by Clara Barley
The similarities are more than the differences between male and female bodies. We have slightly different shapes, better suited for childbearing or for combat, but our feelings, our experiences of sight, sound, taste, smell and touch are the same. Our emotional capacities are the same. I believe our abilities to learn are the same. Do I wish myself male? I am not sure. I like my body and the pleasures it gives me. It feels manageable and my own. How would I ever know any different? Would life have been easier for my mind, as it is, to be in a male body? Yes. But would it have felt like ‘me’? I am not sure.
Miss Walker enters my mind again. As always, these days. I think about her form, smaller than my own, more delicate. Lighter skin and hair than mine, more attractive, definitely. Is it wrong to like a form so similar to my own? Mariana was different again. Even more attractive, taller than me, but of the same hue. A kinder reflection of myself than the one I see in a mirror. She was very different to Miss Walker; perhaps that is why I like her. In her I do not see Mariana or myself, but something new, innocent, like a shiny coin which draws the eye.
Miss Walker is more like Vere. I just hope Miss Walker will not be swept off her feet by a man like Vere was. Vere, who I dreamed would be my new Mariana. Vere, who made me flee Paris and return home to Shibden. Vere, who delighted in all things and would tease me and kiss me but always keep me at a distance. Vere, who would bring me into her elaborate world but remind me I was an outsider. She was a good friend and, in truth, I do not think she ever knew she was cruel. She was innocent in her affection and how she spoke. She was innocent when she told me, full of joy, who had proposed. Her innocent excitement as she gushed that she would become Lady Cameron, as if the title alone was all she’d ever dreamed of. More than when I was with Mariana, I had known that day would come. Vere was beautiful, highborn, intelligent, talented, and of course had wanted to be a wife and mother since she was a child. I could not begrudge her that. It was not her fault I had spent so long dreaming, imagining, hoping, praying, that it would be me that could satisfy her. I had known the truth of it all along, and despite doing my best to guard my heart from her, when she told me of her marriage, I lost another piece of it. Now I have lost so many pieces of my heart, I think I have just enough left for one last love, but if it should be broken but once more, I do not think it can ever again be whole.
Miss Walker may well be what I need. My last chance may prove perfect. We have both shared a captivity of sorts and now in adulthood we are free to remain independent. We have different looks but the same desires. I believe and sincerely hope there is a future for us yet.
I do not think she understands my fascination with the head. Perhaps I should not have told them about it; but it was worth it just to see the disgust on Marian’s face.
Miss Walker
Miss Lister may not see me as highborn enough for her. She has aristocratic friends, not nouveau riche as she calls us Walkers. I do not imagine that the friends she always gushes about would appreciate my acquaintance. I’m not sure how they even tolerate Miss Lister’s, but at least she has some heritage and education. She probably provides better company than I ever could.
Perhaps she is attracted by my money? Is that part of my appeal? Perhaps she is no better than a money-seeking male suitor. She will lure me in with her charms and embraces and then have me sign a document and she will move into Crow Nest and I will be helpless to stop her.
Perhaps I judge too unfairly. She cannot be as cruel as a man, surely?
Perhaps she will love me because I am so different from her. I think about how we could be long-term companions to each other. Ward off any suitors, or all men altogether, and hide ourselves away at Crow Nest. My heart seems taken with Miss Lister.
I wonder how many relationships she has really had, how many broken hearts she has left in her wake. She is older than me, worldlier, more experienced in so many things, but regardless of our age, backgrounds, dreams and fears, when we are together and our mouths touch and we push ourselves against each other, we are no longer ruled by our minds but by our hearts which beat as one. Is she truly my last chance for happiness?
Chapter Five
Autumn, 1832: A proposal to Miss Walker and the writing of a diary
Miss Lister
Another kiss with Miss Walker. She tells me I am on her mind and I confess that she is on mine too. I record our encounters in my diary, like a confessional that only I can access. To be able to freely expound my innermost thoughts to paper and confine them to a volume to be reflected upon or forgotten and lost to time. I thank God for it. For in my lonely life, it has given me the companion that I long for.
Some days, I almost wish the day to be over before it has begun so I can retire to my small study and write my diary. Writing can give me more pleasure than the day itself sometimes. I find myself undertaking tasks for the reward not of the task itself, but the writing of it.
My first efforts to write a diary ceased after just a few months, but then, remembering the release it gave me, I started again – but life got in the way of writing about it. I’m not sure how the final commitment came about, but from my mid-twenties it was writing into a hardbound volume, bought especially for this purpose, that must have stuck me to my course. I have not missed a day’s entry since. I quickly realised how the very act of recording could make even the mundane important. Recording the daily temperature has become somewhat of an obsession. Once you begin to notice something like that, it is very hard to un-notice it. I can tell the temperature now before even looking at the thermometer. A morning test of my own skills, which if correct leaves me feeling quite satisfied.
