"You needn't pretend with me any longer," he said. "I know, and I am just relieved that you are finally back, safe, where you belong."
Know what? What was he talking about? Had his advancing years finally caused him to take leave of his senses?
I saw him cock his ear as though listening for something, and a moment later I heard it too. It was the sound of footsteps approaching from the hallway; the tread was slow and odd, with a peculiar tapping noise punctuating every second step.
I turned to see Will filling the doorway.
"Will!" I cried.
Not stopping to think, I rose to my feet, flew across the space that separated us, and threw myself into his outstretched arms, nearly knocking him to the ground.
It was only after we'd stood like that for a long moment, and Will had begun tapping my back as though he were starting to have trouble breathing, that I finally let him go.
And it was only then, for the first time, I noticed the cane in his hand.
"Will, what happened?"
"I was shot in the leg," he said, wincing as though the memory still pained him. Then he forced a manly smile onto his face. "Did you know that it can be just as dangerous in war to be the drummer boy as it is to be one of the men actually using weapons?"
He must have seen the look of horror that crossed my face—Will had been wounded! He might have been killed!—for he reached out his free hand, the one not holding the cane, and rested it on my shoulder.
"Please don't worry, Bet," he said gently. "I have survived it."
Yes, I thought, yes, no matter what happened, he has survived, feeling the relief wash through me.
We would get beyond this. I would help him in any way I could, without injuring his pride, of course. And before long, it would be as though the better part of the past year had never even happened.
But then the feeling of horror returned. What had Will and I just done? We'd been talking within the old man's hearing as though he weren't even there. Having heard Will talk about getting shot, he must surely realize that something was not right. Still, I thought, there must be a way to keep the truth from coming out. Perhaps we could—
"It is all right, Bet," Will said, his voice still gentle. Again, it was as though he'd been reading my mind, my concerns. Who was this new Will who suddenly possessed great power of empathy, the sensitivity to appreciate what others were feeling? Before I could marvel further at the changes in him, the way even his face looked years older now, he added, "Uncle already knows."
He took my hand, tucked it in the crook of his elbow, and started leading me toward the old man, his cane making it slow going.
What? I raised my eyebrows in startled question at him as we walked.
"He knows everything," Will said.
How?
"After I recovered enough to be sent home from the military," Will said, "I had to tell him the truth. It was still midterm, and although I suppose I could have lied and told him I'd been sent down yet again, that would have given me no proper explanation for this." Ruefully, he tapped his cane. "Much as Uncle never approved of my propensity for mischief, if he thought I'd been lamed at school, he'd have been up there like a light, demanding that justice be done. Wouldn't you, Uncle?"
We were right in front of the old man now.
The old man chuckled at the picture Will had drawn of him as a raging fury. "Indeed, I would have."
"But wait a second," I said. Then I narrowed my eyes at Will accusingly. "How long have you been home? And why did you not write to tell me what had happened?"
"I couldn't, Bet. Don't you see? If I had, you'd have rushed right back here to tend to me. You'd have left your own dream behind."
He was right. Had I known Will was injured, I would have done that.
"But—" I was confused now. I turned to the old man. "Once you knew that Will had been off at war and that I was impersonating him at school, why did you not send for me?"
"Believe me," the old man said, "I wanted to do just that. I was very worried. But Will begged me not to."
"He did?"
"Yes. Much as he would have liked to see you—his first weeks home were very hard—and much as I would have liked to see you, Will impressed upon me the importance of allowing others to fulfill their dreams. He said that it's only when people don't follow their dreams openly, in the way that they should be able to, that bad things happen, like drummer boys getting shot."
We all thought about that.
"So," Will said at last, mischief in his eyes, "were you sent down from school?"
"Oh, yes," I said calmly.
"For what, pray tell?" the old man demanded.
"This time," I said, "adding to his list of previous crimes, Will Gardener was sent down from school for impersonating a boy."
The old man threw back his head and roared.
***
I changed into a dress, donned my wig once more, and we had supper. Over the course of the long meal, we laughed much, the three of us happy to be reunited once again, and I related some of the tamer exploits from my time at school. I ate more than my fair share, ate like a boy really, the sight of the glorious food making me realize how starved I was for it after the meager fare and mysterious meats of the Betterman Academy.
Then, stuffed and satisfied, we retired to the drawing room.
"Would you like me to read to you, sir?" I offered.
"Why, yes, dear, I do believe that would be—"
"Uncle," Will interrupted, "don't you think you should—"
"Yes," the old man said, "I really do think a bit of Shakespeare would be—"
"Uncle." Will spoke the word in a warning tone of voice.
