Beginning, Previous Section, Section XIII
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Chapter 9, Part 5 ~ A Time to Break Down and a Time to Build Up
The morning after Mr Joel Burns' arrival, Beth was met at the Burns' door by two lively children, who brought her into the house by the simple expedient of possessing themselves each of a hand and pulling. Such determined methods could not be gainsaid. As Beth entered, she found the heretofore quiet rooms filled with a mad, merry confusion. There were persons coming and going between rooms and running up and down stairs - fully enough persons to be called a party, or perhaps it was only the good spirits so abundantly evident in all that called a party to mind. Joel Burns had stayed the night - it very much looked as though he would stay for some time to come - his older brother, David, had come from London with his wife and three children, brothers Andrew and Thomas and their families had arrived from Reading, and Hannah had received permission to remain at home this day. At the sight of such a crowd, thinking that she could not possibly be wanted, Beth turned to leave. Much to her gratification, she was entreated to stay. Whenever family members had been able to visit over the past three months, all had witnessed the service the girl had been rendering their father; even the prodigal had now heard enough to add his determined baritone to the full chorus demanding her presence. The half-dozen children surrounded and brought her to a comfortable sofa, a cup was placed in her hands, and a plate of savory items was filled for her.
When Ralph Gilbert came, he, too, was greeted with delight and pressed to stay, needing little urging to fall in with their wishes. He was directly claimed by the children and occupied in serious discussion about the comparative merits and craftsmanship of sundry toy boats and wooden animals, proving that his indulgence towards children was not confined to kindnesses shown the Hobart girls. Mr Hobart, who had today come with Ralph, declined the invitation extended to him, excusing himself by the legitimate claims of business. To quell the disappointed exclamations and good-natured arguments that greeted his words, he promised to come by in the evening and to bring his wife and daughters.
The atmosphere in the house was everywhere gay - the sun shone this morning, marking walls and floors in harlequin patterns, and the breezes coming into every open window seemed designed to delight, scattering good humour and pleasing odors to every nook and cranny, from cellar to rooftop. Joel and Andrew had been to the baker's for a quantity of special baked sweets, and the aroma of fresh cakes mingled with that of fresh coffee - a rare delicacy in this frugal household - wafted enticingly between kitchen and parlour. The rooms rang with echoes of laughter and with voices spanning the octaves; tongues both young and old wagged as quickly as they could be persuaded to move. The talk was of days past, of good memories and of amusing scrapes, some of the latter being more amusing to some in the family than to others, but all teasing was borne with a good grace.
Beth was struck by how much pleasure all were able to take in this occasion since all Mr Burns' children surely knew it might well be the last such time with their father. The old man 'rested his eyes' between interludes of contented participation - participation to the extent he was able. There were conversations to be joined, refreshment to be taken, children to be petted, and some petting to be endured - he was happy to be thus surrounded and diverted. If he resented the short time left to him among these persons so dear to him, he showed no sign of it.
The young girl who had been the carpenter's companion over the past months enjoyed herself as well, at first, surrounded by such high spirits, but as an hour and more passed, she began to feel ever more an outsider - that, as welcome as she had been made to feel, she was not a member of this cheery family and could not fully join in their revels. She watched Ralph as he divided his attention between speaking with the other men and directing miniature animal races the children had proposed for their grandfather's amusement - with an assortment of animals that included a lion, a zebra, a hare and more conventional horse, pig and bull; the young man did not seem to share her discomfiture in this large gathering.
Mid-morning brought a visit from Miss Ross, who was hailed by even more voices and dragged in by even more hands than had hailed and dragged in Beth. After pulling her skirts back into place and lifting up the smallest child, who wished to admire "Miss Woss' " severe white cap from a nearer perch, she greeted them all in turn with her own customary warmth; she was especially pleased to see Mr Joel and took time for private words with him not long after her arrival, seeming satisfied by what she heard. After she had made the rounds of greetings in each room, observed the progress being made in the preparation of a special meal in honour of all the guests but especially of Joel, and exclaimed over the growth of the children, she deposited the babe she still carried in its father's arms again, to be tossed in the air as "Miss Woss" could not do. She came to sit near Beth and eyed her with some concern.
"Are you well, Miss Beth? You seem tired - have you not slept well?"
"I have slept well enough, Miss Ross, thank you, though perhaps I am a little tired today." Then, feeling a desire to speak more openly, as she could not with any of the others present, she confided, "I am not accustomed to such large gatherings. They have all welcomed me kindly, yet I feel rather out of place - this should be a family party, since Mr Burns..." With a wistful glance about her, she added, "and I am not one of the family. Should I go, do you think? Shall I offend Hannah or her father if I do not stay? Will they take it amiss?"
Looking at the scene around her anew, as if with the eyes of her companion, the nurse acknowledged, "Mary Burns welcomed every child in the village into her home, I believe, at one time or another, and most of her children take after her. The Burns were a hospitable family, always ready to invite neighbours and friends to any special occasion - my father and I were often here as guests many years ago, as were Ralph Gilbert and Stephen Hobart later - so you are not at all out of place, Miss Beth; not a soul here would wish you gone, I assure you. However, I can well understand that it might be overwhelming for you; it certainly was so at times for me, as my own home with father was such a quiet one. I do not think anyone would be offended if you took your leave, especially as you have already been here for some time. I must see another patient presently; would you like to come with me? Then you would not be obliged to leave alone."
"Oh, yes, please!"
The High Street seemed unnaturally quiet after the crowd inside the Burns' home. The rains of the previous two days had left puddles of water patching the road, upon which the sun shimmered and sparkled. Beth thought of the family they had just left behind and of the talk that had so often brought up memories of Mrs Burns, so much so that Beth could well imagine how the good lady had been in life. Her spirit seemed to fill the house; that spirit would soon be joined by that of Mr Burns. If all family gatherings had included as many stories as Beth had heard today, Hannah, though not having grown up with her mother, certainly knew much of her. Beth felt a sudden pang of envy - and of longing.
What was my mother really like? What would persons other than Uncle Brandon remember of her? What had she thought and felt? What had made her laugh and cry? What had she done that forced her to live away from my father? What would she have wished for me? What would she have said to me now? Would she have been ashamed of me? Would she have understood? Would she have forgiven? How I wish I could speak with her - to ask - to explain!
After months of waiting and wishing, Beth determined to broach the subject with the nurse. It was an auspicious time and opportunity: Mr Burns' illness to remind them of Eliza Brandon's time in Auldbridge, the talk of Mrs Burns, the ever-growing trust Beth felt for Miss Ross, and even - dare she hope? - the approval she felt from this woman in Beth's own small service to Mr Burns; all these served to spur her on when her courage would fail her. "Miss Ross," came the timid question, "I know so little of my mother - please, can you tell me something about her?" Beth's voice pleaded, causing her to sound much younger than her almost-seventeen years.
"Surely your uncle spoke to you of her, Miss Beth! I knew her for only a few months; he knew her many years."
"Uncle only spoke of certain things - and always the same ones: how pretty she had been, how lively, how accomplished in music. He never spoke of what their childhood had been like, of what they had spoken, of books she had read, of other interests, of dreams and hopes she had cherished - if she attended the theatre or assemblies, whether she had been at school or had had a governess - what dreams and plans she might have had for me, what she might have said... of me... Please! Did she never speak with you privately, when Uncle was away or resting? Did you never overhear what they spoke of?"
Miss Ross understood the girl's longing - she had sometimes wished to know more of her own mother - and was reluctant to disappoint her, though knowing she must needs do so. When at length she spoke, her tone was uncharacteristically gentle. "Your mother was very ill while she was here, Miss Beth. She did not often have breath enough to speak. The few times we were alone together, when she had strength to attend and take an interest, she asked me to tell her of my travels and experiences. She wished to be diverted, to be distracted from her own troubles, I imagine. Of herself, she spoke little. I think it would be best for you to ask your uncle more of her when next you see him. I am sure that he would be glad to speak of her and to tell you much more than he has done. It may give as much comfort to him as to you. Perhaps he may tell you of others who knew her, to whom you may write or speak, if you wish it." The nurse spoke lightly of Col Brandon - as if a meeting-again between the colonel and his ward were inevitable.
Even as Beth was disappointed that Miss Ross could not say more, she waited - fearfully, hopefully - for renewed exhortations to write to her uncle; she was surprised - and surprisingly hurt - when they did not come. Perhaps even the generous-natured nurse thought Col Brandon would not now welcome Beth back into his home - that this niece had tried her uncle's patience and affection too far.
"What I can tell you, my dear, is that she loved you very much, so much that she would not be parted from you, even while she was so ill. She was much loved herself; your uncle gave almost everything he had, in order to care for her during the time she was with us."
Beth was quiet for some moments, seeming not to have attended to the nurse's last words and receiving no comfort from them. The direction to which her thoughts tended soon became apparent. "When Mr Burns dies, Hannah will have so many memories of him, to comfort her, just as she has stories of her mother. She will be able to go to his favorite place in the village, or on the grounds of the Hall, and think about him. She will have things that belonged to him. She has her brothers to speak of him, and all her neighbours. I have nothing of my mother, nothing of my own memories, and nowhere to go!"
The nurse glanced at the girl as they took several steps in silence. "Each person who loses someone dear has his own way to remember the loved one. I understand your desire to have something more of your mother, Miss Beth; it is a very natural desire. I imagine it might be a comfort to you, and I am sorry that I can not tell what you would wish to know." She came to a halt and spoke slowly. "Although I prefer to remember persons in places where they were most alive..." Having made up her mind, her next words were spoken briskly. "Come with me, my dear."
She turned to lead the way past the vicarage with its blooming garden, now in colours of autumn array, past the small stone church with its steeple pointing heavenward, along a narrow path of flagstones leading behind the building to the village graveyard. It was a small plot, enclosed by a stone wall, with trees growing here and there - grand old sentinels standing guard. A hush hovered in this place, as if by passing though its gates they had entered a place untouched by the world outside - untouched by any activity in the neighborhood, untouched by any more violent emotion than a peaceful, patient anticipation of new life unbowed by human burdens. Birdsong, the buzz of insects, and the chirp of crickets all seemed muted and restful, in tones especially reserved for this place of remembrance. Gravestones stood in orderly rows at the heads of grassy plots, some well tended, others overgrown and forgotten.
In one corner stood an old willow, its branches hanging low, sweeping the ground with every stirring of wind. Under its boughs, near the massive trunk, stood a small stone, a modest marker rendered all but invisible by the grasses sprung up around it. Its lettering was difficult to make out; mosses had begun to claim a place on the rough surface. At Miss Ross' invitation, Beth looked closely - and let out a soundless gasp.
Eliza Brandon
Born: 9th April, 17--
Laid to Eternal Rest: 13th May, 17--
Beloved mother and sister-in-law
May she rest in the Peace which the world was unable to give.
As Beth sank to her knees beside the stone, Miss Ross left the girl to her solitary reflections and the long-delayed grief over thirteen years in the making - and the newer griefs of the last year.
Several hours passed unheeded before Beth resumed her way to the Taylors' cottage. She had not noticed the sky filling with dark clouds or the wind blowing chill. She had wept by her mother's grave; she had reflected on that little part she knew of her mother's life and regretted the shortcomings of her own life. She was oblivious to all about her and walked slowly despite a fine rain beginning to fall. She walked awkwardly; her movements were ever more heavy and more ungainly; she wished desperately for the next weeks to be already behind her - or that they would never come. Her thoughts whirled: What would happen? Of that she was not certain. What would she do; what should she do? Of that she was equally uncertain. Should she write to her uncle? Should she beg to stay here, working in whatever way she could? Would Lord Auldbury be willing to help her as he had Mrs Hobart so many years ago? He was said to help any who were in need - and Beth would certainly be needy.
While she was thus preoccupied, a small figure, head bowed against the rain and leading a dog on a stout line, passed her on the path that led to the gamekeeper's cottage and continued to the Hall. Beth lurched to one side as she slipped and stumbled over an unnoticed stone; the figure bumped against her and turned back to apologize. Samuel T. Pickens was absorbing and adopting acceptable manners almost as rapidly as he was the more practical training in the stables. He looked up and his eyes widened in surprise. The intended apology died on his lips, replaced by other words altogether.
"So it's yoo, 'his it? This is where yoo've got ter - 'idin' out - an' wif good reason, I see." The surveying look Samuel gave Beth was knowing - and uncomplimentary. "So yer t' girl I've 'eard tell of 'oo's ben livin' wif Mrs Taylor."
"I beg your pardon!"
"Yer Eliza Williams, in't yer?"
"What?" Beth paled at hearing her real name, buried deep within her conscience these many months. Although taken aback, she decided to affect complete ignorance. After all - what could this urchin possibly know - so far from all who had known her? "You must be mistaking me for someone else. My name is Beth Willison."
"So yer in't Eliza Williams. I s'pose ya don' know yer friend Miss Cecily Robertson, an' ya wasn't 'hin Bath wif t' Robinsons las' winter, an' yer in't run away from yer uncle, neither. Well, I can see now why ya did. 'Shamed o' yerself, I'll bet, 'helse why'dja change yer name?"
"I do not know what you are speaking of." Beth had intended her lofty tone, combined with a careless toss of her head, to dismiss this waif standing in the middle of the path with the young dog now sitting quietly at his side - had intended to march past him, but the boy stood his ground, blocking her way, and the effectiveness of the words and gesture was lessened by the growing alarm in her eyes.
"I'm sure ya don't. Yoo should be 'shamed - gettin' inter trouble, worryin' evr'yone sick, 'n makin' yer uncle send Mr Blevins lookin' fer yoo."
"I-- I do not know any Mr Blevins."
"Thet's likely the trooth, 'has Mr Blevins would've seen to 'hit thet yer uncle'd 'ave 'ad 'is mind set at rest, an' Mr Blevins wouldn't 'ave ben so worried hisself. 'Hif yer uncle's even 'alf the man Mr Blevins is, yoo've 'urt a good man. Don' it mean nuthin' ter yoo - urtin' an' upsettin' those thet care 'bout yoo? 'As it ben worf it?" Taking another look at the girl's grey, weary, frightened face, he added, "No - I don' s'pose 'hit 'as. Ya don' look too 'appy wif yerself. Found out runnin' away's not all 'hit seems, 'aven't yoo?"
"How-- how dare you! Move aside, please - I wish to pass."
As the boy moved not an inch but continued to look her over as though examining some repugnant species he had not met with before, Beth felt her eyes pricking and was horrified to think she might cry before this ragamuffin. She would most have liked to push her way past him or to return to the village, taking temporary refuge with Miss Rose or Mrs Hobart, but to turn now would leave too many questions unanswered. How did this young lad come to know her and to know so much of her? How did he know of her friend? Had her uncle really gone so far as to send someone to look for her? Had that someone spoken with Cecily? What would she have told that someone? How much had Cecily guessed about her friend's plans? Even as Beth's discomfort grew, so did her bewilderment as to the boy's information - as to his possible connection with her uncle. Before she could help herself, she spoke.
"Who-- who is Mr Blevins? How do you know him? How do you know Cecily?"
" 'E's a gen'lman wot 'elps folk. 'E brought me from Bath, w'ere I knew of Miss Cecily an' 'er father, 'n 'e got me a place 'ere 'elpin' Stephen 'Obart. Yer uncle as't 'im ter find yoo - 'hall those months ago. 'E should've saved 'is money 'stead o' wastin' it on yoo. Ya don' even look as if ya'd given 'im so much as a thought 'hin all this time."
Without realizing how each question gave her away, she asked in a small voice, "Does-- does he know where I am, this Mr Blevins? Or-- or my uncle?" Beth's heart sank at the thought that her uncle might have known where she was but wanted nothing more to do with her.