Now, after so many thousands of entries, I suppose it has become as natural, and as necessary, as sleep itself. I carry a small pocketbook and a watch at all times and look forward to my ritual of writing up my notes on empty pages, recording my daily activities, from the ordinary to the remarkable and folding them inside a bound volume to immortalise my own existence. To what end, I know not. I’ve tried to understand my own obsession; I know it eases me through my thoughts, allows me to process what I have done, seen, written in letters, said and heard and felt. It is cathartic when times are dull or difficult. But there is more to it than that.
Although it is my voice which echoes onto the page, I am still never sure if it is myself I am writing it for, or some future me, or some other? Another Anne, who listens and sympathises. Or is my idea to share these words? To make some sense of my years of existence to share with others? But what would I edit out, or in? Who would wish to read it, and which parts would they care about? My daily life, my business endeavours, my politics, visiting and writing letters, my health, the daily temperature? I believe it will be something to read back over when my days of activity are done, and I am homebound or worse, bedbound, and my thirst for new knowledge is quenched and I want to remember instead what I have done before.
Do I fancy myself a writer? Could I steal from my own experiences and make a fanciful fiction, or is there enough story from truth in these volumes on my shelf which stare down at me, that little fiction will be required? How many more volumes will I fill with my days?
My diaries may be a way to immortality, like creating buildings to outlive us. But I do not believe that anyone would really care for a woman of Halifax, a place of inconsequentiality which no one has heard of. With no children to pass these volumes to, what will become of my story?
Miss Walker
I have nothing to say for myself. How can she fill pages when I have nothing to write at all? I try to remember what I have done in the day and the blank page stares back at me. Was I awake at all today? Whatever does she write about? It must be very dull. I try again to create something of a list. A very boring list of basic human achievements. Washed. Dressed. Ate breakfast. Read a letter. Should I write what the letter was about? I cannot really remember, just pleasantries from a friend. I barely remember what I re
plied. Oh God, my letters must be dull if I cannot remember what I wrote just eight hours ago! I must be the dullest friend. No wonder I do not receive many letters. They dread my replies!
I write down what I had for lunch. Did I enjoy it? What do I like to eat? What would I choose to eat if I could have anything? Sponge cake with sweet frost. Oh, why is my life so dull? At least it was, until I met Miss Lister. Anyone who can fill a diary definitely has a more interesting life than me. But I can never write about her for fear someone should read it.
Miss Lister
I write most of my account in plain-hand, to be read by anyone. I have the volumes in my study; they are not hidden, though I doubt any of my family would dare to touch them, let alone read them. They bristle when they see me make a note of something and their eyes roll as I skip upstairs for my time alone with a pen and an empty page to fill. They do not understand my diary writing. My passion. It has become such a part of me. My mind is attuned to remember details, as though viewing my life as an observer ready to record. As events unfold, I am already thinking of how I will explain and describe it in words in my diary, deciding what I will keep and record. Sometimes there are moments which I consciously decide to omit. I edit my diaries in my head, in my pocketbook and in the writing of them. Perhaps I do it to protect my future self, or protect the contents from prying eyes. But then some of my deepest thoughts and sadness I cannot deny from my diary. It seems easier to write of sadness and disappointment; to capture it in words is to lessen the feeling of it, as if shared with a sympathetic friend, whilst the pleasurable times I find myself skipping over in a few lines, as I’m sure I will remember them well without much prompting.
At first, I wanted to record everything factually, but my own voice and feelings crept in and I realised a factual account served no purpose to anyone, least of all myself. I decided I would write everything, painful and personal or otherwise. Of course, to write anything so personal one must be careful about who may see it. So I devised a code, as Eliza and I once had in our letters to each other, and then became so familiar with it that it is as quick to write as plain-hand. The code gives me freedom to write about personal feelings, intimacy, my body and health and my finances, should prying eyes ever peer.
Miss Walker
She will be writing about me! I am in her diary. From the day we first re-met after her latest travels, Miss Lister will have recorded me, described me. I imagine she writes exactly what she thinks. Does she think me plain? Shy? Dull? I must become more interesting! I must seem so boring compared to her.
What I wouldn’t give to read of one of her diaries! She tells me any personal information is in code. From what I saw when she gave me a glimpse of them in her study, her handwriting is nearly as illegible as any code.
Everyone knows she writes one. You do not want to get on the wrong side of Miss Lister or she’ll immortalise you in her diary. She’s known for her pocketbook and pocket watch. People talk as if it is very strange, but I think it is admirable to record everything. An unusual hobby, but writing things down somehow makes them seem important. I should write one too. I start my list again. From lunch onwards. Sat with Aunt. Stroked the dog. Had some tea.
Dear God, is that all I did for the entire afternoon? What wasted hours. What a well stroked dog. He will not like me writing a diary if it starts to occupy more of my stroking time. Perhaps that’s why she started it, to fill up some time, to have an excuse to retire early to write it up each evening. Perhaps she never writes it up at all. Perhaps most of the volumes she showed me are empty and it is all a lie. She scribbles things down to create an illusion, so that everyone fears to be recorded, and then she retires early and just stares out of the window, or strokes her dog, knowing she has gained some peace and quiet under a lie that she has maintained for her entire adult life!
Of course she writes a diary. I’m just jealous because I do not have the patience to do it myself.