"Very well," the old man said, coloring slightly. "I suppose it is time. But mightn't we wait until—"
"Tell her now, Uncle."
"Tell me what?"
"It's just that," the old man began, then stopped. "That is to say, once upon a time..." He paused again. "I suppose you have often wondered, dear, who your father was."
Funny, I had once wondered about that, but I hadn't given it a thought in a very long time.
"I have not," I said, "certainly not recently. I always assumed no one knew, or at the very least, that there was no one left alive who could tell me."
"Yes, well..." Still, he hesitated.
"Uncle."
"Fine!" the old man burst out. "Your father is the same as Will's!"
"The same as..."
"My nephew, Frederick. He was your father too."
"The same as..."
"I have no idea if Will's mother knew of this, but I can only assume that the identity of your father was one of the reasons your mother was not put out when she found herself in, er, the family way."
It was so much to take in. Surprise, wonder—Will really was my brother, then? Or at least my half brother?
Then anger set in, resentment.
"How long have you known about this?" I demanded of the old man.
Previously, he had spoken with a certain defensiveness. But now when he opened his mouth, the words that came out were tinged with a bittersweet quality.
"Since the first day I set eyes on you, my dear."
"Since the first day?"
"You were the spitting image of Frederick at that age, even more so than Will. I honestly couldn't understand how others didn't notice immediately, and yet no one else ever so much as commented on it. Perhaps people do not see what they do not wish to see."
I swung on Will. "And how long have you known?"
He held his hands up in front of him, as though I might physically attack him.
"Not long," he said. "After I returned home, Uncle told me. I suppose that once my own secrets were revealed, he felt guilty about the whopper he'd been harboring all these years. I must say," he went on, "after what I'd been through, it was the most wonderful of surprises, finding out that you really were my sister."
I remembered then what the old man used to say: there wer
e no accidents in life, everything happened for a reason, everything happened out of choice or through design. And so it turned out that Will and I growing up together, looking so much alike, had not been accidental, had not been haphazard. Rather, it had all been part of the same fabric, even if we had not seen it from the start.
But there was so much I still didn't understand.
"But why are you only just telling me this now, when you have known for over a decade?" I said to the old man.
"Don't you see?" he said, sounding like a child hoping for forgiveness. "I couldn't tell you from the start. With Will's mother gone—what would her family have said? Do you think her family would have let me keep Will under those circumstances, never mind both of you? Of course not! They, and the larger world, would never have allowed that. A stink would have been raised. They would have kept Will themselves. And you, my dear—you they would have sent to the workhouse. Don't you see? I couldn't allow that."
"So you raised me here, somewhere between family and servant." It was so hard to let go of my resentment.
"I did my best. I did what I thought was best."
"But once I was here, why did you not tell me?"
"I wanted to. I wanted to tell you both. But in the beginning, I still worried that if the truth came out, you might be taken away. And as the years wore on ... What can I say, my dear? I am an old man."
He was so old—I saw that now. Indeed, I doubted he was long for this world.
I went to him then, knelt at his feet, placed my hand on his arm.
"Uncle," I said.
***
Will and I were out in the back garden, the master of the house having long since retired to sleep. We were seated on the curved bench, Will's injured leg straight out in front of him; he said it was now often stiff, and he could no longer pace as he once did. I wondered how much pain it caused him.
"So tell me," I said, "aside from being injured, how was it, being in the military? Was it everything you dreamed it would be?"
"Hardly." He snorted, but there was little humor in it. "As a matter of fact, I'd just as soon not discuss it. Suffice it to say that it was not half so ... glorious as I'd imagined it would be." He eyed me closely. "How about you with school—everything you dreamed?"
"Hardly." I snorted too. "I wonder if anything is ever what people dream that thing will be."
Then I thought about James, kissing James, and decided that just occasionally, the dream did match reality.
As though reading my mind, Will asked, "And what of that roommate you fell in love with—what happened there? I had not wanted to ask about it in front of Uncle, but now..."
So I told him. I told him everything, right up to the last time I saw James standing alone in our room as Dr. Hunter led me away.
"What will you do now?" Will asked when I was done.
"Do? Why, nothing. What is there to do? It is finished."
"Bet!" Will was shocked. "I've never known you to be such a defeatist in your life! Don't tell me that you, you of all people, do not have some sort of ... plan?"
"What sort of plan could there be?" I was exasperated. "James, like you, is the son of wealthy people. As for me, I am what I always was: the maid's daughter, with no prospects for the future." I saw him open his mouth to protest, cut him off. "I know. You will say that now we share the same father, and we do, for which I am eternally grateful." I covered his hand with mine. "But I am still, and always will be, the maid's daughter."