"Nah - no one knows thet yer 'ere. Last I 'eard, Mr Blevins was still wantin' ter look but not knowin' where."
A tiny spark of hope was kindled, causing her to stutter even as her words were scornful. "S-so I s-suppose you will t-tell him?"
"I don' tell no tales, miss! Wot ya does is yer own business. Yoo can call yerself wot ya like an' go on 'urtin' 'ooever ya like. Yoo can stay 'ere ferever, yoo an' yer child. 'Hit'll break the 'earts of 'im as cares fer yoo, but wotter yoo care 'bout thet? 'Xcuse me, miss, I'm expected, an' don' wish ter be late."
With that, the small boy, oddly dignified despite his meager stature and poor speech, turned on his heel and strode up the path, past the old gamekeeper's cottage and towards the Hall.
Beth was left standing, trembling. Why should she take notice of what such a boy said, or what such a boy thought of her? Perversely, she found that she did care; she wanted no one to think so ill of her, not even this boy, as disreputable as he looked. How likely was it that he would tell this mysterious Mr Blevins about her? With the dignified pride he had carried on his thin shoulders, Beth thought it very unlikely. He had said her uncle... Did her uncle... Would her uncle... This Mr Blevins... Had Miss Ross... None of the questions now whirling unfinished found an answer that would calm the turmoil of her mind and soul. With slow, stumbling steps, with her clothes now damp and uncomfortable, she turned once more towards home.
Chapter 10, Part 1 ~ A Time to Keep Silence and a Time to Speak
(There is a certain minor character in this long-winded drama who, having been introduced, was shunted off to the side, though due, most assuredly, to no unsuitability or lack of ability on his part, but rather to the incompetence of this author to make better use of him - or perhaps to her absentmindedness. This gallant pawn has sat patiently in one shadowy corner of this sprawling board, on the periphery of all action - indeed, oblivious to much of it - languishing in obscurity. He now comes forward to play a timely part: At the behest of the white king, he will face a fierce queen, allowing said king to gain the advantage he requires to check, at last, a black-hearted knave and to avenge the wrongs done a 'princess'.)
In addition to Col Brandon, there was one other tender-hearted person in England who could number the exact days - a number several score less than the colonel himself - since he had last seen the errant Eliza Williams, a tender-hearted person who wondered greatly how she fared...
John Thomas Barrow sat in his study the morning after his return from Devonshire, with two reasons for the rage that boiled within him. The first was contained in a letter arrived during his absence: a letter from Philip Gaston, at which John was staring incredulously. This missive regretted to inform him that a certain cunning gentleman had escaped the hands of justice. Mr Lewis Chase was no longer numbered among the residents of London - his lodgings there having been emptied of every last item, with not so much as the tiniest clue left carelessly behind to indicate in what direction he had fled - nor had he been seen for some weeks, his last servant having been dismissed those same weeks before. Mr Harris Egerton, who might have been able to assist the authorities in finding said Mr Chase, was no longer capable of assisting, obstructing, or misleading anyone at all. He had quite suddenly lost all interest in his business; neither profits nor losses nor ill-gotten gains gave him cause for concern. Even the threat of the gallows held no more terrors for him. Late an employee at Watier's, he was also late of a humble earthly existence - he had been hastened from it by an intervention of uncertain means and date, though most certainly of human invention, and was now enjoying whatever eternal reward had awaited him.
Thoroughly helpless to intervene any further in the affairs of Mr Chase, John's fury had yet another cause. His anger at John Willoughby, fueled by the meeting in Devonshire, had abated sufficiently for him to make the journey to London in safety, but it smoldered still, seeking an outlet appropriate to his own character and position while at the same time fitting a certain smug, self-satisfied scoundrel. Thinking over all he had learned in his researches and on his travels, he had finally hit upon a punishment suited to the crime. If justice had been denied him on one hand, he was determined to have it on the other. Drawing an unmarked sheet of paper towards him and dipping his pen into ink, he was about to place the first stroke when a knock at the door caused him to pause, with pen suspended in mid air. The knock was a familiar one, the voice and figure that followed it even more so, belonging to a woman he had known - and thought of with great fondness - for many years now, from before the time he had come to make his residence with the first Mr Blevins.
"Mr Barrow, beggin' yer pardon, sir, but I'd like a few words, if I may."
"Of course - come in." John replaced his pen and laid his paper aside. As the woman shut the door, John saw that behind the ample womanly figure of Cook had been concealed the slighter one of Willie Barton, Cook's grandson and John's footman of several-months' standing. "What is it?"
"I'd like fer you ter listen to a story o' Willie's, sir. Somethin's troublin' the lad. He's thought o' nothin' else the past fortnight, an' though I don' know 'zactly what it is, I thought as you might be able ter tell 'im somethin' ter ease his mind, or ter help 'im somehow. If I didn't think as it was important, I'd not be botherin' you, sir."
John looked more closely at Willie. He saw again all that had impressed him enough to take the lad on at the request of Cook, who had wanted to see her grandson out of harm's way on the docks - where he had been born and had begun to work - and in some steady, respectable position. In the five months that the boy had been part of his establishment, John had seen nothing to cause him to regret Cook's persuasion or his own decision. He could now see that something was, indeed, troubling Willie, for the normally sunny countenance was clouded.
"It is quite all right, Cook, and quite right that you have come to me. What is it, Willie? If I can help, I will. If not, perhaps I may be able to direct you to someone who may."
Encouraged by this handsome offer - and not least by the firm nudge his grandmother gave in the small of his back - Willie stepped forward. Having rehearsed the story endlessly during the past day - ever since his grandmother had extracted a part of it from him and suggested this course of action - Willie recited it now as if a lesson learned pat. "Well, you see, sir, 'fore I came 'ere to work fer you, I used to go to the Wild Goose Tavern pretty often. It's over on Pennington Street, sir, not far from the docks. I know the Innkeeper and 'is wife: Miss Betsey and 'er husband. They were good ter me, even when I didn't 'ave the price of a meal. Anyway, like I said, just 'fore I came 'ere, I met a girl there. Miss Emily, that's Miss Betsey's sister, had sent her to 'em from the Inn her husband's got. Miss Betsey gave 'er work to do, seein' as she'd been left with no money. She wouldn't give out where she was from, but she'd 'ad good schoolin' and a good upbringin' - that was clear. Well, it turned out she'd got in trouble - with a man, sir. She was real upset and didn't know what ter do - didn't like ter go to her family, I guess. Maybe she thought they'd turn 'er out - disown 'er. Miss Betsey and Miss Emily - Miss Emily's over visitin' at t'Wild Goose lots o' times, too - fin'lly sent 'er to the country, to a good family they know there - least that's what I guessed from what Miss Betsey said. They thought she'd be best off out o' London. The thing is, sir, near's I can figure, she'd be close to her time now, and I was wonderin', sir..."
"What were you wondering, Willie?"
"Well, sir," drawing fresh courage from his grandmother's bulk close behind him, "if you'd give me leave ter visit Miss Betsey and find out how Miss Beth is doin', I wouldn't be long - not more'n an hour er two. I just want ter know she's all right."
"She must have made quite an impression on you," remarked John with a smile in his eyes as he regarded the heightened colour in his footman's face and the hands that fidgeted with the cap in his hands. "How old is this young lady of yours, Willie?"
"She was 'bout sixteen er seventeen, sir. She didn't like ter talk about 'erself. I'm not even sure the name she tol' me was 'er real name. Seems like she was hidin' a lot o' things, maybe hidin' from someone." The young man blushed crimson as his employer's words penetrated, hastening to add, "She's not my young lady, sir. Prob'ly too high up fer me, but she seemed nice all the same. Worked 'ard, too, Miss Betsey said, fer's long's she was there and 'fore she got ter feelin' ill too much."
"What name did she give, Willie?"
"Beth Willison, sir, but like I said--"
"Beth Willison? Now where..." Thinking back to the earliest days of his stay at Auldbury Hall, John recalled a doll being thrust at him. He leaned forward and his tone became urgent. "Willie, what is the name of the village where this girl was sent? When did you meet her - what months - what dates?"
"I started seein' 'er in the Tavern at the end of Feb'ary, sir. By the middle of May she'd gone, just about the time you'd taken me on. I don' know the name of the village, sir, 'cept it's where Miss Betsey and Miss Emily grew up. It's where their father, Mr Carter, still lives. He's a steward at some great house er other."
John opened a drawer. After rummaging carefully, he drew out the likeness given him by Col Brandon eight months before. He had intended many times to return it to the colonel but had put off such a final admission and gesture of defeat. He held it out to his footman. "Is this the girl?"
"Yes, that's 'er - that's Miss Beth! But why've you got a picture of 'er, sir? Oh, beggin' yer pardon, sir!"
"Willie, I have been searching for this girl since February. Her uncle asked me to find her when she went missing. I was able to follow her to London, but then-- Wait! You said Miss Betsey and her sister, who also has an Inn? Who is her sister? What is this other Inn?"
"Miss Emily's married to Mr Twickenham, sir, of the Swan with Two Necks, Lads' Lane. Not a nice man, sir, though Miss Emily can deal with 'im well enough. Miss Beth went ter the Swan with Two Necks first, but Miss Emily sent 'er to Miss Betsey, seein' as Mr Twickenham wouldn't 'ave 'elped 'er any. He don't 'old with charity." Willie stared as Mr Barrow gave a groan and buried his face in his hands. The boy drew back into his grandmother's bolstering form while he waited to see if his employer were going to have a fit of some sort. He was relieved when the head came back up with only an expression mixed of amazement and frustrated embarrassment.
"To think I spent the better part of a month not one mile from this girl, and I did not know it! Willie, I was thrown out of the Swan with Two Necks by that very Miss Emily, I presume, and for the reason that she likely thought I was the man who had harmed Miss Williams - or what did she call herself? - Beth Willison. A resolutely fierce woman, Mrs Twickenham - I can well imagine that she can deal with her husband, or anyone else who might cross her path. It seems the man with whom Miss Beth ran away is also called John. As soon as I introduced myself, your Miss Emily did not wait to hear anything else, and all but pushed me bodily from her rooms. Knowing what I have learned since then, perhaps I can understand why she acted so. She must have determined to protect this young girl from any further peril at this man's hands. I suppose that is something to be thankful for - that the girl found herself with folk who troubled themselves to look out for her. It would seem they were good to Miss Beth as well to you, Willie." John thought over this unexpected development, which threw a completely different complexion on so many things. "I would like to meet this Miss Betsey of yours, to hear more about the girl from her before I see Miss Williams myself. If we go together, perhaps you will be able to vouch for my good character, especially if this Miss Emily is often to be found with her sister; neither of them will likely trust my name and face any more now than they did earlier. I suppose they will trust and believe you?"
"Oh, yes, sir! I've known 'em fer's long's I can remember."
"Jus' you mention my name, too, sir. Tho' I don' know Miss Emily, I've known Miss Betsey fer years." Cook, no less than her grandson, gloried in Mr Blevins' profession and had unashamedly listened to what had passed between her grandson and her employer; she had worried over Willie's growing inattention during the past several weeks. On the occasion of the elder Mr Blevins' retirement little more than one year ago, she had approved of John Thomas Barrow taking over the business and was eager to see him prosper. If Mr Barrow had been thwarted in his search for this wayward girl - who, it seemed, had touched her Willie as well - Cook was only too glad to see him successful yet, with any help in her power to give. Moving forward a step, she peered at the likeness now lying abandoned on the broad desk. "A pretty thing she is. Poor child! If she's been foolish, her foolishness 's got 'er a sad crop. Ah well, she'll have learnt from it, I 'spect. If you'll excuse me, sir. I'll leave you an' Willie to yer business an' be getting' back ter mine."
As the door closed behind his grandmother, Willie looked at Mr Blevins in sudden dismay. "Oh, sir, if I'd only known! Even in May, when I learned of Miss Beth's troubles, I wished I could help 'er, just like you help so many folk in trouble, and I wanted to ask you-- But I didn't think it my place-- seeing as I'd only just come-- oh, sir! Do you think she'll still be there, in the village? Do you think she's all right? Will 'er uncle still want 'er?"
"Let us hope the answer to your first two questions is yes, Willie. As to her uncle, I am quite sure he will forgive whatever it is she has done, as long as she is returned to him in safety. I do fervently hope she has remained in that village, for, from what I learned while I was there, there is no better place she could have found."
Chapter 10, Part 2
Setting his anger and his planned letter aside for the present - the former certain to return deeper and more implacable than before, leading to the latter most certainly being written and sent off posthaste - John set off straight away with Willie for the Wild Goose Tavern, leaving Cook behind in her own domain once more, well satisfied with her morning's work. Though his hopes with regard to Miss Eliza Williams had been raised before, only to be dashed, with Willie beside him and with the cheering prospect of returning to Auldbridge, where he would have the opportunity to hear of Samuel's progress and likely have the support of Lord Auldbury in the matter of the girl if he so desired it, John could not help but feel that, at long last, his search would end favorably. Though, if the girl were really near a time of confinement, there would be little time to lose in getting word to Col Brandon. What a shock for the poor man it would be - to be returned his niece, but in such a state! How much greater, too, upon learning this news, was the inducement for John Blevins to find a means of punishing Mr Willoughby - whose conduct regarding this girl was no better than John had been led to believe, though shocking all the same - and for devising a means to restrain him from harming other young ladies. Better still if punishment and restraint could be achieved by the same means. How, exactly, to proceed - regarding both Miss Williams and Mr Willoughby - would depend on what, exactly, he would hear from this Miss Betsey and on what, exactly, he would find awaiting him in Auldbridge.
Arriving at the modest Pennington Street establishment, John allowed Willie to precede him. The younger man, familiar with the rooms where Miss Betsey was most likely to be found, threaded his way quickly and unerringly through outer rooms, empty at present, to the family kitchen. John had only time enough to note and approve the scrubbed, though worn, look of the public rooms - with not a speck of dust in sight - to compare them to the Swan with Two Necks, and to wonder at the very different choices of the two sisters, before they arrived at their destination. Willie found the two women seated in the cozy kitchen overlooking a bleak stretch of river, sharing tea in a rare moment of peace and quiet before the busy time of custom began.
"Willie Barton! It's high time you came to see us! We thought for sure you'd forgotten all about us, or thought us beneath you, now that you're working for such an important gentleman. Come and sit - surely you have time for a cup of tea; tell us what you've been up to, lad."
"Mornin', Miss Betsey, Miss Emily. You know I'd never think that, or forget about you! I've been wantin' ter come, but didn't like to ask fer--"
John appeared in the narrow doorway as Willie moved into the room; the older woman stiffened, then rose and moved forward threateningly. "You are not welcome here, sir. I don't know how you found me, but I thought I had made it quite clear--"
"Miss Emily - please! This is my master, Mr John Blevins. I know you've seen 'im before, but he isn't who you think - truly! We came 'ere 'cause 'e needs some 'elp - an' so do I."
Emily Twickenham stood still, looking from Willie's sincere, open face to John's, which appeared no less sincere. For several moments it was unclear whether she credited Willie's words or whether she would renew her threat. The younger woman broke in, rising from her chair and coming to stand between the two young men and her sister.
"Come now, all of you. Since Willie speaks for you, sir, we will at least hear you, though we make no promise of anything more. Please - sit. Willie, tell us what it is you want."
Despite the conciliatory words, it was a mark of her doubts and her own deep resentment on behalf of Beth that though Miss Betsey had offered the stranger a seat, she had not offered any refreshment. Willie noted this with some dismay, as a sign of how great a work of persuasion lay ahead of him, for it was the very first time that he had known Miss Betsey to be anything less than hospitable in her own rooms. With a nervous glance at Mr Blevins, who nodded his permission, the boy began, speaking as quickly and as earnestly as he could, for he could see that his master's presence would be tolerated only as long as his explanation could placate and convince the two women.
