The Gaslight Journal

by Carla René

  The Gaslight Journal

  Carla René

  Published: 2010

  Tag(s): victorian history "historical fiction" "author rené" "author carla rené" "historical romance" "women's fiction" "women's literature" family

  THE GASLIGHT JOURNAL

  by

  Carla René

  The Gaslight Journal copyright © 2010 Carla René

  Cover art copyright © 2010 Carla René

  “Secrets” by Carla René. Copyright © 2010

  “A Sleep To Startle Us” by Carla René. Copyright © 2010

  All rights reserved.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author's imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from its author, Carla René. Thank-you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  Introduction by Carla René

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Secrets—Bonus Short-Story

  A Sleep To Startle Us—Bonus Short-Story

  About the Author

  Coming in spring, 2011

  INTRODUCTION

  I was late in coming to Jane Austen. My first exposure to her was after I was well into my thirties by way of NPT. One night while flipping through channels, I noticed a mini-series called Pride & Prejudice, and after watching for only a few moments, I was hooked—I had to have more.

  It wasn't long until I was checking out this Jane Austen person's books from our library and scanning channel guides for re-runs of this riveting story (of course, a healthy crush on Colin Firth and his Mr. Darcy didn't hurt). Then Sense & Sensibility premiered with Emma Thompson and Kate Winslet. I was in heaven.

  I can't really say where my love of all things Victorian began, except to possibly acknowledge it began with that first exposure to Austen. I felt there was so little quality entertainment already, so naturally I gravitated towards her and her stories. Then I discovered Portrait of a Lady by Henry James, House of Mirth by Edith Wharton, and my old holiday favourite, A Christmas Carol by Charles Dickens.

  The period dress, the mannerisms, the language, all captivated me, but especially the idea of class systems and societal standing being the end-all of the upper echelon spurred my fascination.

  This book has been a struggle—I will not lie. I began writing it in 2000 with a simple line that flew into my head one winter night: The snow crunched mercilessly beneath her boots. So it's not Hemingway. But I suddenly began to see a movie unfolding of this long-haired woman, fighting to retain her honour and dedication to her family, while wanting to be true to herself, in spite of what society said should be her proper behaviour.

  Then due to an illness, I had to stop writing. During that time, my confidence waned and I wasn't certain I would ever see this book to its fruition.

  At the end of 2008 when we began to feel the effects of the recession, I lost my home and both part-time jobs. For the next 18-months, I was forced to live in my car with my cats, find comfort on benevolent friends' sofas, and reside in a boarding house temporarily. There were some nights I was convinced I wouldn't make it, and those had to be the darkest days of my life.

  But at the end of June 2010, I found a rental situation with a wonderul lady, and a week after settling in the cats and myself, with no internet or distractions, I began again to work on Gaslight. Within three days' time, I was working non-stop, forcing myself to do at least 2,500 words each day. And by mid-September, I had finally finished the book I never thought I'd see.

  This is just a story from an adult girl's imagination of how I wish things were. This has been a true labour of love, and I am ecstatic to be able to bring it to you now. I hope you will enjoy it more than I enjoyed writing it.

  Thank-you for your support.

  Carla René

  November, 2010

  For my parents, who support me beyond anything I could hope; for my specific friends around the globe, Alaric McDermott, Barry Aitchison, Steve Warburton, and John Pyka, who stood by me, cheered me on and weren't afraid to kick my butt when I needed it; the members of AFO (you know who you are), my online writing group who stayed with me through each draft, offering patient critique only in the hopes of making me a better writer, for Mike Norrell (Captain Stanley of Emergency!) who first gave me advice and was the main reason I saw publication, for Robert W. Walker, my funny and strange friend who has encouraged me even when I didn't believe in myself, and to my Lord and Saviour, Jesus Christ, for making me the eccentric, witty, very flawed and strong woman I am today.

  THE GASLIGHT JOURNAL

  Chapter 1

  You Can't Go Home Again

  You Can't Go Home Again (Chapter One)

  Without being attentive to where she was walking, Isabella Audley, having collided with something solid, soon found herself lying in the snow with the wind properly knocked out of her, wholly unaware of what it was that had blocked her path.

  She lay for a moment, stunned. I hope no one is looking.

  "Help you up, miss?"

  A man stood beside her with his hand proffered, a group of men his approximate age, just behind.

  Miss Audley, being a lady of privilege and the human condition—never a good combination for one with her own mind—fought the urge to be proprietous, although, she knew well, that being suitable was indeed what had always been expected of her. This divergence, however, seemed to inevitably be her own undoing, much to the chagrin of her poor mother.

