The Gaslight Journal

by Carla René

  “Remember my advice, Miss Audley. Do not create trouble for tomorrow, when it has enough of its own.”

  Izzy nodded. “Probably good advice. I will attempt to heed it while I sit home alone as you escort my best friend to the Ball.”

  “Are you jealous?”

  “No! Why would I be? We have no professed attachments, so it truly is none of my business.” she said, hoping she had hidden the tiny green demon that had suddenly appeared on her shoulder.

  “Miss Audley, I wanted to explain about that.”

  She waived him off as she noticed they were nearing her home. “No need, Mr. Whentworth. I am no longer a part of your circle, so it matters not to me where you go and how you spend your time.”

  He took both of her hands into his, and with purpose, said, “Miss Audley, it is important to me that you know. I did not wish to broach the subject at dinner for fear of the discussion becoming heated, and in your condition, you did not need the added stress. But I would love the chance to meet with you again tomorrow evening, so we can truly talk, and I can have time to properly clear the air of all our misunderstandings all these years. Will you do me the honor?”

  Izzy thought for a moment, then said, “I will give you my answer in tomorrow afternoon’s post.”

  This satisfied Mr. Whentworth, and as he escorted Miss Audley to her front door, he whispered close to her ear, “I am already looking forward to tomorrow night.” He then kissed her hand, bowed to her, and returned to his carriage.

  As she entered her home, her feet felt lighter than air, and she wondered at the sudden attack of butterflies, now gathering in her stomach.

  Chapter 14

  Christmas Eve

  Christmas Eve (Chapter Fourteen)

  Today was Christmas eve. Usually the household bustled with activity; the servants busy in the kitchens readying the evening’s meal. Each year as soon as the last dish was cleared, the Audley family would follow John into the street to watch as he and Charles would unstrap the fir from the roof of the carriage and drag the oversized tree into the sitting room. Other families of their stature would simply have the servants do this job, as well as the decorating, but not the Audleys. John loved being a part of making his family happy.

  Then once the tree was fixed in its position so as not to tumble upon anyone who decided to sneak an uninvited peak at their presents, the arduous task of attaching small, thin, white candles to each branch commenced. It was here that the household staff were invited to help, for with a twenty-four foot fir, hanging ornaments would take two days with only three people. Along with the delicate candles, hand-blown glass ornaments from the German Lauscha hung shimmering. Hans Greiner, chief designer and from the lineage of the original Greiner, had begun exporting these delicates to Britain in 1870, and Mr. Audley, on one of his London trips, brought back many of them in various shapes—fruits, nuts, balls, and yes: even the Christmas pickle. Each one was lined with silver-nitrate so as to make them shimmer even more in the candlelight, and those lucky enough to see the collection, were of course, envious.

  After dinner and the lighting of the tree, the three of them would sit near the window where they could see the heavy, wet snowfall in the light of the gas lamps. A serenity settled over each one of them, enjoying the silence of being together.

  Today’s mood, however, was not that of a festive one. When Izzy and her mother sat down to breakfast that morning, they were not speaking. The servants picked up on the tension and eyed each other over pots of cold milk, conveying secret signals to the other. The Audley home had always been happy.

  If Lilly would do something that ired Izzy, then Izzy would slam down her silverware. “Must you chew so loudly?”

  Lilly would sigh and over-exaggerate barely chewing. “There. Is this better? Would her highness prefer I swallow it whole?”

  And so it went, all during breakfast and well past lunch. After the meals, the ladies retired to separate rooms; Lilly with her knitting, and Izzy with her father’s journal, still trying to discern what it was that made him stray from her mother in the first place. Of course, Izzy knew better than to ask Lilly. In their current state, Izzy knew it would accomplish nothing but more yelling and more denial. So she continued to scour the journal on her own, hoping to find a new clue.

  Just then, Wilhelm rapped on her door and announced the post, putting her thoughts on hold. “This letter just arrived for you, Miss.”

  Izzy noticed the penmanship immediately, and nearly tossed the note into the bin. What in the world could she possibly want? She carefully cracked the seal and opened the parchment. It read:

  Dearest Miss Audley,

  It is with a glad heart that I invite you to be my particular friend at the annual Christmas Ball tomorrow evening, December 25, at 7.

  Please accept my most sincere apologies—earlier I had assumed incorrectly, that your invitation had already been placed in the post and that due to your situation, you would not be attending. Before today, I was reticent to mention your situation, or even that there was a problem, but now that I know you are aware of it, I am no longer afraid to approach that topic. Of course, I also know that my assessment of things was not to be true, and I do hope you will come.

  Your dear friend,

  Miss Hastings

  Izzy stared at the note as if it had been a demand for ransom. She read it over and over again, hoping each pass would deliver some hidden meaning that she might have missed previously, yet each time she could deduce nothing. She paced the room as she considered her options. Why did Rachel have to put me in this precarious situation? We have hardly spoken two words to each other since my returning to town, and now she is making assumptions based on heresy that she pretends to be true; pretends to know intimate details about, when she clearly does not. Who gave her permission to take such familiar liberties? And what about that despicable display with Mr. Whentworth? Dear me, I do wish I had received his note explaining what happened. Now I wished I had possessed the patience to hear him out, but my stubborn pride precluded that… .