"Well, first off, you've got to believe me that whatever you think Mr Blevins's done, it couldn't have been 'im. Ask anyone who's ever had dealin's with 'im. He wouldn't do nothin', ever, to hurt anyone, nothin' dishonest. If you don't believe me, you know my grandmother, don't you, Miss Betsey? She's been Cook fer Mr Blevins ever so long. You know she wouldn't work fer anyone who wasn't 'onest, and she wouldn't 'ave me there, either, if she didn't trust Mr Blevins." As Miss Emily's foot began tapping impatiently, Willie rushed on. "I know you think it was Mr Blevins who got Miss Beth in trouble. He can't help that 'is name is John, too, but you've got to believe he'd nothin' ter do with Miss Beth 'fore she came 'ere. He's been lookin' fer 'er since Feb'ary - her uncle hired 'im to find 'er after she went missin'. Mr Blevins's been worried about 'er, an' so have I. That's why he came to see you, Miss Emily, 'cause 'e heard that she'd been at the Swan with Two Necks."
"And just how did you happen to hear that, sir?" Emily Twickenham's face was a shade less hostile than it had been, her foot had stilled, but John Blevins was under no illusion that she would capitulate any too readily.
"If you will allow me to tell a little more than that, madam, perhaps you will believe that I have only the best of intentions towards Eliza Williams. Miss Williams - or Beth Willison, as she is apparently calling herself - went missing from Bath in the middle of February. She left there in the company of a man whom the young friend she had been staying with knew only as 'John.' He accompanied Miss Eliza as far as Bristol, then sent her on ahead to travel to London and even farther - unaccompanied. She was overheard in London asking for a coach ticket to Liverpool, but she had mistaken the Inn. A respectable couple overheard her, and they were filled with concern at the thought of a young girl traveling alone. Before they could offer their assistance, she had gone. When I asked about the young lady at the Inn on Gracechurch Street, the same couple chanced to be there again and heard my queries. They were not themselves without reservations as to giving out information about a young lady, but I was able to convince them that I had an honest purpose and full authority to make such inquiries. They told me the girl would likely have gone to the Swan with Two Necks to inquire of the coach to Liverpool, where she seemed determined to go. This is how I came to look for her at your establishment, madam. With what you knew of the girl's misfortunes, I am not surprised that you turned on me. On behalf of her uncle, who has been desperately worried about her, I am thankful that she met with persons like you, Mrs Twickenham, and you and your husband, Mrs Stough, who looked out for her welfare." John ended his recital looking hopefully from one woman to the other.
"That is all very well and good, sir, but what is to say you did not make up this fine tale to get around us, in order to find the girl and bring her more misery?" Miss Emily seemed determined to think ill of Mr Blevins. To what account such an attitude could be laid was a puzzle to Willie, to whom John Barrow was as respectable a gentleman as could be found.
John addressed her directly, smiling for the first time since his arrival. "If I were that man, madam, I would not be likely to tell you that I had given Miss Williams - Miss Willison - forged notes for the journey. If I am not very much mistaken, your husband must have recognized them for what they were - small wonder he was angry. I am certain he is no fonder of being hanged for accepting such notes than the next man; nor am I."
Emily Twickenham evidently saw sense in this explanation, and just as evidently had known of the notes. Surprise came into her eyes - at the communication of this fact though not at its substance - and she said no more. Betsey Stough looked on and thought privately that, attractive as Miss Beth's John had been described, it was unlikely he could have half as devastating an effect on women as could this John Blevins, should he wish to do so. If I were twenty years younger, and unmarried... Emily, her sister decided, had been quite mistaken about this young man's conceits, however, for he seemed oblivious to the effect his smile might have on the hearts of any impressionable woman favored by its appearance. The two women looked from Mr Blevins to Willie, and then at one another, sending wordless messages that served to decide them. Miss Betsey spoke for them both.
"My sister would find the hangman's noose only too fitting an end for the man who had so endangered Miss Beth, to say nothing of his whole treatment of her, and I can not say I disagree. As she has already observed, the particulars in your story could just as well have been given by the other 'John' you say exists, but if you were that man, you would be a fool to place yourself in mortal danger by telling us of the forged notes, and you, sir, do not have the look of a fool about you. Your willingness to face Emily again serves to support your story, as well, and speaks well of your courage." Her face softened in a smile, which John returned with relief. "And you are quite right, sir. My brother did recognize the notes but did not report them to the authorities, for he felt some pity for the girl. What do you intend to do, sir? How may we help you - and Miss Beth?"
"Willie tells me that you sent the young lady to a village in Surrey. Would that be Auldbridge?" At the astonishment in the women's faces, he explained. "I was there not long ago. Will it further ease your fears about me to know that I was a guest of Lord Auldbury for several weeks in August? Willie tells me that your father is the steward at Auldbury Hall; I met Mr Carter during my stay there. If you have any lingering doubts, I am sure his lordship would speak for me, though this could not be accomplished without further delay. If you would be willing to forego such a formality and trust me on Willie's word alone, I-- that is, we," including his companion, who now sat mutely at his side, "are quite anxious about the young lady. May I ask for more particulars about Miss Willison? Has she by any chance been staying with Mrs Taylor, who has a daughter by the name of Jenny?"
"Why, yes, she has - did you perhaps meet the girl, not knowing who she was?"
"No, I did not so much as catch a glimpse of Miss Beth during my time there, much to my regret. I was given a good likeness of her, so I would not have mistaken her, but I did meet Miss Jenny Taylor, who gave me a doll to hold by the name of Beth Willison."
Another smile, this one of reminiscence, softened Mrs Stough's countenance further. "Dear Jenny! Still naming her dolls after friends and guests, I see." Whatever her deficiencies, and without aspiring to any lofty pretensions of cleverness or perception, Jenny had time and again proved herself an excellent judge of character. She would not have entrusted her precious doll to anyone of untrustworthy character. The mention of these dear acquaintances of Betsey Stough's earlier life banished her remaining qualms about the gentleman seated before her. "When Miss Beth came to me, telling me of her bouts of 'illness' each morning, I suspected the truth. Though she was unwilling to tell much, she told me enough to confirm my suspicions: that she was with child. When I told her what the cause of her illness likely was, she was beside herself with not knowing what to do. Since she flatly refused to return to whatever home she had had, we thought it best she go to the country, into some good situation where she would come to no more grief. She seemed to know the name of our village and was willing to going there, so our father and Mr Johnson arranged that Miss Beth should lodge with Mrs Taylor. She could not have found a better situation, or a better woman. Miss Ross, a very capable nurse, has also been aware of her condition, and so has watched over the girl."
"I met Mrs Taylor and had the very great pleasure of hearing her play the pianoforte and the organ during my time at the Hall. Having heard her, having met her and had some conversation with her, and having heard the story of her daughter, I can well believe you, madam - a remarkable woman, and a good situation for the young lady, indeed. Mrs Taylor did mention having a houseguest, as I now recall, though of course I had no notion it could be the Miss Williams I was seeking. Though I did not chance to meet Miss Ross, I heard of her as well, and heard nothing but good. Can you tell us, madam - is Miss Beth still in the village? and still with Mrs Taylor? Is she well?"
"Yes, I have just had a letter from father. He mentions her often, as he knows we are interested in news of her. Miss Beth is quite well. She is still with Mrs Taylor, though she spends her days helping to watch over Mr Burns, the carpenter at the Hall for many years. He is ill, sir, dying, and she keeps him company, but does nothing strenuous - Miss Ross has seen to that. There is no danger of infection of any sort, you need not worry, sir." Miss Betsey had correctly interpreted the look of concern in Mr Blevins' eyes and hastened to reassure him. "When we first learned of her circumstances, we tried to persuade her to tell us of her family, so that we could return her to them, but she would not so much as tell us the county she came from, for fear we would try to reach her people ourselves. We were not certain if this was from fear of disappointment, anger or mistreatment, or from some other reason. Will her uncle accept her, do you think, despite what she has done?"
"I am quite certain he will take her back, madam. She is very greatly loved by him; I doubt anything on this earth could alter that claim. He nearly lost consciousness when he learned she had been in possession of forged notes, well knowing the risk and the penalty. I myself feared for her life, imagining her at the gallows whenever I heard tell of another hanging. I will go to Auldbridge and speak with her myself, now, but I will write her uncle directly after. The poor man has suffered long enough and deserves relief."
"I am sorry for her uncle's sufferings, and for your concern, sir. I am glad to know she is not so friendless and homeless as we had feared - glad, too, that her uncle will have his niece returned to him. If my daughter, if any of my children, were to go missing for so long, I am sure I would go mad with worry and fear. I pray he will forgive her and that they will be reconciled. We are sorry for his distress, but we did only what we thought best for the girl - what else could we have done?"
"You did what will be the most welcome of all news to him: You quite likely saved her life. For that I thank you, madam, and I am certain her uncle will wish to do so as well."
The two young men began to take their leave, both expressing their heartfelt thanks and with Willie pledging to come for a proper visit soon. The two sisters looked upon John Blevins with much greater charity - each in her own way - at his leaving than they had at his coming. Before the visitors quitted the room, Miss Emily spoke again, putting a final brusque question to this man whom she had formerly taken for the enemy.
"May I ask, sir, have you sought this 'John' that Miss Beth spoke of? Can he at least be made to marry her, to give the child a name?"
"I have sought him, and I believe I have found him, though the blackguard denies everything. I have nothing I can offer her uncle as proof, should he wish to take the man to law. Perhaps the girl can be persuaded to name him herself. As to her marrying him, I do not think her lot would be much improved by such a marriage; I am convinced she would be made only more miserable by such a match. From what I have learned, this was not the act of a single unwise impulse but of longstanding habit on his part. If some way can be found to punish him for his conduct, I promise you it shall be done." John Blevins gave a final, disarming grin that came near to cracking even the formidable Miss Emily's determined composure. "I wish, madam, I had the power to bring him here before you. I believe witnessing him receive a chastisement at your hands would go some way towards relieving my own anger."
Chapter 10, Part 3
The journey to Auldbridge was made by John Blevins alone, though he had promised to apprise Willie of Miss Williams' condition and to convey to her Willie's concern and regards. John had pondered the question of how best to go about the delicate matter - meeting with the girl, speaking to her of her uncle, persuading her to return to him - and decided that he would first meet with Lord Auldbury. His immediate reasons were twofold: the Earl knew Mrs Taylor, and he may well have met her houseguest at some time or other since her arrival in the neighbourhood. There would also be the question of how John Blevins' visit and identity should be explained, since all in the village and at the Hall - and Mrs Taylor, herself - knew him as Jonathan Brownleigh, the Earl's nephew.
Despite the obstacles that still loomed, separating him from a successful conclusion to his eight-month odyssey, as his carriage turned in at the gates of the Hall, John felt confidence welling up within him. Seeing a number of fine horses grazing in the distance, he found himself suddenly curious as to whether Samuel might have met with Miss Williams since his arrival in the village. If the boy had seen her, he would surely have recognized her, for Samuel T. Pickens had nothing if not sharp eyes and sharp wits.
Mr Blevins was met by a somewhat surprised Mr Johnson but was admitted at once and left to wait in a pleasant sitting room until his lordship should return, for the Earl was paying a call on one of his tenants. John had not long to wait, however - scarcely time for a single cup of tea and a single piece of cake - before being warmly greeted by his former host. The heavy door was firmly shut before any words were exchanged.
"My dear Mr Blevins, what a pleasant surprise - I had not expected to see you again so soon. I received your news about Mr Chase - perhaps you have come with additional information of him? I must confess to a certain impatient curiosity to know how the affair has progressed since your letter. Or are you here to see about Samuel? I can assure you he is doing splendidly. I only hope we can keep him sufficiently intrigued - everything comes much too easily to that lad. Or is this a more commonplace visit? If the latter, I am delighted that you have taken the time to come."
"Thank you, my lord. Mr Chase, I regret to say, seems to have escaped - for the time being. He is disappeared, leaving no trace behind." The grim look that accompanied these few words and the flash in the dark eyes gave Lord Auldbury to understand that said gentleman would do well to watch about him carefully for John Blevins if he wished to keep his neck in its most advantageous conformation. Grimness receded as John continued with a more agreeable subject. "I had intended in any case to inquire soon of Samuel, and I am pleased, and relieved, to hear that he is doing well. I was afraid you might come to regret your decision in allowing him to come. Although I would be happy to hear more of him, and to see him if it is suitable, it is another matter altogether that has brought me to Auldbridge today. The matter is serious, and I have come to your lordship first, hoping for information - and, perhaps, advice."
"You may rely on my assistance in any way I am able to provide it, of course. Tell me of this serious matter, by all means, for you have piqued my curiosity, but let us go to the stables while you are speaking; you may then see Samuel's progress for yourself. As much as he affects indifference to those about him, I think he would be hurt to know you had come and gone without seeing him."
As the two men walked along well-tended paths, the flower beds and shrubs lining them being prepared for the coming winter, John made short work in telling the background of his most vexing case. He concluded with the recent revelation of the young lady's whereabouts, the connections that had led him to Auldbridge.
"I have known of the girl staying with Mrs Taylor, and I knew that Mr Carter had brought her from London, but I had no reason to inquire more closely, as it was no affair of mine. So the girl was in the village all the time you were here - what a pity we did not know! We might have saved her uncle some additional weeks of grief. Have you written to him yet? Does he know what you have learned?"
"Not yet, my lord. I thought it better to see her before writing to him, to judge for myself her condition and her mind - I had no wish to raise his hopes unduly as to her health and situation - although I will write directly I see her, whether the young lady wishes it or not. My first obligation is to him, as my client and as her guardian, and despite the fact that I have accomplished little enough for him."
"No one can blame you for that, my boy." Lord Auldbury was fast revisiting the familiar and pleasant role as uncle to this young man. He could see how deeply this girl and John's failure to find her sooner had preyed upon the young man's mind. "It would seem the girl did not intend to be found, and Miss Emily and Miss Betsey unwittingly aided her in this. I am not at all surprised at their actions - very like what they were even as young girls." A grin of amused remembrance spread o'er the Earl's countenance. "I can imagine Miss Emily's very words and expressions - as fierce as a lad she was, and very protective of her sister, or of anyone else who seemed to be put upon or bullied, just as Miss Betsey's kind heart always found room for any stray child or animal that crossed her path. As she sought out a home for Jenny Taylor many years ago, so it seems she sought and provided a shelter for Miss Willison. But it is good that the young lady has now been found by her own people, that her uncle will have his mind set at ease at last - and not only his, I fancy." Lord Auldbury gave the tall young man walking beside him a penetrating glance.
"Col Brandon has been greatly troubled over his niece's disappearance. I am pleased to be able to offer him relief at last." In telling of Miss Williams, John had unintentionally omitted any mention of the colonel's name. Lord Auldbury's reaction on hearing it mirrored that of John when he had heard the name Beth Willison: it clearly struck a chord and called forth a certain memory.
