The Gaslight Journal

by Carla René

  Minutes later Charles was offering his hand to help Isabella down from the steps of the carriage in front of the Blackberry Patch Café.

  As the front door bell tinkled announcing her arrival, she caught a whiff of her favorite: cranberry orange scones, fresh from the ovens. She approached the counter and placed her order for one, said her hellos to old friends, and took her usual seat by the large picture window near the front of the store. She loved this seat, for it was here that she had a clear picture of the street merchants as they lit their gas street lamps each night at dusk. However, tonight she had just missed the lighting, so she pulled out her favorite journal and began recording her most recent thoughts of the trip so far, since this was the first real time she had to be alone with since arriving.

  Her first sentiments settled upon Thomas. What if mother had been right, and there had been some logical reason for Thomas to have missed both engagements? Had she sold him short by placing judgment upon him before he earned it?

  About three lines into her first page, the doorbell tinkled and as she looked up, she dropped her pen. Standing in front of her, facing her squarely, were Thomas, and on his arm, Rachel.

  Chapter 10

  The First Cut

  The First Cut (Chapter Ten)

  “Well. Is this not an awkward circumstance in which we have found ourselves?” said Rachel, as she was the first to break the silence of the party.

  “Oh dear me, I fear it is so,” said Thomas.

  Social circles needed to operate like a well-directed play; if one person even so much as forgot a line or spoke out of character, the entire structure would be subject to scrutiny and eventual demise.

  Isabella was well-trained in societal intrigues and could play her role with genius. Not wishing to appear offended in her sensibilities, she said, “Good evening to you both,” while wishing away the tears now stinging her eyes.

  “Dearest, I offer my sincere apologies for missing you; Mother told me you had called. Perhaps, if fate smiles upon me, I can clear some of my schedule tomorrow and maybe return your call, if I have enough time,” Rachel offered. She continued to grip Thomas’s arm as if he were the only safety device within distance.

  However, his attentions were not on his escort, they were drawn to Isabella, sitting just feet in front of him, wishing he could explain his present union, but knowing this was not the proper time to do so.

  A long silence fell upon the party, until Rachel again broke it, for she knew of Isabella’s history with Thomas.

  “So how is your mother? I hope she is in good health.”

  “She is, thank-you,” said Isabella.

  Rachel said, “Oh, dearest, I have the best news! Mr. Whentworth has agreed to be my escort for the Christmas ball. Is that not wonderful?”

  Isabella felt her breath catch in her throat, but again, reserved her ire and confusion for musing in private.

  “That is wonderful news. I wish you a beautiful time,” she said. Her speech was delivered while avoiding Thomas’s eyes, and she continued to do so while Rachel launched into the details.

  “I just had to grab this wonderful bachelor before some poor, undeserving society-climber sought him out for herself. Dear Thomas deserves much better than that, right dearest?”

  “I am disinclined to believe that you know me well enough to be able to speak on my behalf for what is and is not best for me, Miss Hastings.”

  This seemed to do the trick, for Rachel eased her grip upon his arm and went silent.

  “Miss Audley, how is your Mother? I, too, hope she is within good health,” said Thomas.

  Isabella was unsure how to craft her speech to this greeting. Should she cause a public scene by saying exactly what was in her heart, or should she simply go along with this intrigue?

  “Mr. Whentworth, she is well; you saw her just a day ago,” she said coolly.

  Thomas could ascertain the hurt trying to hide behind Isabella’s eyes, but remained silent on the matter.

  After another awkward, long silence, Isabella said, “Well, I must be going. It is getting rather late and I do not like to leave Mother for too long.”

  “Yes, she must be lonely in that cold, empty house,” said Rachel.

  “She keeps very busy, and she is glad that I am home for holiday,” said Isabella, as she began to gather her things.

  “It has been good to see you, Miss Audley. Perhaps we will see you at the Christmas Ball? Oh dear, listen to me. I think I have caught the only eligible bachelor in town; I fear there are no more left for anyone,” said Rachel with great mirth.

  Thomas stood still, fully embarrassed at the absurdity of the situation, and sorry that he once again caused Isabella pain.

  “Isabella, you did receive your invitation, did you not?” said Rachel.

  Isabella thought for a moment as to how to proffer an answer. If she lied and said yes and then did not present herself, people would talk, which would do her family no good. If she offered up the truth in stating that her invitation had not yet arrived, it might cast a shadow over her standing in society and doubts that she was still, indeed, a part of her own circle. She had to think quickly at which would have the least devastation on her family and her Father’s good name. Then it hit her.

  “Actually, some of my mail seems to have been held up from Radcliffe, so I cannot say with honesty whether I have received it or not. The post promised to find the problem and engage it forthwith.” Isabella was very happy with this answer, and it seemed to calm Rachel’s surprising rival spirit.

  Isabella moved to the door, avoiding both Rachel and Thomas, but offered, “This encounter has certainly been enlightening. Merry Christmas to you both.”