  She felt very disheartened. Her world used to be such a simple place. She had friends who would support her, a family that she knew loved her and whom she adored, and a place in society in which she could clearly define herself in her world. Her days centered around social gatherings, callers from cherished intimates, and time with family. She felt safe; secure; like nothing could ever touch her.

  And now, thanks to her mother’s blatant betrayal, she had none of those things. Her friends were sniggering behind her back as she exited rooms; she had not had a gentleman caller since before she left for college except for Mr. Whentworth, and even her security at home was an illusion, for she now had no clear idea of what tomorrow would bring. How long will it be before they come to repossess my bed?

  She paced around the room, asking herself questions without answers, and chiding herself for not allowing anyone to explain things to her. In that regard, she felt herself to be no better than Rachel on the matter, for was she not also making assumptions and then acting upon them as if they were true?

  This notion clearly softened her. Perhaps, in her own way, this was Rachel’s attempt to make amends for her recent behavior Perhaps I should give Rachel the benefit of the doubt and offer her another chance at forgiveness. What right do I have to hold onto all of this anger when I am not at all certain of its reasons? And if I can’t do this for one of my most cherished friends, then how can I expect anyone to do it for me when the time may come?

  Pleased at her decision, she allowed her mind to drift to tomorrow evening’s festivities, and suddenly realized that with the recent seizure of some of her best ball gowns, she had better make haste in deciding what she had left to wear.

  In his office, with his desk cleared of paperwork in anticipation of the evening’s dinner, Mr. Whentworth sat in awe as he thumbed through that afternoon’s post, with not one reply from Miss Audley anywhere in the pile. This ired him to no end, but, he was not
going to allow it to color his evening. Perhaps he should have been listening a little closer when Miss Audley told him in several different fashions that she was not interested in his advances. He knew the state of his heart, and unfortunately, it was growing in deep love for Miss Isabella Audley. As much as I hate to admit it, I agree with Miss Audley’s statement about society’s rules being rubbish, yet a necessary punishment. Punishment? Did he really mean to say the rules were punishments instead of rewards for those who followed them? For what good are they doing the Audley family right now, except to excommunicate one of the most upstanding families in Fairtown? What good were these rules of class when they forced sheer banishment upon its unwitting recipient?

  Mr. Whentworth answer to each of these questions had to be ‘none.’ In fact, he realized that these “rules,” had been societal norms from the time a child entered school. Is that not where children learn from each other to mock something or someone they do not understand?

  He could feel his anger flaring again, but this time, realizing the lateness of the hour, decided it would be best entertained on a different day, by the fire, with a snifter of Cognac. In the meantime, his immediate concern was what he would now do with his free dinner plans.

  And then it occurred to him. He made haste for his carriage, had his footman drive through town at full speed, until they reached their intended destination. Mr. Whentworth made his way to the front door of the beautiful home, lifted the heavy door knocker, and handed the butler his calling card, then waited.

  Within minutes, the butler showed him into the beautiful sitting room. Mr. Whentworth removed his hat, bowed to its inhabitants, and said, “Miss Hastings. Would you be so kind as to join me for dinner?”

  Later that night, back at the Audley home, tensions were again high between Izzy and Lilly. The two had not spoken since the chewing incident at breakfast, and with the arrival of Miss Hasting’s invitation to tomorrow evening’s Christmas Ball, frankly, Izzy had nearly forgotten about their row. Mother had been so unlike herself; sullen; depressed, and Izzy was glad of the respite from it all.

  However, the silence was not to last. After dinner that evening, while Izzy went through her wardrobe one last time to choose an appropriate gown for the Christmas Ball, Lilly, hoping to mend things with Izzy, stopped by Izzy’s door and stood, tentative.

  Izzy noticed her presence, and immediately went on the defensive. “What do you want?”

  Lilly, hoping to keep it light, said, “We have not spoken all day. What are you doing?”

  “Truthfully, I did not think that any of your concern.”

  “Well, I am still your mother, no matter your opinion of me, and what you do is still my concern.”

  “Oh, yes, I had forgotten. You have set yourself up to be my overseer, deciding what I should and should not do. But most recently, what I should and should not know about my own family.”

  Lilly winced. Izzy had a valid point. “Dearest, would you now allow me to explain?”

  “Why should I? What possible good would it do for me now that most of our furniture is gone, our books, silverware, incidentals, and for what? All because you could not stop spending the small amount of money Father left to take care of us?”

  Lilly was nonplussed. “Where did you get an such a ridiculous notion as this? Did someone pass along this tale to you? And you believed it?”

  “You heard what I said, Mother. This is entirely your fault, so do me a favor, and do not attempt to garner any sympathy for whatever innocuous pain you may be feeling, because there will be none from me.” She turned to brush past Lilly, but was immediately halted.

  “Isabella Elizabeth Audley, you stop right where you are.”

  Izzy stopped, only because she had never heard her mother speak in such a stern manner since she was a young child. She knew the degree of her mother’s anger by if she called Izzy by her full Christian name. For many years, she was convinced that her full-name was “Isabella stop it.”