"Brandon, did you say? The name is familiar to me, though..." The Earl stood still while he searched through recollections of the past. "Yes, of course! Ten or more years ago it was-- Did you not ask me of a Miss Hetty when first you came? If only you had told me of the connection in which you were seeking her, I might have directed you to Miss Ross, who had the care of the colonel's young lady while she and her daughter lodged in the village. Such an honourable man, the colonel - a proud man, as well. At his lady's death, he had not enough money left to provide for a proper burial. I chanced to be here on a visit, Miss Ross acquainted me with the story, and she was able to persuade him - though not without great difficulty - to accept a loan, which he paid back with interest the following year. So - this Miss Willison is the same little girl, Brandon's niece, and that poor man has endured still more grief, worrying about her. I have met the girl, you know, and she did not strike me as the sort who would be so unfeeling, although this experience has doubtless sobered her. For several months she has gone faithfully every day to sit with Mr Burns, formerly a carpenter here on the estate, a man now on his deathbed, I am afraid. She has quite won over all his family as well as others in the village who might not have been inclined to look upon her with any great charity when her condition became known. Whatever she was when she ran away from her uncle, he may well find her changed."
"I hope so, my lord, for her sake as well as his."
Resuming his steps, the older man returned to an earlier question from Mr Blevins. "Now, as to how you should be known: As I can not think of any reason why my nephew should be connected with this matter, I would suggest that you introduce yourself as Mr Blevins to Mrs Taylor and to Miss Ross, should you meet with her, and explain your purpose openly. They are both women of discretion. You may utterly rely on them to keep silence. You may also rely on them to create a convincing tale to account for your presence, should such a tale be necessary. However, Mrs Taylor's cottage is on the edge of the grounds here, removed from the village proper. You may be able to pay your visit without arousing the notice or suspicion of others."
"There is the matter of her daughter, Miss Jenny. Will she not betray me in speaking with her friends and neighbours - in all innocence, as she did the name Beth Willison?"
"Mrs Taylor would likely send her to another room during your interview, but, if you prefer, Mr Johnson can bring her here for a short while. He is Mrs Taylor's brother, so she would have no qualms about leaving Jenny with him, and Jenny will be happy as well. Then you need have no fear of her seeing you at all. Perhaps it would be best if Mr Johnson were to prepare Mrs Taylor for your visit and bring Jenny away at the same time. He is also discreet and will be no danger to you. If you have no objection to waiting another hour more, as Mrs Taylor will not be at home yet, you may visit her to better purpose this evening, when Jenny will have gone. There will be less chance of village folk on the roads and paths then as well."
"Thank you, my lord. I appreciate your advice and assistance; I think your plan a very good one."
"Not at all, my boy. I can well imagine the sufferings of a man of as great and deep sensibilities as Brandon and am eager to see the girl reunited with him as soon as possible. It will be best for her to be with her family in this time."
John looked curiously at the older man as they neared their destination. "You do not seem shocked, sir, at the girl's predicament."
"At first I suppose I was, as I would be at any such happening - I hope I never become so jaded as not to be shocked at all. I have seen too much of the world, however, to think this the first time a young girl has run away from a good home, or from a bad one, and become with child - whether a willing participant or not - and it will not be the last time, neither in my experience nor in yours, my boy. Though I might wish it otherwise, as long as people are foolish, criminal, or merely human, you will surely never be in want of work."
Lord Auldbury fell silent as the two men arrived at the stables. Entering the wide, freshly swept corridor, the Earl inquired of another boy there, and the two men followed the respectfully given directions to the stall where Samuel was occupied in grooming a small bay mare. A well-polished lady's saddle straddled the lower stall door and a bridle hung on a nearby peg. In a corner of the immaculate stall, a young dog lay quietly, with his head lying between the two large paws splayed out before him; his large, adoring eyes followed every move the boy made. As dog and boy heard the approaching footfalls, the long bewhiskered nose and the boy's orange-thatched head came up as one. The pup sat up at attention in his corner as the two men entered the stall while Samuel ceased his labours and snatched off his cap as he recognized his visitors.
"M'lord. Sir." The greeting to Lord Auldbury was deferential. The greeting to John was circumspect - it had been impressed upon the boy when he first came to Auldbury that the name 'Blevins' must not be spoken. As well as being circumspect, the greeting to John Blevins was filled with wary surprise. Although Samuel had told the young lady he had met only the day before that he would not betray her, this sudden confrontation with the very man who had sought her for so long made him uneasy. Instinct battled with pride - the one urging him to tell his benefactor about the encounter, the other holding him silent. The quarrel within began a silent migration to the boy's countenance and traveled on to his idled hands and feet. "I din't 'spect ta see yoo, sir."
"I had some business with his lordship, Samuel. Finding myself at Auldbury, I thought to see how you were getting on."
"I'm very well, sir, thank yoo." As he began to fidget uneasily, passing the cap from one hand to the other, looking down at his feet, and drawing invisible patterns on the bare floor with a booted toe, he drew startled glances from both John and Lord Auldbury, neither of whom had ever seen the boy nervous or known him to fidget. The Earl threw a puzzled look at John, giving the latter to understand that this behaviour was both recent and unexpected.
Before another word could be spoken, an interruption came in the form of Mr Burke, dressed for riding. As befitted a servant who had often met with events unforeseen or startling, his greeting to Mr Blevins showed not the slightest sign of surprise.
"Mr Brownleigh - a pleasure to see you again, sir."
"Thank you, Mr Burke. I am happy to be once again at Auldbury."
"I wish you an enjoyable stay, sir. If you have need of anything - I did not see Mr Simmons in the house - I would be happy to assist you."
John chose to answer the question implicit in the valet's statement. "I am come alone on this occasion and will not be staying long, Mr Burke. I thank you for the offer, however."
The valet was as impeccably dressed as John remembered, and his manner as courteous and respectful, yet there was an air of repressed feeling that John did not understand as the man turned to the Earl. "Have you need of me, your lordship? Shall I stay?"
"Not at all, Burke. Mr Brownleigh and I have a small matter of business in hand, but it need not interfere with your plans, although it might be useful if you can manage without Samuel for a few minutes. Finish with Minerva, Samuel, and lead her for Mr Burke to hold. We would speak with you briefly but will not keep you long. Then you may go with Mr Burke."
"Yes, sir. Lyta's all ready, Mr Burke, an' waitin' fer yoo, an' I'm 'most finished wif Minerva."
"Thank you, Samuel." The valet disappeared in the direction of another stall.
John watched as Samuel competently hefted the waiting saddle above his own small height and onto the back of the small mare. As though expressly to accommodate the diminutive figure working about her, Minerva stood without moving. When the bridle was lifted down from its peg, she lowered her head obligingly to the lad and opened her mouth without prompting to accept the bit. Whatever outing awaited her was clearly to her liking. The boy checked straps and girth and adjusted stirrups with painstaking thoroughness, all the while carefully avoiding Mr Blevins' eyes. After examining all buckles yet again and giving a brief command to the dog - who sat with eyes alert and forelegs braced before him but otherwise motionless, as he had been bid - Samuel led the mare out to the courtyard where Mr Burke waited. The boy's steps dragged as he returned, and his eyes remained fixed on the ground. He came to a reluctant halt before Mr Blevins and Lord Auldbury. The Earl, on the pretext of a remembered message for the valet - thinking the boy might speak his mind more freely to the younger man - left the two alone in the stall.
"Is anything the matter, Samuel? Is something troubling you?"
The struggle within the boy was now clearly apparent; his answer was a compromise. " 'Hit-- 'Hit's not fer me ter say, sir."
John's earlier question - whether Samuel might not have seen and recognized Eliza Williams for who she was - was answered. Following on the heels of Lord Auldbury's glowing report, there could be no other subject that would make the boy so uneasy in Mr Blevins' presence. He smiled as he realized that the lad was most likely trying to keep his word, no doubt extracted from him by the girl. From the old gentleman's puzzlement at Samuel's behaviour, the meeting must have been very recent.
"Perhaps it is not for you to say, but there is no harm in my guessing, is there, Samuel? I will hazard a guess that you have seen Miss Eliza Williams, somewhere in the village, in the last few days. You recognized her as the young lady from Bath and perhaps told her as much. I also have an idea that she asked you not to tell anyone."
Samuel's jaw hung open and he stared at Mr Blevins. He shut his mouth with a gulp. " 'Ow'd ya know, sir? Tho' she din't ask me not ter say nuthin' - she jes' thought I would, an' I 'hup an' tol' 'er I wouldn't. 'Hafter I'd 'ad a chance ta think, tho', I wished I'd not said nuthin', so's I could tell yer. 'Hare ya goin' ta see 'er now, an' talk wif 'er? She'll fink I tol' ya she was 'ere."
"I plan to speak with her still today, Samuel, but as there were several persons in London who told me where she was, I can, in all honesty, make it clear to her that you have not spoken to me - without mentioning you at all, if you had rather I didn't."
"Thank yoo, sir. I wouldn't want anyone ta fink I'd told tales w'en I said I wouldn't. Ya know, sir, 'hif yer wanter take 'er to 'er 'huncle, she won' be fit ter travel - not 'hin 'er condition." The confidential warning, given in all seriousness and concern, amused and touched his listener, but John answered the lad gravely.
"I know of her condition, Samuel. If she can not travel to him, then I hope that her uncle will come to meet her. You can be sure we will take good care of her."
"Thet's good, sir. I--" The lad looked down briefly, then squared his shoulders and met the eyes above him once more. "I 'spect I spoke a bit 'arshly to 'er. 'Hit was such a surprise ta see 'er 'ere - last thing I'd 'hexpected. 'Hall I could think was 'ow 'er 'huncle must be missin' er, an' 'ow 'ard ya'd worked ta find 'er, an' 'ere she was, not lookin' 'shamed 'hat all. She din't look 'appy, tho', prob'ly not feelin' well, an' I'm sorry fer wot I said, now. I 'ope she'll be orl right - 'er 'n 'er chil', too." He spoke confidingly, with a small blush of shame that highlighted his many freckles and rose to clash with the colour of his neatly trimmed hair, little knowing how the confession was raising him in the estimation of the tall young man standing before him as well as the older man standing quietly outside the stall door.
Chapter 10, Part Four
When the discreet knock came at Mrs Taylor's door that evening, she was prepared for it, having had at least thirty minutes to learn of the gentleman she was about to meet - under a different guise than she had last met him - to recover from her surprise, and to be reconciled to his intentions, even thinking them a good idea. A short while later, she had sent her daughter off with Mr Johnson. It had been arranged that Jenny would spend the evening with her aunt and uncle at the Hall and would not return this night to the cottage, going to her cousins at Deepwell Farm instead. She had been volubly excited at the prospect of the unexpected outing and had gone off happily with her uncle - he being fortified by hot tea and carrying a bag with Jenny's things, she chattering gaily and being warmly dressed in her favorite blue cloak. On one arm hung a small covered basket, on the other was cradled her favorite doll, well-wrapped as well, to ward off the chill evening air, and named 'Ruth Johnson' in honour of her aunt.
"Mr Blevins? Do come in. I am pleased to see you once more, sir, although I had not quite foreseen these circumstances for a meeting again." John returned this amiable welcome with a bow and followed Mrs Taylor down a small hall and into the kitchen. "Please forgive me for bringing you here, sir, but this is a very small cottage and Beth is in the parlour. I do understand that you are anxious to see her, but I wished to speak with you privately, without Beth overhearing us, since I have not yet told her you were coming." She had left fresh tea steeping while she went to admit the gentleman. They were soon settled at the small table with steaming cups before them. Mrs Taylor regarded her guest curiously, comparing her impressions of him as the nephew of Lord Auldbury with those of him as someone quite different. She found that her first impressions were not materially changed: Mr Blevins was as well educated, as well turned out and as well spoken as had been Mr Brownleigh. The former came as highly recommended by Lord Auldbury in his own right as had the latter been by virtue of family connection and rank. Despite Mrs Taylor's regard for the Earl's judgement and opinion, however, the best recommendation of the young man in her eyes remained the circumstances of their first meeting, exemplified by his patience with and courtesy towards Jenny - such behaviour being the true mark of a gentleman.
"Thank you for allowing me to come, Mrs Taylor, and for accepting what must have seemed a very mysterious story from Mr Johnson as to my true identity and profession." From his original commission and from the further details with which he had been provided by Betsey Stough and Lord Auldbury, John had readied what he planned to say. Without further ado he delivered a concise speech, ending with his hopes for a speedy reunion between uncle and niece.
Mrs Taylor looked at him thoughtfully. "Although this search has doubtless been a great frustration for you, sir, I am almost glad that you did not learn of Beth's presence during your stay at the Hall. If you had come to see her then, or even a fortnight ago, I very much doubt that she would have agreed to see you, and she would have strenuously opposed your communicating her whereabouts to her uncle. Now, however, she may welcome such an opportunity. She has come to regret what she has done-- oh, not only because it turned out badly, sir," seeing the skeptical look in John's eyes, "but even more that she has grieved her uncle. I believe your visit may be just what she has need of, as she fears that she will no longer be welcomed by the colonel."
"Begging your pardon, madam, but if you knew of Col Brandon, why did you not persuade her to write to him, or why did you not write to him yourself? Can not you imagine the tortures he has been enduring, imagining his niece ill or dead? You yourself have a daughter - how would you bear it if she had gone missing so long?"
Realizing that Mr Blevins had thus far known only one side of this drama, Mrs Taylor bore him no ill will for his query. In his place, she would likely have shared his feelings and asked the same question herself. "I am deeply grateful that I have not found myself in such a circumstance, sir, grateful for every healthy and happy day with Jenny. As to communicating with Col Brandon, please do not think I came to that decision lightly, but Beth has had a difficult time - becoming with child was surely not a part of her admittedly rebellious and foolish plan. At first she told us that she had no family, and we had no way of knowing otherwise. It was only after some weeks that Miss Ross and I recognized her as the child whom we had met thirteen, almost fourteen, years ago - though it is my daughter to whom we are indebted for that discovery," smiled Mrs Taylor. "Once Jenny mentioned a Miss Eliza and a Lt Brandon in the same thought, Beth betrayed herself by her actions, causing us to look at her closely enough to notice the resemblance to the small girl she had been and to her mother. When I broached the subject of writing to her uncle, she became hysterical and threatened to run away again, and I fully believe she was willing and ready to carry out such a threat. We could hardly keep her here by force, sir, and what good would have been accomplished if she had run away again? Here she was safe. We could watch over her and hope that, with time--"
A knock at the window broke into the reasoned argument. Recognizing the face peering through the panes, Mrs Taylor rose to admit Miss Ross.
"Forgive the interruption, Joanna, and you, sir, but Lord Auldbury sent me a rather urgent message saying there was a gentleman here to see Miss Beth, and that I might do well to come along."
The short, plump woman with the greying hair made a sharp contrast to the tall young man, yet both were possessed of a similar air: an air of calm competence, determined purpose, and a refusal to tolerate nonsense. The same description - 'a person who helps people who need help' - could have applied to them both, though their respective spheres of work were so very different. Not having met before, each took the other's measure while Mrs Taylor made the introductions, gave a brief explanation, and provided her friend with refreshment, at the same time refilling Mr Blevins' cup. After a shrewd appraisal of the young man, who looked, at first glance, almost too young for the role he played, Miss Ross spoke. "I was acquainted with Miss Beth and her mother when they lodged with Miss Hetty, thirteen years ago - and Col Brandon, too, of course - and I am very happy to make your acquaintance, sir."
"As am I happy to meet you, Miss Ross. Although his lordship did not tell me of his intention to send you here this evening, I am glad of the opportunity to ask you about Miss Williams' health, so that I may be able to send an accurate and, I hope, encouraging report to her uncle."
"And I am glad that someone has come at last to see about Miss Beth, glad, that is, to know that I did not err in my estimate of the colonel's devotion to his niece. I must admit that my confidence in him was a little shaken when I received no answer to my letter."
John stared at Miss Ross. "Do you mean to say that you wrote to the colonel about his niece, Miss Ross? But he spoke not a word of it - when was it that you wrote? He could not possibly have received it. I am quite sure he would have acted on such a letter immediately."