"Don't you think having a fortune might help with that? You know, despite how quick people are to judge, the evidence of all the schools that took me on no matter what I had done before proves that a fortune does help with people's perception."
"I have no idea, but that is not—"
"Possible. Oh, but it is."
"What are you talking about, Will?"
"Uncle. Our Uncle. After telling me that you and I share the same father, he showed me a copy of his final will and testament. It is his intention that his estate be split evenly between us two."
"Split evenly...?"
"He says it is only just and fair, and I completely agree. I'm sure he would have told you earlier, but I think it took enough out of him as it was, telling you the secret he'd been keeping all these years. As he says, he is old; he gets so tired now. No doubt he was planning to tell you in the morning."
I was stunned.
"Don't you see, Bet?" he said when I remained silent. "You can write to your ... James now. You can tell him how everything has changed, how you will one day have a fortune of your own, how now you two can be together."
"No," I said.
"No?"
"Nothing has changed."
"How can you say—"
"Because it is not how I want things to be. What, I would suddenly be acceptable, despite the circumstances of my birth—circumstances I had no control over, I might add—because now there is money in the picture? No," I said again, "that is not how I want things to be."
"Oh, Bet. Haven't you learned by now that nothing is ever as perfect as we dream it will be?"
"Perhaps not," I agreed. "But some things should be." I drew a deep breath. "Still, I will write to James soon. I owe it to him, to thank him for all his kindnesses to me. After all, he risked much, keeping my secret and then facing off with me against the others when they were so angry they might have killed us."
We sat in companionable silence for a long time then, breathing in the cleanness of the spring night.
"Funny," I said, "it is as though we never left here." I touched my hand to my artificial hair. "If not for your leg and this wig, it would be as though nothing had ever happened at all."
"Your hair will grow back," Will said softly.
***
A week later, having decided it was time, I got out paper and pen, intending to write a thank-you letter to James.
April 10, 18—
Dear James,
How odd it is writing you a letter when I have grown so used to talking to you face to face. I hope there was not too much trouble for you after I left. I am simply writing to properly thank you for—
I was interrupted by one of the servants, Molly, bringing in the post. There were exactly two items: a letter from the Betterman Academy, addressed to the old man—we would no doubt laugh as we read that together—and one for me, the return address of which began James Tyler. With trembling fingers, I tore through the seal.
April 7, 18—
Dear Bet,
I am writing you at the first opportunity time has permitted. I hope that this finds you well. You were forced to leave so abruptly, we did not even get the chance to say goodbye.
So much has happened since I saw you last! So much I want to tell you about!
Directly after you left, Dr. Hunter sent for me. He told me you had said that your secret identity was as much of a surprise to me as it was to everyone else. Oh, Bet! How kind it was for you to tell a lie in order to save me! But don't you see? I could never let such a lie stand. So I told him the truth, how I had known for quite some time that you were a girl. Well, of course he raged at that. The impropriety of it all! Just as he sent you away, he sent me away too, with a letter informing my father of what had transpired.
But my father did not react in the way Dr. Hunter had perhaps envisioned. Rather, he was quite pleased with the whole thing. I never told you, but the reason I was sent to the Betterman Academy in the first place was that my father believed I had been too coddled all my life. He wanted me to attend a school where boys would be rougher, where I would need to fight for my way among them. He wanted to make a man out of me, a better man.
"This is wonderful!" my father said upon finishing Dr. Hunter's letter informing him that I had been sent down. "You have flouted authority! You have broken the rules! And when caught? Rather than lying to get out of it when you might have done so, you have stood beside the person you committed your crime with, taking your fair share of the blame rather than letti
ng a comrade—is comrade the right word when one is talking about a girl?—stand alone. Why, I think you may finally be ready for Eton, my boy!"
What can I say? Remember how I used to tell you that you were odd? Well, as you can plainly see from my father's eccentric reaction, I well know what odd really is!
But never mind stern Dr. Hunter and my peculiar father. What I wish to know is: When can I see you again? Now, I know what you will say: that it is impossible, that our different stations in life make such a continued ... alliance impossible. But don't you see? My father would care nothing about your beginnings—he would probably be proud of it! And as for me, it has never mattered a tinker's damn to me. All that has ever mattered to me is you.
So, what's that you're saying? You'll have to speak up louder so that I can hear you. When did you say that I might come to call?
Awaiting your—hopefully speedy!—reply,
James
I crumpled up the page of the letter I'd started to compose and with a cry of joy tossed it in the air. Then, taking up a fresh sheet, I resolved to start anew.
The Education of Bet Page 18