  “You do not understand any of the situation, so you do not have, in any shape or form, the right to speak to me in such a manner.”

  When Izzy opened her mouth to protest, Lilly silenced her once again.

  “This time, you will listen to me, and hear the truth.”

  “You may be blocking my path, but that does not mean I have to listen. You forget that I know the truth already, from Father’s journal.”

  Lilly could not help but laugh. “Oh, yes—the journal. Tell me, muffin, did you really learn anything of value from that book?”

  “What?” said Izzy. “I do not think I understand.”

  “Exactly. So why make accusations you have not proven to be unfounded?”

  “Stop talking in riddles and explain what you mean.”

  “Oh, so now you wish to hear me out?”

  “Fine. I will not verbally spar with you. If you do not wish to tell me what you mean, then get out of my way so I do not have to look at you any longer.”

  Lilly could not control what happened next. As her face grew hot with her anger completely out of control, she stepped to within a foot of Izzy’s face, and with her right hand, slapped her cheek as hard as she could.

  Chapter 15

  The Ball Arrives

  The Ball Arrives (Chapter Fifteen)

  Izzy grabbed her cheek as if she’d been shot in the face.

  Lilly was horrified at what she had done, and immediately took several steps back and turned away from Izzy. Neither women could speak for several minutes.

  Finally, Lilly decided to break the silence. “Isabella, I am sorry.”

  Izzy, her feelings hurting like that of a four-year old, did not speak a word.

  Lilly continued. “I did not plan to hit you.”

  Again, Izzy kept her silence.

  “I have never touched you in anger in my life,” said Lilly, and adding in a whisper, “and I do not know what came over me now.”

  Silence.

  “Izzy, please! Say something! I need to know you forgive me.”

  Finally, Izzy let go of her face and in a quiet voice, said, “Mother, I do not know what to say at this moment.”

  Tears now streamed down Lilly’s face, and she could no longer speak.

  After another awkward pause, Izzy said, “What is happening to us, Mother? One week ago, I arrived home from University, expecting my life to be just that: my life that I am used to. And instead, I come home to a darkened front porch sans any Christmas decorating, people laughing at me behind my back, friends who no longer take my calls, others professing to be friends who are, instead, throwing me in front of on-coming carriages at will, robust women in garish walking outfits giving me their sympathies before I have even had chance to sleep one night in my own bed, an apparently promiscuous father who kept secrets from the very people who loved and supported him—now there is nothing left but unanswered questions and his much-tainted memory, and you: a mother whom I adore, but is now much altered than before. I will have to admit, I do not know who this woman is now, and that scares me a little. The security I once cherished of this family and this household, is now slipping away from me little by little, and I have no idea as to how I can stop it! I am at the end of my tether!” Exhausted now, Izzy crumpled into a heap into the floor and cried openly.

  Instead of going straight to her daughter, Lilly stood as still as she could, trying to digest everything that had just been fed to her, having a difficult time with it. Had she been so wrapped up in her own grief that she had failed to put herself into her own daughter’s boots? Did she fail to realize just how difficult this entire ordeal has been on her? Lilly admitted she truly did not wish to know the answer, for if she did, then it would mean also taking responsibility for that answer, and perhaps she was not as ready to do that as she wanted to believe.

  After moments wrapped in her own thoughts, Lilly now realized that Izzy was still crying, and so she went to her daughter’s side. “Izzy, please. I know this has been an extremely di
fficult adjustment on you, but try and pull yourself together, dearest.”

  Izzy continued to cry as if she had not heard anything her mother had just spoken.

  So, Lilly tried again. “Izzy, I am begging you to calm yourself, or you will fast become ill. Here, let me help you up and into that armchair.” Lilly walked her daughter over to her chair, and then with haste rang the bell for Elizabeth.

  “Yes, misses?” said Elizabeth.

  “Miss Audley is unwell. Will you kindly bring us a pot of strong tea as quickly as you can?”

  Elizabeth nodded and exited with her mission firmly in tow.

  Izzy allowed herself to slink back into the fullness of the chair and begin to relax. She continued to sniff and whimper, but generally, her crying jag was near its end.

  Lilly, planted firmly on the chair’s arm, seemed grateful for this and stroked her daughter’s hair; repeating in hushed tones that everything would be well soon. This seemed to placate Izzy for the time, and the two women sat in silence while awaiting the pot of tea, neither one really knowing how to proceed from there.

  A few moments later, Elizabeth entered Izzy’s bedchamber, placed a pot of brewed tea before the two women, a plate of sliced lemons, a cup of ice-cold milk from the ice-box, and a plate of raspberry scones—left over from that morning’s breakfast.

  Lilly expressed her thanks, and took note that Elizabeth was very worried over Izzy’s present condition, so she nodded to Elizabeth that there was nothing to worry about, and Elizabeth exited, a little more relieved than when she had entered.

  Lilly poured a cup of the tea—still piping hot—into the thin, bone-china cup, poured a dab of the milk, placed a slice of lemon on the edge of the saucer, accompanied it with a scone slathered in hand-churned butter, and handed it to her daughter, with a simple command: “Eat.”