With an apologetic look at her friend, Miss Ross explained. "Yes, I wrote to Col Brandon - oh, it must have been in June or July, I suppose, not long after we discovered who Miss Beth was. You see, having come to know the colonel as I did during the time of Mrs Brandon's illness - better than anyone else here could have known him, for he rarely left the lady's side - my conscience would have given me no peace had I not attempted to send him word of the girl, for I could well imagine his sufferings. Joanna had promised Miss Beth that she would not betray the girl's whereabouts; I had given no such assurance, and so I wrote. I can only assume my letter went astray - my memory as to directions has never been very good. However, it may have been a blessing in disguise that it did not reach him. I have had faith in a gracious Providence - that all things, even my own blunders or errors in judgement, would somehow work for good. Have you told him that his niece is found, Mr Blevins?"
"No, but I shall write directly I see her. Can you tell me more of Miss Williams? Is she able to travel?"
"You know that she is with child, I presume?" and received confirmatory nods from both Mrs Taylor and Mr Blevins. "She is young and healthy and in no apparent danger, but I expect her confinement will not be long in coming. I would much prefer that she not travel, but if it must be, then certainly no farther than London. Where is the colonel now?"
"He waited in town for several months after his niece's disappearance, hoping for some word, but left London in early summer and has since been dividing his time between Devonshire and Dorsetshire. As I promised to keep him informed of any progress, any new information coming to light, I have his directions and will see he receives the news immediately. Without explaining the reason in detail, I will ask him to come to her. I only hope he will kill neither himself nor his horse in coming. Now," adding a small smile to rob his words of any offense and dividing them equally between the two women, "if I have satisfied all your questions, may I see the young lady?"
Mrs Taylor rose promptly. "Of course, sir, but please do remember that she is already sorry for what she has done. Scolding and reproaching her will do no good. Her spirits have grown ever lower in the last weeks. I do not know if it is simply the nearing of her time or that her conscience is pricking her ever more, but I will not have her upset further. There will be time enough in the coming weeks and months to assign blame and punishment."
For the first time during the interview, a wide, unrestrained grin broke out on John's face as he answered Mrs Taylor. "I assure you, madam, I have no intention of scolding her. That is neither my purpose nor my office. I will leave any and all such doings to her uncle, though after such an agony as he has been in as to whether she were still alive, I doubt he will have the heart to scold. In view of her situation, it rather seems as though her punishment had already begun."
"She is conscious of it, sir. She has been very much cast down these past few days, so much so that, had I not given my word, I would have attempted writing to the colonel myself. Perhaps your arrival and the hope it may offer will serve to lift her spirits. If you will excuse me, sir, I will go now and prepare her to see you."
With her brow wrinkled in thought, Mrs Taylor went down the passage and into the parlour.
A delicate watercolour painting stood before Beth, a painting of a neighbour's child, a girl six years old, who was gravely ill. The mother had begged Beth to finish the likeness quickly, as her daughter was not expected to live long. The tiny thing had sat listlessly, supported by her chair, dressed in her best dress, with her hair carefully arranged. The tableau had torn at Beth's heart and had brought fresh worries in thinking of her own child's future. To bring a smile to the thin face and to distract her own anxious thoughts, Beth had spun aloud stories as she worked, stories about a tiny kitten and a great dog living in the house of a musician. The animals would romp about the house at night, racing up and down stairs, lying in ambush for one another, even 'playing' the instruments arranged in the various rooms. Upon waking, the composer would write music with passages inspired, though quite unwittingly, by the nocturnal antics of his pets, whom he had named, with perhaps a happy prescience on his part, Vivace and Largo Profundo. Beth had sketched a few animal antics from time to time as she talked and worked, to show the child. The delighted giggles thus provoked in the little girl had found its way onto the canvass, and Beth had found herself smiling even as she worked on the sad subject. Today, however, there was no smile. As she sat alone, finishing the last details of the painting, Beth thought little at all of the girl or of the grieving mother. Her distress at meeting the impertinent boy from Bath had capped the toll already taken over the past few days of unexpected happenings. Though working dutifully, she evinced little interest in what was before her. She looked up briefly as Mrs Taylor entered, then returned her eyes to the painting as she touched her brush to one corner.
"Beth, there is a visitor here for you. Will you see him?"
"A visitor for me?"
Mrs Taylor frowned anxiously at the lack of curiosity and interest from the girl, who had not even troubled to look up at the older woman's announcement. "It is a gentleman, sent by your uncle. He wishes to speak with you."
Beth lifted her head to look round-eyed at the older woman. "By... Oh, Mrs Taylor!"
At the girl's distress, Mrs Taylor reassured her. "I will not leave you alone, Beth, but you need not fear him. He is well known to Lord Auldbury, with whose highest recommendation he comes. I have been speaking with him and have found him a very gentlemanly young man. He has impressed me favorably. I promise I shall not let him tire you, but I think you must see him." Although the older woman had deferred to Beth's wishes on more than one occasion in the past, Beth could see that on this occasion the good lady would very likely insist.
"But - what does he want? Does my uncle-- Why did not he-- How did this man find me? Did--" Beth had not told Mrs Taylor of the unpleasant encounter the day before with the rude young boy. She now wondered if, despite his scorn and his boast to the contrary, the boy had told the man whom he claimed to know - perhaps this very man who wished to speak with her now? - exactly where Eliza Williams could be found. The girl stared at the older woman with fear in her eyes.
"I will let him answer your questions himself, my dear." She hesitated a moment. "I must warn you, Beth, he may appear to ask your permission to write to your uncle, to inform him of where you are, but he will not accept 'no' for an answer. He wishes to relieve the colonel's fears at once. I am told that your uncle has missed you terribly and worried over you greatly."
A beginning glimmer of hope widened the blue-grey eyes. "Has he really, truly?" Hope was quickly extinguished by doubt. "If that is so, then he must not know what I have done. When he knows, he will no longer want me."
Mrs Taylor came to sit near Beth, taking the girl's hands firmly into her own. "Beth, your uncle has loved you enough to have sought you ceaselessly for all these months, from the very day you went missing. Even though he may have suspected that you ran away of your own will, he has loved you enough to send this gentleman to search for you. Such a great love can bear much, can forgive much. If you ask his forgiveness, I am certain your uncle will give it. As this gentleman will send a letter to the colonel, would you not like to add a letter to him yourself?"
"Oh, yes - yes, I should--" tears sprang to Beth's eyes, "I should very much like to, but what shall I say? I can not--"
"No, you need not write any details. Only give him reason to think that you long to see him as much as he longs to see you. Can you do so much?" At Beth's nod, she loosed the girl's hands. "I will go and bring our visitor now." With an encouraging smile, she quitted the room, leaving Beth to look after her with tears continuing to pool in her eyes.
Chapter 10, Part 4 ~ A Time to Keep Silence and a Time to Speak
When the discreet knock came at Mrs Taylor's door that evening, she was prepared for it, having had at least thirty minutes to learn of the gentleman she was about to meet - under a different guise than she had last met him - to recover from her surprise, and to be reconciled to his intentions, even thinking them a good idea. A short while later, she had sent her daughter off with Mr Johnson. It had been arranged that Jenny would spend the evening with her aunt and uncle at the Hall and would not return this night to the cottage, going to her cousins at Deepwell Farm instead. She had been volubly excited at the prospect of the unexpected outing and had gone off happily with her uncle - he being fortified by hot tea and carrying a bag with Jenny's things, she chattering gaily and being warmly dressed in her favorite blue cloak. On one arm hung a small covered basket, on the other was cradled her favorite doll, well-wrapped as well, to ward off the chill evening air, and named 'Ruth Johnson' in honour of her aunt.
"Mr Blevins? Do come in. I am pleased to see you once more, sir, although I had not quite foreseen these circumstances for a meeting again." John returned this amiable welcome with a bow and followed Mrs Taylor down a small hall and into the kitchen. "Please forgive me for bringing you here, sir, but this is a very small cottage and Beth is in the parlour. I do understand that you are anxious to see her, but I wished to speak with you privately, without Beth overhearing us, since I have not yet told her you were coming." She had left fresh tea steeping while she went to admit the gentleman. They were soon settled at the small table with steaming cups before them. Mrs Taylor regarded her guest curiously, comparing her impressions of him as the nephew of Lord Auldbury with those of him as someone quite different. She found that her first impressions were not materially changed: Mr Blevins was as well educated, as well turned out and as well spoken as had been Mr Brownleigh. The former came as highly recommended by Lord Auldbury in his own right as had the latter been by virtue of family connection and rank. Despite Mrs Taylor's regard for the Earl's judgement and opinion, however, the best recommendation of the young man in her eyes remained the circumstances of their first meeting, exemplified by his patience with and courtesy towards Jenny - such behaviour being the true mark of a gentleman.
"Thank you for allowing me to come, Mrs Taylor, and for accepting what must have seemed a very mysterious story from Mr Johnson as to my true identity and profession." From his original commission and from the further details with which he had been provided by Betsey Stough and Lord Auldbury, John had readied what he planned to say. Without further ado he delivered a concise speech, ending with his hopes for a speedy reunion between uncle and niece.
Mrs Taylor looked at him thoughtfully. "Although this search has doubtless been a great frustration for you, sir, I am almost glad that you did not learn of Beth's presence during your stay at the Hall. If you had come to see her then, or even a fortnight ago, I very much doubt that she would have agreed to see you, and she would have strenuously opposed your communicating her whereabouts to her uncle. Now, however, she may welcome such an opportunity. She has come to regret what she has done-- oh, not only because it turned out badly, sir," seeing the skeptical look in John's eyes, "but even more that she has grieved her uncle. I believe your visit may be just what she has need of, as she fears that she will no longer be welcomed by the colonel."
"Begging your pardon, madam, but if you knew of Col Brandon, why did you not persuade her to write to him, or why did you not write to him yourself? Can not you imagine the tortures he has been enduring, imagining his niece ill or dead? You yourself have a daughter - how would you bear it if she had gone missing so long?"
Realizing that Mr Blevins had thus far known only one side of this drama, Mrs Taylor bore him no ill will for his query. In his place, she would likely have shared his feelings and asked the same question herself. "I am deeply grateful that I have not found myself in such a circumstance, sir, grateful for every healthy and happy day with Jenny. As to communicating with Col Brandon, please do not think I came to that decision lightly, but Beth has had a difficult time - becoming with child was surely not a part of her admittedly rebellious and foolish plan. At first she told us that she had no family, and we had no way of knowing otherwise. It was only after some weeks that Miss Ross and I recognized her as the child whom we had met thirteen, almost fourteen, years ago - though it is my daughter to whom we are indebted for that discovery," smiled Mrs Taylor. "Once Jenny mentioned a Miss Eliza and a Lt Brandon in the same thought, Beth betrayed herself by her actions, causing us to look at her closely enough to notice the resemblance to the small girl she had been and to her mother. When I broached the subject of writing to her uncle, she became hysterical and threatened to run away again, and I fully believe she was willing and ready to carry out such a threat. We could hardly keep her here by force, sir, and what good would have been accomplished if she had run away again? Here she was safe. We could watch over her and hope that, with time--"
A knock at the window broke into the reasoned argument. Recognizing the face peering through the panes, Mrs Taylor rose to admit Miss Ross.
"Forgive the interruption, Joanna, and you, sir, but Lord Auldbury sent me a rather urgent message saying there was a gentleman here to see Miss Beth, and that I might do well to come along."
The short, plump woman with the greying hair made a sharp contrast to the tall young man, yet both were possessed of a similar air: an air of calm competence, determined purpose, and a refusal to tolerate nonsense. The same description - 'a person who helps people who need help' - could have applied to them both, though their respective spheres of work were so very different. Not having met before, each took the other's measure while Mrs Taylor made the introductions, gave a brief explanation, and provided her friend with refreshment, at the same time refilling Mr Blevins' cup. After a shrewd appraisal of the young man, who looked, at first glance, almost too young for the role he played, Miss Ross spoke. "I was acquainted with Miss Beth and her mother when they lodged with Miss Hetty, thirteen years ago - and Col Brandon, too, of course - and I am very happy to make your acquaintance, sir."
"As am I happy to meet you, Miss Ross. Although his lordship did not tell me of his intention to send you here this evening, I am glad of the opportunity to ask you about Miss Williams' health, so that I may be able to send an accurate and, I hope, encouraging report to her uncle."
"And I am glad that someone has come at last to see about Miss Beth, glad, that is, to know that I did not err in my estimate of the colonel's devotion to his niece. I must admit that my confidence in him was a little shaken when I received no answer to my letter."
John stared at Miss Ross. "Do you mean to say that you wrote to the colonel about his niece, Miss Ross? But he spoke not a word of it - when was it that you wrote? He could not possibly have received it. I am quite sure he would have acted on such a letter immediately."
With an apologetic look at her friend, Miss Ross explained. "Yes, I wrote to Col Brandon - oh, it must have been in June or July, I suppose, not long after we discovered who Miss Beth was. You see, having come to know the colonel as I did during the time of Mrs Brandon's illness - better than anyone else here could have known him, for he rarely left the lady's side - my conscience would have given me no peace had I not attempted to send him word of the girl, for I could well imagine his sufferings. Joanna had promised Miss Beth that she would not betray the girl's whereabouts; I had given no such assurance, and so I wrote. I can only assume my letter went astray - my memory as to directions has never been very good. However, it may have been a blessing in disguise that it did not reach him. I have had faith in a gracious Providence - that all things, even my own blunders or errors in judgement, would somehow work for good. Have you told him that his niece is found, Mr Blevins?"
"No, but I shall write directly I see her. Can you tell me more of Miss Williams? Is she able to travel?"
"You know that she is with child, I presume?" and received confirmatory nods from both Mrs Taylor and Mr Blevins. "She is young and healthy and in no apparent danger, but I expect her confinement will not be long in coming. I would much prefer that she not travel, but if it must be, then certainly no farther than London. Where is the colonel now?"
"He waited in town for several months after his niece's disappearance, hoping for some word, but left London in early summer and has since been dividing his time between Devonshire and Dorsetshire. As I promised to keep him informed of any progress, any new information coming to light, I have his directions and will see he receives the news immediately. Without explaining the reason in detail, I will ask him to come to her. I only hope he will kill neither himself nor his horse in coming. Now," adding a small smile to rob his words of any offense and dividing them equally between the two women, "if I have satisfied all your questions, may I see the young lady?"
Mrs Taylor rose promptly. "Of course, sir, but please do remember that she is already sorry for what she has done. Scolding and reproaching her will do no good. Her spirits have grown ever lower in the last weeks. I do not know if it is simply the nearing of her time or that her conscience is pricking her ever more, but I will not have her upset further. There will be time enough in the coming weeks and months to assign blame and punishment."
For the first time during the interview, a wide, unrestrained grin broke out on John's face as he answered Mrs Taylor. "I assure you, madam, I have no intention of scolding her. That is neither my purpose nor my office. I will leave any and all such doings to her uncle, though after such an agony as he has been in as to whether she were still alive, I doubt he will have the heart to scold. In view of her situation, it rather seems as though her punishment had already begun."
"She is conscious of it, sir. She has been very much cast down these past few days, so much so that, had I not given my word, I would have attempted writing to the colonel myself. Perhaps your arrival and the hope it may offer will serve to lift her spirits. If you will excuse me, sir, I will go now and prepare her to see you."
With her brow wrinkled in thought, Mrs Taylor went down the passage and into the parlour.
