long journey, we weary travelers cannot help but be pleased with the place.

  Movement near the stables catches my attention as we approach; a groom is leading two saddled horses in. Tom and Arthur have just arrived, I surmise. My stomach begins to churn uncontrollably at the thought. I knew all along that Arthur would be here, and I prepared myself for seeing him. Why should I now be so disconcerted? Agnes has better reason for anxiety, yet she seems perfectly calm.

  Upon alighting from the carriage, the others bustle up the steps. But I hold back, taking a deep breath to steady my nerves before following.

  Susan waits for me on the porch. “Are you quite well, Jo? You look a little pale.”

  “Oh, yes. I am very well, thank you. Standing up suddenly after such a long sit has made me a little light-headed. That is all. I shall be perfectly fit in a moment.”

  Frederick greets each of us as we enter, his countenance clearly bespeaking both pleasure and pride at playing host. Tom soon joins in the welcoming party, whilst Mr. Evensong waits to one side. Agnes does not shy away from the inevitable. To my amazement, she walks straight up to Arthur, addresses him with dignified ease, and moves on. As I have pledged, I do my best to follow her lead. I only hope the prodigious awkwardness I feel is perceptible to no one else.

  “Hello, Arthur. I trust you are in health.”

  “Yes, thank you, and I am gratified to see you looking so well, Jo. How are you?” he asks, studying my face.

  “Never better!” I answer more blithely than I intend. Susan is at my elbow. “Mr. Evensong, you remember meeting my good friend Miss Graham in Bath.”

  “Yes, of course. Miss Graham, how nice to see you again…”

  With that, I abandon them. I am anxious to speak to Agnes, to be reassured that she endures Arthur’s presence with composure, and to be reminded myself how I should behave. Yet it seems that Agnes needs none of my consoling; she had taken Frederick’s arm.

  “Miss Pittman has asked for a tour of the house,” he explains. “Would anyone else care to join us? Miss Graham?” Susan is more than willing, and Mama goes as well, though she hardly needs to be made acquainted with a place she has spent so many weeks visiting before. No doubt on this occasion the novelty is to be found in the new proprietor’s giving of the tour.

  Only Tom, Arthur, and I remain behind, and I am already wishing I had gone with the others. But, remembering Agnes’s example, I quiet the voice of doubt in my head and move with my companions to the drawing room. Having already established the fact of our mutual good health, a discussion of the weather and the state of the roads naturally succeeds. The men have made a dry but difficult ride from Oxford. Tom fears his horse may come up lame as a result. I likewise give an account of the trip from Hampshire, and greet both Arthur and Tom from my father. With all the effortless subjects thus dispatched, a dreadful silence ensues until at last I hit upo
n a new topic.

  “Mama and I called upon your mother two days ago, Arthur.”

  “That was very good of you.”

  “Not at all. When we heard she was ill, we went straight away.” Seeing his troubled expression, I quickly go on. “She is in no danger; only her ‘usual complaint’ she says. The apothecary had been to see her and was satisfied. He left her some medicine and told her to rest. Annette is taking very good care of her, I believe.”

  “My mother’s constitution is not robust, and I do not think she has ever fully recovered from my father’s death. So I cannot help worrying about her when I am away. I have charged my brother Robert with keeping me informed of her health, but no letter concerning this latest turn reached me before I left Oxford. How did she seem to you, Jo? Did she have much of a cough?”

  “She did cough a good deal, but there was no menacing sound to it. She was a little tired, perhaps, but in good spirits. We had quite a cheerful visit.”

  “I am certain your company was a great encouragement to her. She has a very high regard for you, you know.”

  “As do I for her, Arthur.”

  Talking about his mother just now, everything has reverted to our previous pattern – two old friends completely at ease with one another. It is our first normal exchange in months. But as I recall more recent events, I immediately draw back and fall silent again. The moment is lost, and the insurmountable barrier between us reinstated. I read in Arthur’s expression his disappointment.

  Our attention is then drawn by the sound of laughter echoing down the corridor from the east wing.

  “If you will excuse me,” Arthur says, rising, “I think I shall join the tour after all.”

  When he has gone, Tom resurrects the conversation. “So, Sister dear, I see you are still determined to hold on to your grudge against poor Arthur. I thought perhaps you might have got over it by now.”

 

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