  As she exited the Café, Thomas tried to go after her. “Miss Audley, wait… ”

  But she was already situated in her carriage and heading away from the lights of town.

  “Number 22. Order ready for scone!”

  The huge fir in the center of the square glistened against the soft glow of the street lamps, foreshadowing the glow in the hearts of families at this time of year. It was the street lights that seemed to anchor of town. During the day they stood as sentries in watch over its citizens, and during the night they lit the path, showing the way. Tonight those sentry guards wore huge, decorated fir wreaths with bright red bows, which, on any other night, Isabella would have found immensely humorous.

  Tonight she did not care. She felt like a worn rag as the carriage jostled her through the town’s streets. All she could entertain at the present were the hoofs of Porkchop; clomp, clomp, clomping down the cobblestone streets. Pound, pound, pound; a mallet driving the stake into her heart.

  She stared out the window upon those beautiful, sleepy houses, with their fires stoked and the curtains drawn, causing only an orange glow to emanate from the windows. She loved these homes, filled with laughter and families, and she wondered if she would ever have a family of her own. The tears burned her eyes again, and she ruminated on this evening’s events.

  Had this evening really happened? Or was she engaged in some strange intrigue; one designed to drive her sensibilities straight into a cell? What had she possibly done to create such a division between herself and Rachel? She had so strongly professed to be her most intimate friend from the day they met. Now she hardly recognized her, so self-aggrandizing was she. And to flaunt Thomas in her face that way? If Isabella did not know her best friend better, she might think that Rachel’s behavior was precipitated by a change in status between them.

  Then, it hit her. Everything she had been hearing since her arrival in town. It all finally made sense. Mother’s strange behavior in not decorating Capriolé; advising Maria that there may not be meat enough in the next week’s budget; the Peacock woman’s garish pronouncement; Rachel's strange behavior at not returning her call, and Katherine Whentworth’s vulgar confrontation with her.

  “Oh my dear Lord, Miss Whentworth was right!” she blurted out through her tears. “We are indi
gent, and Mother has been too stubborn to tell me!”

  She began to cry unfettered. All the hurt that had been bottled was now loosed and flowing down her face. What would she do now that she was no longer accepted into society? And why had Rachel chosen her status over their friendship? Is this what it would now be like; to be shunned by everyone who once professed to be her intimate?

  She began to wonder how it happened. Had Mother simply squandered every penny of Father’s most generous inheritance? That was crazy. Mother indulged Isabella in the occasional shopping excursion while growing up, but never did she flaunt and waste their good fortune. She had always been too sensible for that.

  But something must have happened.

  She noticed Charles making the final turn down the last street for home. Home. What a cruel jest. Suddenly it was no longer the safe, inviting haven she had loved. Now it was a den of lies and uncertainty, and she realized there was no way she could presently return there. Not yet. She immediately called to Charles. “Continue driving. I am in no way ready to return home! I have no preference as to where, just go!” she said.

  So Charles pulled the carriage round to the left, made the turn, and continued down another side street of their neighborhood.

  She sat back in her carriage seat, relieved for the moment. I cannot return home until I have discerned what has transpired.

  After returning home, Thomas, in a state of despair, barely allowed himself enough time to remove his overcoat and scarf before he strode immediately over to his writing desk and penned a detailed letter to Isabella, carefully explaining the course of the evening’s events:

  I am completely certain that I am, at the very least, the last person from whom you wish to hear, and that is completely within your right. But I would never put whatever fellowship lies at stake between us in obvious jeopardy unless it were absolutely imperative that you hear my explanation of this evening’s events.

  As you may remember, during my visit with your family during high tea last evening, I asked you to sup with me this evening, so that I might have you—uninterrupted—all to myself, to allow me time to set right the gross error I committed against you many years ago, when you were to be my date for Hattie Mason’s ball. Trust me, when I tell you, this is still my number one desire.

  However, after we parted last night, my mother contacted me with most distressing news. She had learned, apparently through Mrs. Hastings, that Rachel had been seen all over Fairtown, unescorted at odd times of the evening, and still with odder company. Mrs. Hastings was in an inconsolable, uproarious condition according to my mother, and was sealed in her idea that Rachel’s strange behavior would spell certain shame and ruin not only for her daughter, but for the family name as well. Not knowing what else she should do, she contacted my mother for advice. Since my family and the Hastings have been friends for as long as my family and yours, and not wishing to see the Hastings name be tarnished for reasons that could be avoided, my mother proffered my services as a proper escort for Rachel for this evening’s performance of a new Oscar Wilde play at The Proscenium, as well as for The Christmas Ball in a fortnight. I can assure you this was not my personal choice of how to spend an evening, but I would rather you be transiently put out with me again, than to see the Hastings’ name turned to mud.

  I realize this note is a hasty explanation of a complicated situation, but it is the best I can offer at short notice, and I hope and pray it is enough at least, to mend a shaky fence temporarily between old friends.