A delicate watercolour painting stood before Beth, a painting of a neighbour's child, a girl six years old, who was gravely ill. The mother had begged Beth to finish the likeness quickly, as her daughter was not expected to live long. The tiny thing had sat listlessly, supported by her chair, dressed in her best dress, with her hair carefully arranged. The tableau had torn at Beth's heart and had brought fresh worries in thinking of her own child's future. To bring a smile to the thin face and to distract her own anxious thoughts, Beth had spun aloud stories as she worked, stories about a tiny kitten and a great dog living in the house of a musician. The animals would romp about the house at night, racing up and down stairs, lying in ambush for one another, even 'playing' the instruments arranged in the various rooms. Upon waking, the composer would write music with passages inspired, though quite unwittingly, by the nocturnal antics of his pets, whom he had named, with perhaps a happy prescience on his part, Vivace and Largo Profundo. Beth had sketched a few animal antics from time to time as she talked and worked, to show the child. The delighted giggles thus provoked in the little girl had found its way onto the canvass, and Beth had found herself smiling even as she worked on the sad subject. Today, however, there was no smile. As she sat alone, finishing the last details of the painting, Beth thought little at all of the girl or of the grieving mother. Her distress at meeting the impertinent boy from Bath had capped the toll already taken over the past few days of unexpected happenings. Though working dutifully, she evinced little interest in what was before her. She looked up briefly as Mrs Taylor entered, then returned her eyes to the painting as she touched her brush to one corner.
"Beth, there is a visitor here for you. Will you see him?"
"A visitor for me?"
Mrs Taylor frowned anxiously at the lack of curiosity and interest from the girl, who had not even troubled to look up at the older woman's announcement. "It is a gentleman, sent by your uncle. He wishes to speak with you."
Beth lifted her head to look round-eyed at the older woman. "By... Oh, Mrs Taylor!"
At the girl's distress, Mrs Taylor reassured her. "I will not leave you alone, Beth, but you need not fear him. He is well known to Lord Auldbury, with whose highest recommendation he comes. I have been speaking with him and have found him a very gentlemanly young man. He has impressed me favorably. I promise I shall not let him tire you, but I think you must see him." Although the older woman had deferred to Beth's wishes on more than one occasion in the past, Beth could see that on this occasion the good lady would very likely insist.
"But - what does he want? Does my uncle-- Why did not he-- How did this man find me? Did--" Beth had not told Mrs Taylor of the unpleasant encounter the day before with the rude young boy. She now wondered if, despite his scorn and his boast to the contrary, the boy had told the man whom he claimed to know - perhaps this very man who wished to speak with her now? - exactly where Eliza Williams could be found. The girl stared at the older woman with fear in her eyes.
"I will let him answer your questions himself, my dear." She hesitated a moment. "I must warn you, Beth, he may appear to ask your permission to write to your uncle, to inform him of where you are, but he will not accept 'no' for an answer. He wishes to relieve the colonel's fears at once. I am told that your uncle has missed you terribly and worried over you greatly."
A beginning glimmer of hope widened the blue-grey eyes. "Has he really, truly?" Hope was quickly extinguished by doubt. "If that is so, then he must not know what I have done. When he knows, he will no longer want me."
Mrs Taylor came to sit near Beth, taking the girl's hands firmly into her own. "Beth, your uncle has loved you enough to have sought you ceaselessly for all these months, from the very day you went missing. Even though he may have suspected that you ran away of your own will, he has loved you enough to send this gentleman to search for you. Such a great love can bear much, can forgive much. If you ask his forgiveness, I am certain your uncle will give it. As this gentleman will send a letter to the colonel, would you not like to add a letter to him yourself?"
"Oh, yes - yes, I should--" tears sprang to Beth's eyes, "I should very much like to, but what shall I say? I can not--"
"No, you need not write any details. Only give him reason to think that you long to see him as much as he longs to see you. Can you do so much?" At Beth's nod, she loosed the girl's hands. "I will go and bring our visitor now." With an encouraging smile, she quitted the room, leaving Beth to look after her with tears continuing to pool in her eyes.
Chapter 10, Part 5 ~ A Time to Keep Silent and a Time to Speak
The interview with Mr Blevins had not proven the terrifying ordeal Beth had anticipated. A younger, better-looking man than she had expected, and truly the gentleman Mrs Taylor had described, he had delivered no self-righteous speeches, had uttered no pious platitudes, had demonstrated no judgemental condescension. He had, instead, shown her a grave courtesy as he quietly told of Col Brandon's commission to him and of the colonel's desire to be reunited with her. Several hours later, Beth lay in her bed in the old gamekeeper's cottage, scarcely sleeping for the emotions seething within her, emotions as tangled as the bedclothes had become with her tossing and turning. She longed for the meeting with her uncle, yet feared it as well, being apprehensive about all that the coming days and weeks would bring.
Scarcely a mile away at Auldbury Hall, in a high room overlooking a fine plot of rosebushes, now bereft of their pure white blossoms and bedded for winter, another person lay unable to sleep, beset with tangled emotions as well, though his bedclothes lay cool and taut as if freshly made.
A fine example I shall soon be setting! How would my behaviour today be judged by an impartial observer or critic - as cowardly, prideful, or spiteful? Or perhaps, and more accurately, as prideful cowardice or spiteful pride? I have thought of myself as - have prided myself on being - a gentleman, yet these are not at all gentlemanly traits!
Mr Burke lay in his narrow bed without sleeping. The small room in a corner of the topmost floor of the Hall was quiet and dark, neat as the proverbial pin, betraying little of the personal tastes or inner character of the man who had inhabited it for five and twenty years, betraying even less the inner perturbation plaguing him this night. Since lying down to sleep, he had heard the clock strike past several hours, and still sleep eluded him. He could not stop himself replaying - endlessly and ever more to his own disadvantage - the events of the day, a day that had, moreover, begun with great promise.
After nearly a week of thunderclouds and rain, the sky had cleared the evening before. Brilliantly colouring the sky with orange and fiery red before melting into softer hues of rose and lavender, the sunset had foretold better weather - and had foretold truly. A jovial sun had risen this morn, playfully propelled from the horizon by the same great gust of wind that had driven all clouds from the sky. Bright sun and steady wind had then partnered all the morning, conspiring to dry the sodden roads, paths and fields around Auldbridge. With Lord Auldbury's leave, Mr Burke had sent word early to Miss Rose: If she had time and were willing, he would be pleased to come by with the horses, who had been made very ill-tempered by their recent weather-enforced confinement. Naming the time when her last students would be gone, the teacher had accepted, though in the briefest of messages. Upon receiving it, the valet had begun preparing himself, choosing and arranging particular words into elegant phrases designed to elicit a particular, favorable reply. Meeting Lord Auldbury's nephew in the stables, the valet had feared that the outing must be put off, that his presence might be required at the Hall this afternoon, but the Earl had set his fears to rest with a few quiet words. As the day had begun well, so had the afternoon promised much...
The valet and the teacher set off in the mild mid-afternoon sun, winding their way on village lanes, across fall-fragranced meadows, and through old, stately woods. Their path under tall trees was pleasant and varied: here they trod on a carpet of freshly fallen yellow leaves, there on a bed of last season's weathered needles. Emerging into sunshine from a dark, narrow lane o'erarched with evergreen branches, Mr Burke paused, allowing Miss Rose to draw up beside him. As they had ridden away from the cottage, leaving Samuel to run several errands in the village, the teacher's manner had been reserved and cool, much more so than at their last parting. Mr Burke had puzzled a silent mile or two over the alteration but had finally charged it to the account of some more-than-usually recalcitrant student. As they now stood still, at the edge of a large expanse of golden field, Miss Rose appeared happier again and more at ease. Obviously enjoying the sun that warmed her face and drew heady scents out of earth and grass, she breathed a deep sigh of contentment. "Everything seems so fresh and new today. Are we, perhaps, come to the great meadow? It must be very recently cut, or is it only the rain and sun have made it seem so? How wonderful it is here in the autumn, just after the harvest!"
"It is wonderful, indeed, but the meadow's greatness has yet another attraction." In response to the quizzical glance and the head cocked in his direction, he explained. "Do you not remember how smooth and clear of obstacles it is when cut? I thought you might care once again for a gait rather swifter than a walk or trot." Unsure of how the horses would behave and unsure, despite the proof of it before his eyes, how well Miss Rose would sit her mount, sightless and after years with no practice, on their previous outings Mr Burke had held to a modest pace.
"Shall we, shall we really?" Mr Burke's suggestion was met with an endearing, childlike eagerness in tone and expression. "How I have longed for it! How I should enjoy it! But - how shall we manage? I could not wish it at the risk of a stumble for Minerva, at the cost of an injury to her, since I am not able to guide her aright. She does not deserve such mistreatment. No, do not tempt me so - I must forego it."
"I would not for the world tempt you to evil, but this, I believe, may be arranged in all safety and tend only to good. If you will permit me--" Mr Burke reached into his bag. Guiding Lyta nearer the other horse, he bent to fasten one end of a lead to a ring on Minerva's noseband. With her firm hold on the reins, Miss Rose noticed the slight tug on the bridle and leaned forward to feel for the cause. Her exploring fingers met those of Mr Burke, who gently took and guided her hand to the attached lead, briefly closing his hand about hers in mute apology for the indignity of the leather line, which in former times she would have resented and scorned. Today she made no protest, only sitting back with heightened colour and quickened breath while her companion adjusted the length of the strong line that now hung between them. "There! Minerva will have no choice but to follow where Lyta goes. I promise I shall not allow you to stumble into ditch or hole, nor allow Minerva to take it into her head to go her own way. Will this serve to satisfy your scrupulous conscience? Shall we?"
"Oh, yes!"
Having assured himself with a final glance that all was ready, and seeing that Miss Rose was herself prepared, Mr Burke pressed his heels to Lyta's smooth flanks and urged her on, keeping careful watch ahead for anything that might prove a danger. Though beginning slowly, the horses were soon flying over the even ground, proving themselves as eager for this lack of restraint as were their riders. They galloped the length of the long field and even farther, until the path became too narrow for them to remain abreast at such a pace. Mr Burke reined Lyta in until both horses came to a reluctant walk. Horses and riders alike had thrilled to the rush of wind in their faces, and the horses to the full use of their powerful bodies. The animals tossed their heads against the now-unwelcome curb, their nostrils open and flaring. They were only too ready to be off again at the slightest encouragement but condescended to walk obediently.
Mr Burke turned to regard Miss Rose, a little anxious lest the experiment proved to have been too much for even this practiced horsewoman. The sight that met his eyes gladdened his heart and served only to confirm him in his plan. The teacher's cheeks were stung into a fresh colour, her eyes sparkled, and her hair was blown into disorder, her hairpins not having been placed earlier in the day with a thought to such a testing. The face she turned in her companion's direction bore a brilliant smile as she leaned forward to offer Minerva the praise that was her due for such a delightful experience, stroking the warm, glossy neck and smoothing the wind-tangled mane. Mr Burke rejoiced to see Miss Rose's unbridled joy and the grateful smile that, surely, offered him hope and encouragement in his further intentions.
"That was marvelous, Mr Burke! Such an agreeable surprise - thank you! I only wish we might have gone on for much longer. How good it is to feel so wild and free once more!" With a final pat for her mount, she sat back, reaching one hand to feel at her own tumbled mass of hair and grimacing, though the grimace soon gave way to a fresh smile. "Such freedom comes at a price, I see. I must look a terribly uncivilized sight, though I would not have exchanged this for all the hairpins in England, and I certainly seem to have lost a goodly number of mine! You may laugh, sir, but you have not been confined as I have been and can therefore have no notion what a release such swift and easy movement can be. Now, sir, since you have brought me to this deplorable state, are you as well prepared as you were two and twenty years ago? Have you, perhaps, a comb to spare that I may tidy my hair and anchor it more firmly before we proceed? I shall have to make do with the pins remaining to me, for I would not expect to find even you carrying ladies' hairpins. If I bring you shame in my appearance, you have only yourself to blame."
" 'Tis blame I shall gladly bear. As it happens, I do have a comb but, alas, no hairpins." They halted. The proffered comb exchanged hands. The horses stood quietly, and Mr Burke watched as the teacher worked to put her hair to rights once more. "Disordered as your hair may be, it is a disarray most becoming to you, my dear-- Miss Rose. To make amends for catching you unawares and unprepared today, perhaps I may yet find out a few of your pins." Loosing the lead he still held, the valet turned and walked several paces back, looking to see if he could spy some of the errant pins, or anything else lost in their flight, and calling over his shoulder, "If this has given you such pleasure, we must do it again - soon and often, and not only in the great meadow, but on other paths where we may do so in safety. There will surely be many such, and we shall discover them all, I promise you."
Miss Rose's response to this handsome offer came only after several minutes and seemed unaccountably distant.
From what she had heard, there would be little time for more such occasions, as he might be leaving the Hall, leaving the neighbourhood. Perhaps it would be best to make no firm plans, best not to commit himself when he might not be able to keep his word. He would surely have many demands placed on his remaining time, many appointments and persons requiring his presence. In such circumstances, she would not wish to hold him to his promise.
Unsuccessful in his searching and surprised by Miss Rose's words, Mr Burke turned back in time to see the leather line that had stretched between them slither to the ground. The teacher had finished with her hair and had loosed the lead from her bridle. It lay in a dark coil at Minerva's feet, looking much like a serpent waiting to strike. The valet dismounted to gather it up, remounting the tall chestnut mare in one smooth, easy motion. As he packed the sturdy line away again, he thought to tease his companion a little, for her words, formal as they were, betrayed an unwonted behaviour on her part. "Where can you have heard such an item of news? My dear Miss Rose, have you been listening to gossip? You, of all persons! What an example is this to be setting? What shall your pupils say?" As the mock horror of his tone brought no answering raillery, he looked more closely at his companion and was taken aback by the change in her manner, so plain to see. All light and animation had fled, leaving a polite mask, a manner reserved, withdrawn. "Why, Miss Rose, is anything the matter? Truly, I meant no offense." Seeing her hand stretched out stiffly to return him the comb, he came near to take and replace it in a pocket, but his eyes remained fixed on her face. He was bewildered at the sudden reversion to coldness, knowing of no reason for it.
The lady hesitated but briefly.
She had heard that he was to be leaving Lord Auldbury. Was that merely gossip, or was it true?
Mr Burke felt disappointment flooding him. He had wanted to share his news with Miss Rose - the offer Lord Auldbury had made him - before she heard of it by other means, had looked forward to the communication of it, had planned to do so this very day, but he had not reckoned with - or had forgotten - the plentiful resources for news dissemination to be found in Auldbridge, for news here traveled swift as an arrow launched from a bow tightly strung and always held at the ready. Though the time was no longer of his choosing, he could but answer the question, now that it had been asked. The valet found himself matching formality with formality.
It was true. His lordship had decided that he might be of greater service elsewhere. He had been offered another position and had accepted it.
He had told her nothing of it.
It had been... a recent development. He had not known if his lordship would wish the subject broadcast so soon.
Like most subjects meant to be secret in a country village, then, she fancied it was known to almost all.
The horses walked on for several paces, leaves rustling softly beneath their hooves while no human sound was heard. Miss Rose broke the lengthening silence.
Might she be allowed to offer her congratulations? She wished him every happiness in his new position. She earnestly hoped that his prospects were as good as he deserved and that he would have pleasant company wherever it was he were going, but of that he was assured, of course. Where was he to go? And when?
Mr Burke - uncertain of what she was referring to, wondering what details had been created or stretched out of all recognition in the dissemination of this tale - attempted to regain a lighter tone.
So there were some things that had remained secret - the gossipmongers had not been able to find everything out.
This attempted wit, too, went unacknowledged. Mr Burke was dismayed to find that his discretion, perhaps excessive, and others' indiscretions, likely not lacking in imaginative invention, had joined in a manner to wound the teacher's feelings. Although he did not understand the exact cause of the lady's displeasure, a most serious displeasure it seemed to be. The valet's expression became sober, his words, even more guarded.