  "Did you lose your eyesight in a horrible accident?" she yelled, fully realizing that divergence had won out, yet again. Finding her reticule, she hastily made her way to her feet. In spite of her ire, she was not foolish enough to pass up a gentleman's hand, even if he needed a good lecture from a chapter in Our Deportment.

  "Sorry, miss, I truly did not see you," said the man. A low ripple of chuckles permeated the group.

  As she brushed the snow from her skirts, she was aware of crimson creeping into her cheeks.

  "If you had any sense of decency, you would be ashamed right now."

  The man deigned not to make any reply, but unable to contain himself, said, "I suppose, the same could be said of you, miss." He then tipped his hat to her in an exaggerated fashion. When he saw her anger at his statement, however, he knew an apology was in order.

  "I should have been more careful. In fact, as a group of gentlemen always on the hunt for a beautiful maiden, we offer our most sincere apologies."

  The men murmured agreements while tipping their hats to Isabella.

  She stared at the lot of them, but considered the man in front of
her. He was quite comely and tall, with mounds of thick hair. His clothing tailored, his mannerisms suggested a man of fine breeding; a gentleman. A smile formed on her lips, for he seemed quite familiar, and yet, she was finding great trouble in placing from where. “I will leave the judgment of the term gentlemen for the higher courts, as it is a most questionable modifier, but I accept your apology."

  The handsome man smiled in return. Against his better judgment, he allowed his eyes to boldly engage hers. This act, alone, would be cause enough for much speculation. And yet, having full knowledge of the possible consequences, found he was unable to resist the urge.

  "Good day to you, miss; we needs be on our way. And Merry Christmas to you," and with that, the men moved to exit.

  "Just a moment," she said.

  The group waited.

  "Do we not know each other?"

  The man, obviously taken aback, was having visible difficulty in hiding his anxiety at the question. "Uh, no miss, I do not believe we do."

  And before Izzy could form a proper response, they took their leave of her.

  Upon gathering her things, she continued. The snow crunched beneath her high-heeled boots, making proceeding difficult at best. She had decided to leave off the patens, hoping to make better time. Blast the damp boots, and she had arrived at her decision. Today, she found the weather was revealing itself to indeed, serve as a new way to meet eligible bachelors.

  But she had not a care in the world of it and retreated from the image of the dark-haired man, vowing to think the matter out when she could avail herself of more time to give it proper attention.

  It was five days into December, and her spirits were high. She had not seen her mother since spring, when Mrs. Audley traveled on a rare visit to Radcliffe. It was here that Izzy had enrolled in a curriculum in English Literature, and in doing so, honored the memory of her father. Lilly Audley had remained for the full week of spring hiatus, and Isabella could not have been happier. Their small family suffered terribly since, only a week before Izzy was to depart, Sir John had died of complications from pneumonia.

  So while she felt great joy at the thought of seeing her mother again, it would also be bittersweet. This would be the first Christmas that Izzy had been home since his death, and she was determined in her heart to make this as special for her mother as best she could, knowing all too well that it could be a near to impossible task.

  In fact, it was her desire to make her mother’s holiday special that had made her so late. The line in Mrs. Jenkins's millinery was longer than she had anticipated, but once she saw the Burgundy velvet hat with the pale roses in the window, she immediately knew this had to be Mother's special Christmas present. It was one of those gifts that her mother would never be caught buying for herself, which made it all the sweeter to Izzy as she laid out the bills. She gained pleasure from trying to picture the bliss on her mother's face as she opened the most unexpected present.

  "May I gift wrap that for you, miss?" came the question that jolted Izzy out of her fantasy.

  "Pardon me?"

  "I would be happy to gift wrap this for you if you wish. Some beautiful new papers have just arrived that I think you will like."

  "Oh yes, that would be lovely. And please make sure to add a nice gold ribbon. Mother does love gold during this time of year," she said.

  "Fine. I will return straight away with your gift," and the saleslady disappeared behind the velvet curtain into the back room.

  While waiting, Izzy decided to further inspect the spectacular stock of opulent hats. Each time she ran her fingers over the long pieces of silk that hung draped from the back of the brims, she was reminded of the times that she came here as a small girl with her mother. Being the only child also meant that it did not take much convincing to Mother that little girls were always in need of new hats. Hats were just as important to a woman of gentility as the proper slippers and gloves. Unashamedly, Mother loved indulging in the purchase of both. She smiled at how musty show rooms and snippets of tulle could evoke such rich memories. An exquisite green hat then caught her eye, but a voice from behind startled her.

  "Good afternoon."

  "Is it me to whom you are addressing?" Izzy said as she turned around.