Perhaps I should stick to painting. That will be my legacy. But my pictures are not very good. They never look how I intend them to and mostly end up on the fire.
Never mind writing my own diary. I will find a way to read hers. Will she ever let me? But do I really want to read what she has written about me? As though being confronted with oneself in the mirror and unable to look away, but worse, you are seen through someone else’s eyes who may not be as forgiving. The desire to read them now starts to burn in me. Miss Lister and her precious diaries. I’ll read them one day. I’ll make sure of it.
Miss Lister
I write about Miss Walker in code. I write about our walks in the woods and kissing in the shelter of the trees away from prying eyes. I write how she lets me hold her and she seems willing and never wants to leave.
I have spent my life trying to hide my relationships with women and make sense of who I am. Who would not think ill of me if they read the truth of my heart? By all means, they may know of my endeavours and travels, but of my heart? What would a reader think to my exclamations of love? My marriage ceremony with Mariana all those years ago? Would they malign me as a miscreant and judge me as they do men who prefer their own sex? Would the dark shame I have lived in fear of fall over my life, my home, my family and tarnish the Lister name? Will my story be erased because of my heart’s will to love only women? This fear is what created my code; it protects me and those I have loved from the ill-will of those who could never understand.
My obsession continues, and I cannot sleep until at least my pocketbook is full of the day’s account, and after too many days I feel anxious if I have not written up into my permanent record, which seems to verify my very existence. For if I have not recorded what happened, did it happen at all? If I do not find time one day to edit the volumes myself, whose hands may they fall into?
I showed Miss Walker my diaries and she was in awe. She asked if I’d written about her and I told her I write about everything. I reassured her that it was written in a code that only I know, and that our secrets are safe.
Miss Walker
I recognise the handwriting before I open it. I almost daren’t, but I must deal with this now or I will not be able to concentrate for the rest of the day. What does she want now? Some friends always want something. Never just to enquire, or send love and warm wishes.
Miss Whitaker wants to travel. Again. She’s always asking. She must be frightfully bored. I imagine that if she is asking me then she has asked everyone else that she knows and been declined. Travelling with her would be a nightmare. Hours, days on end in a carriage with her!
We go back a long way, Miss Whitaker and I, and that is probably why I have kept up my correspondence. It is nice to have people in your life that you can reminisce with, who knew the younger you. The carefree version of the person you have become. We did have fun when we were younger, but as we grew older I saw through her exterior and found her very self-centred. She would make you feel important only to ask to borrow your dress, or suggest she needed matching ribbons but couldn’t afford them so you felt obliged to buy her some. She would suggest that she was low on sketching paper and remind you it was her birthday soon, or overstay for supper and be too tired to travel until the following day. I would share with her some music and she would play it better than I and know it.
Now she is asking about a trip to Europe as if the whole thing is for my benefit. She would do me a favour by accompanying me and tearing herself from her busy, unmarried life. I bet she wants to meet a foreign suitor. Someone dashing to pluck her out of North of England obscurity. She seems to think I want to travel, that I am as desperate as she is to find a companion and will happily pay for the endeavour.
I want to write back with a brisk, no. Then I wonder if I could allude to having met someone to set the gossip going. I could use the excuse of my recent bereavement and postpone her for another six months while I recover, or rather am wooed by Miss Lister. How vicious of me! Perhaps a trip a
broad would do me some good. Away from family, and grief and, dare I say it, Miss Lister. Could I bear to be apart from her? Perhaps that will help me decide how I feel.
But even thinking of the practicalities of travel makes me feel cold. Just the issue of what to pack makes me panic that I will forget something essential, or be poorly dressed for the weather. At least here it is always cold and windy. I stay indoors when it is too hot or too cold. But when travelling, anything could happen. Perhaps it’s uncertainty that makes me nervous; waking up in a strange room, not knowing where things are. I am such a coward.
Sometimes I imagine the sea. I’d like to see it, just for a bit and then be whisked back home by nightfall. Miss Lister has travelled widely. I cannot begin to imagine what it would be like. I have been to the Lakes and to my sister’s house in Scotland and hated every minute of it. I am like a fish out of water. I know my home. My servants. The order of my days. Perhaps that’s why I could never write a diary; I do not deserve one as my experiences are so unimportant.
What if I were to reply yes? I could perhaps see how far the plans are set. Perhaps Miss Whitaker wrote to me in the knowledge that I would say no. Shall I surprise her? I’ll write back and say yes. But not yet; I need to leave time for my grief to pass. I cannot let her think I have not taken adequate time to grieve for my loss. I would be planning my wedding now and sending her an invitation if God had not intervened.
I believe John would have approved of Mr Fraser. He had kind eyes and was not much larger than I. He was not intimidating but seemed as shy as I was when he made the journey to see me. Elizabeth recommended him as being better than most of her husband’s acquaintances and very pleasing to look at. Not much wealth but enough to show that he was not desperate for mine. He had managed to reach the same age as me without a wife and seemed to wake up one day and realise that perhaps he should make an effort. Of course, he could have chosen someone ten or fifteen years his junior but my sister, ever on the lookout, sold me to him. Somehow.