She was only too kind. The position was much better than he deserved, but he was well pleased to accept it. The final arrangements had not yet been made. It was only certain that by the new year he would no longer be at the Hall. As for company and companions, they were sure to be as pleasant as those he had ever known, though perhaps not quite as varied as during all the years of wandering with his lordship.
The smile that accompanied these last words was genuine, though a little anxious, as Mr Burke awaited some illumination as to what the teacher had heard. The gentleman waited, too, for some mark of more particular curiosity and interest from Miss Rose, but he could read nothing from the face that only minutes before had been so open towards him and was now so closed. Miss Rose's next words, when they came, served as neither enlightenment nor encouragement.
He would be missed, she was sure.
He was most obliged to her. That was a pleasant thought, although being missed by certain persons would have greater meaning and comfort than being missed by others.
Mr Burke waited again, though with ever dwindling expectations, for a reply that would restore to him some measure of hope. The lady hesitated.
She was quite certain Lord Auldbury would miss him. He had been invaluable to the Earl for so long that she was astonished that his lordship would consent to let him go at all, to say nothing of asking him to leave. She had also been told, on good authority, that Samuel had taken a great liking to him, that he approved of him. The lad seemed to look on him as a mentor, almost as he did Stephen, and would miss him as such. Ralph Gilbert would surely miss the able fiddler he had become, and all their acquaintance would be the poorer by being deprived future concerts from the two of them. Surely such persons were those by whom it would be a comfort to be missed.
Miss Rose's careful enumeration of persons and her references to his musical accomplishments might have been meant as pleasantries, but for her unchanged countenance - the absence of any smile accompanying the words.
Ah, yes - his lordship, Samuel and Ralph. They were certainly among those by whom he would count it an honour to be missed, young Samuel especially. By all accounts, the lad approved of Miss Rose, as well. They should both deem it a high privilege to be so favored - there were few enough of whom Samuel did approve. He suspected the boy had an exacting standard for those he deemed worthy of esteem. He was relieved to hear he had met that standard. She had certainly proposed a short list of those who would miss him, but a list according to the same high standards she had always held.
Disappointment coloured Mr Burke's even tones with a hint of sarcasm, though so subtle, and cloaked in words as diffident and polite as ever, that few would have noticed save those who knew him well. Miss Rose hastened to amend the list.
There would be others, of course - Miss Ross and Mr Burns, as often as he had taken them things sent by Lord Auldbury - medicines and preparations for Miss Ross and new implements and plans for Mr Burns. Mr Johnson and Mr Carter had benefited from all that he had brought back from his travels, and the Hobarts, for custom on behalf of Lord Auldbury as well as for himself, and-- and so many others...
The particular admission that Mr Burke most desired to hear had not been forthcoming. So had ended all hope of a return to more pleasant and more intimate conversation. So, too, had ended Mr Burke's particular hopes for this outing. There had been no recapturing the elation and warmth of earlier moments. The gulf that yawned between them was not to be bridged as they had held each other off with quiet words of exaggerated courtesy for the remainder of the outing, to the small cottage on the High Street where Samuel waited for them. Dismounting before Mr Burke could reach her, offering scant thanks and a brief farewell, Miss Rose had disappeared behind her door.
As he lay abed and slept not, Mr Burke pondered the course of the afternoon's events, events that had unfolded so disastrously, so differently than he had imagined they would. What was it about his news that had so disturbed Miss Rose? Was it that he was leaving Lord Auldbury, or that he had not told her so himself? That he was, according to gossip, leaving the village? Her tone had been especially chill at the mention of his future companions. What was it she had heard about the company among whom he would take a place? The answer would be an interesting bit of fabrication he would most like to hear, as it would perforce require the greatest degree of invention. Then, too, Mr Burke was not certain why he had himself evaded certain questions. Why had he been unwilling to speak at once and openly about the nature of his new position? He had intentionally misled the teacher with his response that Lord Auldbury wished the subject to remain secret. On the contrary, his lordship had given him all encouragement to speak with Miss Rose, the Earl knowing his valet's mind and knowing, too, that his former governess was, of all things, discreet. Was he himself hurt that she had been willing to listen to gossip and that she had not pressed him for details, that she had not shown more interest in his plans? Was he so grown so petty? Could it be that there was more spite in him than he had supposed, that he wished this woman, who had once been dearest to him, to suffer for refusing him? If so, then perhaps it was not at all love he felt for her now, but rather a desire to gain her good favor simply to revenge himself on her, for a true love should not delight in such perverseness. Could it be that his pride and vanity simply wished its portion of sopping, that he wished to hear her say plainly that she would miss him if he were to leave the neighbourhood? Or was it possible that he was afraid to speak plainly - afraid to ask the question he had thought to ask this day? Despite the encouragement he had received - whether given openly or subtly, from Miss Beth, from Mr Hobart, from Lord Auldbury, from Miss Ross, and even from the lady herself, or so he had thought - the simple, unpalatable truth might be that he was afraid. If the answer were 'yes', he would be obliged to give up the comfortable, venerable position he now occupied - being pitied and admired by all. "The gentleman with the broken heart - so unwaveringly loyal, so devotedly deserving - restlessly following 'round after his broken-hearted master" - or so 'twas sighed and whispered behind his back. Stepping down from that lofty pedestal to join and lose himself in the masses of uninteresting, unbroken-hearted persons would cost him the romantic distinction he had held for twenty years, a distinguished mantle become comfortable with time. But perhaps he was equally afraid of the answer being 'no', acknowledging that he could not, would not hold out hopes of asking again, afraid of finding himself finally freed, at loose ends, but too old - and too afraid - to begin anything anew.
Chapter 10, Part 6
After a restless night and little sleep, Mr Burke rose long before first light. With a determined countenance returning him look for ghostly look in the glass as he performed his ablutions by lamplight, he decided - despite the disappointments of yesterday - on a new course, a fresh beginning. Completing his morning duties for Lord Auldbury, Mr Burke was asked to carry a message to Miss Ross. Although such errands formed no part of his normal tasks, nor of his newly laid plans, this particular errand was not unwelcome, and he set out briskly on the path to the village. Soon reaching the cottage shared by the nurse and the teacher, he knocked and stepped back to await an answer. The door was opened by Miss Ross, just occupied in closing a large leather bag. Whether he was more disappointed or relieved at its being Miss Ross and not Miss Rose, he showed no sign of either. The nurse greeted him in surprise. "Why, Mr Burke! I was not expecting you! Oh, please do excuse my lack of manners, sir - good morning. Come in, come in, sir. I hope you are well?"
"Good morning, Miss Ross. I am well, thank you, and hope you are the same. I have come with a message from his lordship: I am to tell you that the carriage is ready and will be by within the next quarter hour. Should you have need of anything further, his lordship would be pleased to help in any way; you have only to call upon him. May I add my own good wishes - for a safe journey to London and a pleasant and successful stay? I do hope there is nothing amiss?"
"Thank you, Mr Burke. No, nothing at all amiss, it is only a visit I will pay for a short while. It did, however, come unexpectedly, so I am very grateful to his lordship for the offer of his carriage. I do not anticipate needing anything out of the ordinary, but please thank him once more for his generosity. If all goes well, I shall return soon. Do stay for a few minutes - come into the parlour, and I will call Rose. I am sure she will be pleased to learn you are here." The nurse looked the picture of innocence as she spoke and urged him farther into the cottage, but her words were disingenuous. Though her friend had said nothing the previous evening, she had returned silent and withdrawn from her afternoon's outing. Miss Ross had had no time to inquire further, since not long after the teacher's return, she herself had been summoned to Mrs Taylor's cottage, to meet the mysterious stranger come to see Miss Beth. Upon her return, she had found her friend already retired, and this morning had found her still unwilling to speak. Miss Ross took Mr Burke's agreement for granted, allowing him no opportunity to refuse and ushering him into the parlour before he had time to protest or escape.
Finding himself alone, Mr Burke did not sit as he had been bid. Though not restless in body, his mind inclined to an unaccustomed, troublesome lack of clarity after his sleepless night, and he preferred to move about. Placing his hat and gloves on a small table, he slowly circled the room, much as Beth had done so many months before, and looked at each painting hung on the walls, recognizing some, for he had been present at their creation. As he came to the drawing of himself standing with the two horses at the crossroads, he paused to consider it, for this drawing he did not know, though the occasion was still clear in his mind, and he smiled as he recalled it. The smile faded as he considered the tall stone cross standing behind the horses at the fork in the road, its two arms stretched as if pointing out a choice to be made. After another glance at his own figure, seeming somehow smaller in the foreground, he moved on. Coming next to the writing table, he spied the single, perfect rose so lovingly preserved under glass. He hesitated, then took it up carefully to examine it, to confirm his recollection of its origins. Gazing through the glass and into the past, he stood motionless, remembering an evening of dance, white filmy skirts against dark cloth, a glowing face with brilliant eyes and smile turned up to him, the hand laid trustingly on his arm, a walk in a late summer moonlit garden, the air heavy with the scent of roses, a certain question he had carefully framed, and the reply that had filled him with quiet delight. So intent was he on his memories and on the possible significance of the memento so tenderly preserved and set in a place of prominence that he did not hear Miss Rose enter the room. He started as he heard a voice behind him, a voice strained and ill at ease, with all the awkward formality of yesterday still evident.
She had not expected him today. Would he not sit down? Would he not take some tea?
The woman's face mirrored the strained tones, and there were dark shadows under the sightless hazel eyes. Her fingers were unwontedly restless, worrying the lacy edges of a fine handkerchief.
Silently replacing the frame, he turned to face the teacher but remained standing, certain now of what he intended. "No, thank you, Miss Rose. Please excuse me for coming at such an early hour and without asking your leave. I came with a message from Lord Auldbury for Miss Ross, but I would have come regardless. After our parting yesterday, I felt I must beg your forgiveness."
The handkerchief fluttered unnoticed to the floor as Miss Rose sank abruptly onto a chair close behind her, her hands gripping its carved arms. "My forgiveness? There is nothing at all for me to forgive, sir. You have done nothing, nothing requiring forgiveness. On the contrary, it is I who should apologize, for I was most ungracious yesterday, repaying your great kindness with a fit of pique."
"You are being gracious today in recompense, then, and yesterday you had cause for ungraciousness, for I gave you cause to question our friendship, cause to distrust my motives. I had planned to tell you of Lord Auldbury's offer to me, but I did not know precisely how. In my desire to be cautious, I waited too long. I kept silence when I should have spoken. Had I told you sooner, you would have been spared the disagreeable surprise of ignorant gossip, which is so often misleading or completely false. I have only one defense: that I never expected you to believe any tales you might hear. You have always been so opposed to all forms of tale-bearing, refusing even to listen to - much less credit or take part in - what is spoken so loosely."
The teacher's cheeks stained pink. "My principles did not stand up well in the face of gossip in which I felt a keen interest myself, did they? I can justly be accused for condemning the speck in my neighbours' eyes and ignoring the log in my own."
Mr Burke smiled, his spirits heartened by the confession. "You would be far too high above the rest of us all if you did not slip now and again from the high standards you set, my dear. But I am afraid I enabled your fall and will therefore claim my share of the blame. Since I did not take care to anticipate what you would hear, I should have told you all my news yesterday, when you asked of it, and not teased you by withholding any part of it. I hoped that you might press me for more, and I was hurt when you did not. It was petty of me. Such conduct does not meet the standards I expect of myself. Please forgive me."
"There is nothing to forgive, truly!" The words were spoken so softly that Mr Burke stooped to hear them. Though she said no more, he was encouraged by the tone of those few words and seated himself on the edge of the chair nearest her.
"When I invited you to ride yesterday, I planned to tell you everything at once. You may think meanly of my new prospects, but you had every right to know of them, and to hear of them from me, since I wish very much for you to be connected with them - intimately. As you have admitted an interest in my news, I will take courage from that and ask you, once again, if you will consent to marry me. I have wearied you with unwelcome attentions in the past. Be assured that if you wish it, I will not speak of it again."
Falling silent, Mr Burke looked intently at the small woman who sat before him. Her hands were still now. Her face gave nothing away, telling nothing of agitation or displeasure, but also nothing of joy or gratification. The eyes that were kept from taking in the world were as well able to keep their own counsel. The moments stretched into minutes as the only sounds to be heard were the gentle ticking of a clock, the creak of a door closing in the distance, and the rattle of a carriage in the street. Fearing that an answer after so much thought could only be unfavorable, the gentleman's face fell. He stood and began to take his leave, assuring her once more that he would not raise the subject again. As he moved to gather up his things and quit the room, a small hand grasped at his sleeve.
"Please do not go, Mr Burke! If I have been so long mute, it is only because I am astonished - struck dumb - at your generosity of spirit. Your attentions have never been wearisome or unwelcome; on the contrary, they have been flattering in their sincerity. You have always behaved in a gentlemanlike manner - graciousness and kindness itself. It is I who have been ungracious and unkind. Yesterday I was not only ungracious but hurt, angry and jealous as well. I will not attempt to enumerate my debts to you before yesterday, for fear you will reconsider and withdraw your offer, but I must hear that you can forgive me, sir, before I may venture to answer your question."
The gentleman turned back, his face warmed and lit with hope once more, his fatigue fallen away and forgotten as he eagerly took the hand that clung to his sleeve into his own. Ignoring the chair he had just abandoned, he knelt before her, reaching for her other hand as well. "I do forgive you, my dearest Rose. Your hurt and anger were entirely understandable - my enigmatical and blundering words would have tried a saint's patience - but of whom or of what can you possibly have to be jealous?"
Miss Rose blushed and temporized. "I was hurt and angry that you had not told me your news yourself - hurt that you had not trusted me with something of importance concerning your future and angry to be caught unawares by hearing the news in a public place. I had overheard it - at least the bare fact of your to be leaving Lord Auldbury - several days ago in the baker's shop. I had also heard..." The colour deepened in her face as her voice trailed off and her head bent down.
The unwonted confusion and humility spreading over her countenance made for a sight to which Mr Burke was not accustomed. He could only think how much they became her as he loosed one hand to draw the bowed head up with a gentle finger under her chin. "What can you have heard, my dear?"
Though reluctant to display her weakness, she had gone too far to retreat. Steeling herself, she determined to make a full confession and to accept the penance that was her due, even if it were a lowering of herself in his esteem. "That you had been seen in the village with a very pretty young woman - a widow, a Mrs Wellborough - that you had taken her to see Mr Grahame--"
Deep laughter interrupted this recital and filled the small room as Mr Burke's last fears were relieved. "My dear Rose - you who have so long disdained of gossip and pointed out all its wrongs and pitfalls - you of all persons should know how untrustworthy are the idle tales that the folk here delight to spin from whatever they chance upon, spinning elaborate tales from the merest cobwebs of substance. I did indeed escort a Mrs Wellborough and we did speak with Mr Grahame, but not for the purposes that some persons evidently deduced. The lady is a cousin of mine, from Kent. She came to speak with Lord Auldbury. Since her husband died several years ago, leaving her with no children, she has been working with Miss Hannah More as an ardent supporter of that great lady's causes. It was from Miss More that she learned of Lord Auldbury's proposed school here in Auldbridge; my cousin hopes to take part in it. She came unexpectedly, so his lordship asked me to show her a little of the neighbourhood, as he was occupied with previous engagements, and to introduce her to Mr Grahame, since credit for proposing the school belongs to him. My, my! So that is why you were so cool yesterday - you had credited me with keeping all manner of secrets from you - keeping a mysterious tryst with another woman - abusing your trust abominably. Although my cousin is a charming woman, you have no cause for jealousy, I assure you, though, had I known of your feelings, I might have had greater cause to hope."