  "Yes. Do forgive me, but are you the Audley girl?" said a huge woman standing an aisle over.

  Izzy did not recognize her, but apparently the lady with the blazing red hair in the peacock blue walking outfit knew her. For a moment, Izzy had to analyze what she was seeing to make sure that all of that behind, was indeed bustle. She stifled the urge to laugh.

  "May I ask who wants to know?" said Izzy, with a bit of the bluntness on which she prided herself.

  "Oh dear me, yes, you certainly may. I am Mrs. Arthur Tinsdale, of the New York City Tinsdales. We moved here to Fairtown just about a year after you left for Harvard. My husband secured a professorship at the college, and I met your mother in church one day. We literally bumped into each other, laughed, struck up a conversation, and discovered that we both had an insatiable love for gardening. It was then that she informed me of her gardening club, and so I joined. We belonged to that club for the longest time."

  The woman seemed to speak so quickly it was all Izzy could do in her exhausted state to keep up with the story. One thing Izzy did notice, was that the 'peacock lady' had used the word "belonged" in the past tense when speaking of the gardening club. How could that be, when Mother would never quit that club, short of hay fever or the second coming? When the woman finally paused to take a breath, Izzy saw her chance.

  "What do you mean, belonged?"

  The question caught the woman by surprise, and she said with sincere sympathy, "Oh dear, I do hope I have not been speaking out of turn. I just assumed that you knew."

  Izzy felt her face creep crimson again and her heart flipped in her chest. She just knew that she could not listen to this woman's inane ramblings any longer. Without a proper dinner in her stomach, she did not possess the strength to attempt to set this woman's syntax in proper order, but yet her curiosity proved to be too strong. Just as she found words to press for further details, a short man with a moustache and cherry walking stick called to Mrs. Tinsdale from the door, and she excused herself, slipping out the shop as mysteriously as she appeared.

  As she did so, the sales clerk returned with Izzy’s wrapped package. She thanked her and made her way into the cool night air, hoping to catch the Tinsdales, but as the shop door closed behind her, she caught only the hem of a peacock blue walking gown as it entered an awaiting carriage.

  Noticing nightfall now, she did her best to put her disappointment and the scary blue woman out of her mind by pulling it back to the present. As she stopped to glance behind her once more before rounding the last corner of town, she drank it all in; the way the air tasted like ice; the warm glow surrounding each lamp. She promised to fully enjoy it another night. Her mother knew she would be arriving and had Izzy not chosen to give leave to Charles, her footman, so to indulge in the brisk evening air, she might have arrived before dark. She had no intentions of being so encumbered with a steamer trunk, so she left it at the station and made arrangements for a porter to deliver it at a later time.

  Each time on her walks home, she would play a game with herself, imagining the people settling in for the evening in their Queen Annes with the amber glow from the lace-paneled windows. Were they stoking and banking fires for long, cold nights that lay ahead? Were there smells of imported spices, herb-ed breads, plum puddings soaked in brandy, and warm cinnamon scones coming from the kitchens? Were little girls already in their dressing gowns, curled up under their favorite quilts with the family tabby next to them trying to steal their warmth?

  Mr. Puss! She had nearly forgotten him. He was the one family member who understood a good nap. He had been hers since childhood, and she was now fast approaching twenty-four.

  Remorse crept in at that thought, and ruined her anticipation of seeing him again. Why, she should hav
e been married by now. Everyone expected her to receive many offers at her coming out party, but it did not happen. So, all of Mother's society matrons decided that the next logical place for it to happen would be University. Is that not the sole reason women of her stature and advanced age go to college? This situation, too, unfolded in a different manner than expected, so what was she expected to do? Stop listening to the matrons. She laughed in an infectious manner at the thought of the group being at Mother's one afternoon for one of their weekly teas, when she informed them of her impending doom. She was almost certain that at least three would pass out from shock and need medical attention.

  "Perhaps I should carry oxygen therapy with me to save time."

  The lights had begun to thin out now as Izzy continued on in the tree-lined streets. She also noticed that tonight there was not much traffic. So in the quiet, she settled into a soothing rhythm with the click of her heels and the beating of her heart, which she noted was unusually loud and rather fast for the medium pace that she kept. Her palms were sweaty; her lips dry.

  "This would not have anything to do with the pronouncement of the peacock lady in the millinery, would it?" she thought aloud. "Of course not you foolish girl. That is just the most preposterous thing you have said to yourself all evening, and there have been some wonders fallen from your lips. Why on Earth would there be anything wrong, and Mother not tell you? For Heaven's sake, you are all she has in the world now."