  I await your reply.

  Sincerely and with haste,

  Mr. Whentworth

  After sealing its contents with the wax and Whentworth family crest, Thomas rang the bell, deposited the parcel with his butler, and retired to bed, accounting the matter fully closed, but with some anxiety over how Isabella would accept his account.

  The next morning when the postman called, the butler promptly turned over the letter. The postman nodded his thanks, grabbed his horse’s reins, flung himself onto the carriage, and tossed the parcel toward his mail bag. The letter missed its intended target and slipped between the mail bag, and two floorboards of the carriage. No one knew that it would never reach its destination.

  Chapter 11

  When It Rains...

  When It Rains… (Chapter Eleven)

  At four a.m., Isabella allowed her exhausted body to slip beneath the awaiting quilt. She wanted to block out everything that had transpired within the last 24-hours, and pretend that none of it happened; she was getting good at avoidance. That was also her final thought before her eyes welded themselves shut and she slept solid until daylight.

  “Yes?”

  “Dearest, I promised I would pick up a shift at hospital, so I will be gone for the better part of the morning. I just wanted to inform you so you would not worry.”

  Isabella grew cold at the sound of her mother’s voice, and did not stir, lest she give herself away.

  She then heard her mother’s shrinking footsteps as Lilly made her way down the hallway, until all Izzy could hear was the crackling wood in her fireplace.

  She scratched Mr. Puss’s head, and whispered to him, “Well, that was close.”

  She stretched in the warmth of the sun. “Is this not a first since being home? I have the entire house to myself, and a wonderful idea has just struck me! I am going to pull some of our decorations down and make the house festive. Will that not be wonderful?”

  Fueled with the excitement of her project, she quickly dressed, stopped for a bite of breakfast, and then with a stout purpose, strode up the final set of stairs to the abandoned attic.

  She opened the door: it was like any other attic—people’s past lives covered in dust and cobwebs; too many extra things to be displayed; too much claustrophobia; too much heat and not enough oxygen. But as she circled the room, memories crowded in on her, invading her heart and transporting her. She bumped into mounds of boxes with old clothes, whatnots and random papers that had somehow defined a generation of her family. She then spotted the Christmas decorations near the attic’s only window and moved toward them, but her attentions were hijacked by the massive bookcase to her right. She fingered each book on the bookshelves, not daring to disturb their rest, for someday soon, it would be time to rouse them to fulfill their one destiny: to paint someone else’s life in literacy.

  As she continued brushing the spines of each book in passing, one particular book caught her attention and she abruptly stopped. Its familiarity beckoned to her and she carefully pulled it down from the stack.

  Her mouth flung open and her eyes widened.

  There in her hands, was the one item she never expected to see again. She fingered the gold-embossed words set into the beautiful, weathered leather.

  “THE JOURNAL OF JOHN AUDLEY”

  “1872”

  Her throat began to close and cotton grow in her mouth. Her hands shook, and soon she realized that her entire body was seizing to the point that if she did not take a seat soon, she would join the piles of grime on the floor only to be eaten by teeming moths.

  She backed up slowly and found a pile of boxes with old clothes—she took a seat and only continued to stare at the journal’s rich cover.

  “This belonged to my father,” she whispered, as more tears welled up. “How am I supposed to intrude upon its sacred pages? Mother told me this had been lost.”

  As she sat staring dumbly at the book, she tried to put pieces together as to why it was here and not in someone’s else’s hands, or worse, in a trash bin somewhere.

  “Mother assured me she had lost this without having seen even one of its pages. So why would she have lied to me and kept it?” She was having difficulties with her sensibilities, and Izzy could feel her temples begin to pulse, but she was determined to press on.

  She took her fingertips and grabbed the upper right corner of the book and turned its page.

  Blank.

  She turned another in the same fashion, and found the
same words:

  “THE JOURNAL OF JOHN AUDLEY”

  “1872”

  This script, however, was not an embossment from the printer, but rather from Father’s own hand.

  This touched her again, and she could not help but run her right index finger over the aged ink.

  She turned the third page, and gazed upon the handwriting. Immediately she scanned to the first word and began.

  I find this journal a comfort, an awaiting friend at times and it is

  the only thing to which I have to look forward. To slip into the solitude of my

  study after the household has quieted is a catharsis for my soul. The

  feel of my leather armchair, the gentle flickering of the hog scraper,

  the scratching of my quill to paper. All sensory delights in which

  I will continue to indulge. But more importantly, the journal

  itself. One given me by my father, I love to run my fingers over the

  paper and listen as it makes its quiet hum, for blank parchment is a

  treat for any writer, as the pages say, "Indulge. These

  pages are yours and by accepting them, you are accepting the opportunity

  to begin anew." I think this is the greatest appeal: the chance to

  begin clean and fresh with each page.

  This idea has hung heavy within my heart as of late, but as it is my

  private hell, only the journal shall benefit from my shared

  information. It is the only way it can be at present. I have labored