Miss Rose's students would not have recognized their stern teacher in the woman who blushed so furiously, so sheepishly. "Now I have even more reason to feel ashamed. Are you certain, sir, that you would not rather have a wife less foolish, less prideful, less blind, than I am?"
"I am quite, quite certain. I have many faults of my own, as you doubtless know or shall discover, so I can not promise that you will gain the greater benefit from the bargain. But you have not yet answered my question. I can not offer you a title or a fortune or an estate, my dear, but only excellent references as to my qualifications and my ardent desire to bear with your infirmities, if only you will bear with mine. I offer you my love for as many years as are left to me. Will you accept an old, greying man as your husband?"
She hesitated briefly, then loosed her hands from his. A mischievous smile spread o'er her flushed face as she leaned forward a little awkwardly and reached tentatively towards the gentleman, gently grazing his face with sensitive fingers before meeting with the disparaged feature. "You are not being thoroughly honest with me, sir, for you have not a single grey hair to your name."
Startled, Mr Burke reached to take hold once more of the hands that were smoothing his dark hair. "How is this? Have you added clairvoyance to your many talents? How can you possibly know the colour of my hair? What manner of secrets are you now keeping from me, dear lady?"
The low laugh bubbling up from a deep well that had been so long dry and the playful look on the teacher's face turned back the years, and they were once more twenty and four and twenty, with light and hopeful hearts, ready to laugh with one another, easy in one another's company. "You need not fear, sir. I will not remain silent and tease you by withholding any secrets. You should be made aware, sir, that in the course of the past months, you have quite taken the fancy of another young lady here in the village - a lady of great discrimination and the best of good taste. I have chanced to overhear a great deal of admiration of your good looks, your gentlemanly behaviour, and your excellent character."
"I see. Who might this admirer be, and how is it you were not stirred to jealousy by her in addition to my cousin? Are you not afraid that, knowing of the existence of this lady, I might, even now, turn my attentions to her?"
The answering sigh was exaggerated, the smile, saucy. "I suppose I must accept such a risk. Your greatest admirer, sir, is Miss Julia Hobart. She is especially enamoured of your fine thick hair, with not yet one grey strand among the dark - or so she has said, and I have always found her to be a most observant young lady. You are her model for a husband, and she has vowed to marry only a gentleman as fine as you are, sir. With such a rival for your affections and such compliments to recommend you to me, how could I possibly refuse you now?"
In the midst of their banter, Mr Burke's question had almost been forgotten, but Miss Rose's last words recalled it and served to bring very different expressions to their faces. As though in a mirror, two playful grins faded, two faces grew tender and grave. With words now as eloquent and heartfelt as had ever been penned by romantic wordsmiths through ages of literature, Mr Burke and Miss Rose exchanged more serious thoughts, coming to an understanding both had thought impossible only twenty hours before - a more mature, enduring understanding than had been possible twenty years before. Many things had been left unsaid over the past weeks and years, creating a growing rift between them. With open and honest speech, the great rent was being mended. Turning their backs on what lay behind and looking forward to the future, they determined to press onward together through whatever brambly thickets or shadowed valleys lay ahead, as thickets and valleys they both acknowledged there would surely be. As Mr Burke finally rose to return to the Hall, Miss Rose caught at his sleeve once more.
"We have spoken of many things, sir, but you have not yet told me what it is you will be doing. Am I not to know until after we are married? However shall I know what wedding clothes to prepare, what things to pack if I do not know where it is we shall live?"
At this return to teasing, the colour rose in Mr Burke's face, for he had completely forgotten the point he had been at such pains to rectify in coming to the cottage - to tell her of the prospect that had been offered him. Despite all they had spoken of in the span of some sixty minutes, the subject that had been the seed of sore misunderstanding the day before had not again entered their thoughts or words.
"Should I dread telling you? Be warned - it may cause you to reconsider your answer to me! I am to be headmaster of Lord Auldbury's school, my dear. Can you bear with yet more children, and likely difficult ones, surrounding us for years to come? Can you bear to stay here in Auldbridge, in some modest dwelling? Can you bear for your husband to have such a lowly position?"
Miss Rose's eyes opened wide, and she searched for two hands that reached to meet and clasp hers. "Not only will I bear such a husband, but I will be in great danger of bursting with pride. What a splendid opportunity! I am sorry to say I never thought of the school in connection with either of us. Although I had not expected to teach children for as long as I have, and did not ever expect to enjoy it as much as I have, I can now clearly see the hand of Providence in so many things. You are indeed the husband prepared in all ways to help me where I am weak, and I do hope you will allow me to do the same wherever and whenever and however you may have need. May God grant me to be a loving, gracious helpmeet to you. I could not - and shall not - ask for more."
Chapter 10, Part 7 ~ A Time to Speak and a Time to Keep Silent
Although such a happy outcome to the unhappy trials and tribulations of Miss Rose and Mr Burke would, only one week before, have been most interesting and gratifying to Beth - flattering her, perhaps, in her role as matchmaker and confidante - she now had little interest in the romances of others or, indeed, in any circumstances other than her own.
Eloquent though John Blevins had been in his interview with Beth, eloquence had hardly been necessary. The girl had needed only the merest encouragement to consider a meeting with her uncle, and that encouragement had been abundantly supplied, first by Mrs Taylor and then by Mr Blevins, as he told of his commission and represented the colonel's fears and longings during the long months since his niece had gone missing from Bath. As the young gentleman spoke, silent tears had slipped down Beth's cheeks, she at long last understanding the depth of her uncle's sufferings from her absence. Two letters were written in Mrs Taylor's parlour the very evening of John's arrival in Auldbridge and were sent off at first light the next day.
October --, 18--
Colonel C. Brandon
Dear Sir,
It is with great satisfaction that I write today to tell you that Miss Williams has been found. I have both seen and spoken with her. Let me hasten to assure you that she is well - she has been well looked after. The young lady is most anxious to see you, though uncertain of your desire to see her after so many months, uncertain of your willingness to forgive her. She seems truly repentant for her behaviour, as will doubtless be made plain in her own letter, which I herewith enclose. The woman with whom she has been lodging since May testifies to her great change of heart and claims that she has been no trouble. On the contrary, for many months now, she has been of great assistance and comfort to several persons.
By the time you receive these letters, your niece will be in London, in the company of Mrs Joanna Taylor and Miss Tabitha Ross, two respectable women whom you may yourself remember from some years ago. I would urge you to come as soon as you are able, sir, as I do not think it wise for the young lady to travel to Dorsetshire at this time. If you will send me word of your arrival in town, I will be pleased to take you to Miss Williams.
Sincerely,
Delaford, Dorsetshire
Mr J. Blevins
October --, 18--
Dear Uncle,
I am sorry - so very, very sorry - that I ran away from the Robertsons in Bath and that I did not write to you sooner to ease the concern you have felt for me. I am sorry that I caused you to worry about me, sorry that I have disappointed you. Though I do not deserve it, I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me. I am giving this letter to Mr Blevins, who has promised that he will see you receive it directly. I will leave it to him to arrange how we shall meet, if you still wish it. I so long to see you, uncle!
Begging your forgiveness, and hoping she is still
your Beth
While these letters were making their way to Col Brandon - marked with greatest urgency and winged by a generous supply of funds, to ensure a change of horses however often it should be needed - Beth packed her few belongings and was accompanied to town by Miss Ross and Mrs Taylor. When confronted by the prospect of her uncle coming to Auldbridge, Beth had quailed inwardly and had begged to leave the neighbourhood. She could not bear the thought of the further waves of talk that would doubtless convulse the village at her uncle's arrival, yet neither could she bear to go to his lodgings in St. James' Street to wait for him, despite how often she had been there and how well she was known to his servants. Miss Ross had come forward with a proposal made to her by Lord Auldbury, should it be needed or wanted, and Beth, having all her reservations as to propriety or payment soon persuaded away, had finally accepted. It was the Earl himself who had lent his carriage to the women and offered the use of his house in London. Mrs Taylor had quickly arranged for Jenny to stay with her cousins for several days more and for a neighbour to take the shop and post office for her. Mr Blevins had returned to town ahead of the women, carrying a letter and instructions for Lord Auldbury's staff. With that task accomplished, he waited for the expected message from Col Brandon, which, he was convinced, would not be long in coming. Putting the time of waiting to good use, he applied himself with renewed energy and conviction to the unfinished business that had been interrupted by Willie Barton's news some two days before.
Arrived in London, Beth grew ever more anxious, despite the best efforts of Miss Ross and Mrs Taylor to divert her with words of reassurance and hope and with as many humorous anecdotes as they could call to mind. The girl scarcely heard their kind words as she wondered hourly about the letters. How far had they traveled? Would they find her uncle at Delaford, or with his friends in Devonshire, or at his sister's estate? When would he receive them? Perhaps he had received them, was reading them, had already read them! What would be his reaction? Would he come at once, interrupting whatever it was he was doing, or would he first fulfill outstanding obligations and appointments? Would he come at all? Mr Blevins seemed to expect him as soon as the journey to London could be accomplished. Despite his assurances and those of Miss Ross and Mrs Taylor on this point, Beth entertained grave doubts as to whether she could possibly be still as dear to her uncle as she once had been and whether her reappearance after so long - and that only at a distance, in a letter - would be any cause for haste on his part.
Persons most intimately acquainted with Col Brandon would not have doubted. To that select number it would have come as no surprise to learn that, upon receipt of these missives, which found him at Barton Park, he immediately took to horse. By doing so, he was obliged to cancel a long-promised engagement, to the disappointment and scorn of those invited as part of the colonel's excursion and despite their many urgings and arguments to the contrary. He rode to a nearby town and continued by post, changing as often as would permit him to reach London all the sooner and accomplishing the journey more quickly than ever he had before (much as John Blevins had predicted), but never before had he had such an object. At the very moment of the colonel's arrival in St. James' Street, as he stepped wearily from the carriage, a note consisting of only a few, almost illegible words was dispatched to Mr Blevins, and within the half-hour that gentleman presented himself at the colonel's lodgings. On this occasion there was no offer of refreshment, no offer of a seat, no perfunctory words of inquiry about general matters of health. The business at hand was conducted standing, for the only business of any import was the whereabouts of the colonel's niece and the state of her health. The first item was related without moment, but the second required a greater delicacy. Col Brandon received the shock almost stoically, though his face paled a trifle and the merest shudder passed over him at the thought of all that might have happened - but had not - and of all that must have happened to have brought his beloved niece to this state. The news having been imparted and received - Mr Blevins having been assured of the colonel's being able to meet Miss Williams with the degree of composure required for such a meeting - the two men departed for 27 Audley Square.
While Mrs Taylor and Miss Ross sewed and talked, Beth attempted - with little noticeable success - to work at the sketches and drawings she had brought away with her as Mrs Taylor had urged she do to pass the time. The girl listened each moment for a knock at the door, heralding a note, a card, or her uncle himself. She started at every noise, at every carriage heard to rumble in the street below. Finally - a knock at the door, followed by a maid announcing, "Col Brandon, ma'am, ma'am, miss." Beth paled and clutched at Mrs Taylor's hands as Miss Ross went to meet the gentleman in the vestibule. After a few minutes, during which Beth received bolstering reassurance from Mrs Taylor in the form of a warm embrace and a few whispered words, Miss Ross returned, closely followed by a tall, wan gentleman whose lack of acknowledgement of anyone else in the room bordered on the uncivil - a gentleman whose eyes hungrily sought the face of the young girl who had risen on trembling limbs to greet him - a gentleman who could not close quickly enough the distance between them.
Can anyone doubt the outcome of such a reunion? A prodigal niece, so willing to ask pardon, met by an uncle, so willing to pardon. A niece, relieved at her reception by the uncle whom she had disobeyed and wronged, met by an uncle relieved to find unfounded his worst fear: that the fate of the daughter would be like that of the mother - to be found but only at death's door. The tears that were shed, the words that passed between them - of diverse origins and provoked by diverse feelings - flowed from eyes and lips.
After the first embrace, after the initial awkwardness had passed as the colonel held Beth away from him to let his eyes sweep over her figure, after the first words had been spoken by the colonel, which showed that he would forgive this wayward girl, Miss Ross and Mrs Taylor silently withdrew, leaving love and time to patch the breach. Although some small scars would probably remain after all the assorted emotions and experiences of the past months, they would likely fade with time, 'til nothing but shapeless shadows remained.
Chapter 10, Part 7
It might be presumed, or perhaps rather wished, that after such a favorable outcome to such a long-awaited reunion, with transgressions humbly confessed and generously forgiven, all would flow smoothly. Such a presumption, however, would fail to take into account the long history of human nature - from the first sins, the first excuses, the first reproaches, and the first consequences - which has often demanded that a term of transgression be followed by an even longer term of consequence, neither of which is so easily left behind and forgotten.
Though submerged for a time under the powerful surges of thankfulness and relief that flooded both niece and uncle during their first minutes together, some questions, some matters of doubt and resentment inevitably floated to the surface again, and conversation came more slowly after the first urgent things had been spoken. Sitting in the great drawing room in Audley Square the day after his arrival in town, Col Brandon sat with tea untouched before him, staring fixedly at nothing in particular, grave and reserved, lost in thought. Mrs Taylor sat quietly some distance away, knitting a tiny jacket of white wool meant for the soon-expected baby. Beth had earlier entreated the older woman to remain, for she did not yet feel equal to speaking long alone with her uncle or to sitting long alone in his presence. Having no handiwork to keep her own eyes and hands conveniently occupied, the girl studied the teacup she held, from which she sipped now and then, simply to be doing something. The warm euphoria she had felt in the first flush of Col Brandon's warm welcome had ebbed away, replaced by chilling waves of doubt and fear.
The colonel's quiet words fell into the fragile silence, shattering it with one of the many questions Beth had expected but had feared to hear. "Why did you run away, Eliza? If you were so unhappy with Mrs Howell, why did you not tell me?"
The girl remained silent, her eyes riveted on her cup as if seeking advice of its milky contents.
"Eliza?"
The girl looked up at last. "Uncle, I am not your Eliza! I am not my mother! I can not be her, I never will be! I can not take her place! Can you not even give me my own name? Can you not call me Beth, or Lizzie, or some other name? A name of my own?"
This response erupted out of the girl, taking the colonel aback with its vehemence. "My dear-- I never meant you to take the place of your mother. You did not tell me that you disliked your name, or wished to be called by another."
Beth's eyes filled with tears. A pent-up dam of many years' making burst within her, loosing a torrent of words that tumbled in bursts, like a rushing stream diving from boulder to boulder in its downward path. "Forgive me! - not seem ungrateful - not dislike name - not only name - so tired of expectations - expectations in behaviour, in looks, in dress, in accomplishments. Mrs Howell - such unbending expectations - would scream if I heard once more - young ladies should dress so, speak so, act so, walk so, sit so - when she was young - her accomplishments, admired by so many men. Accomplishments required to be considered refined, elegant, to attract fine gentlemen - list ever longer - music, singing - good taste - play an instrument - dance well, gracefully - speak French, German, other languages - sew, embroider, net purses, paint screens - speak with a certain air, use certain words - speak on certain subjects, but never on others - read everlastingly, improve one's mind. Not possible to do all things well! Never meet such high expectations! Always hearing how beautiful, accomplished, lively mother was - could never be as beautiful - no one would want me - longed to know someone could value me as I am - longed for someone not comparing me unfavorably to mother, to other young ladies. Perhaps that is why - prove her wrong - pleasant attentions - so handsome - so flattered--" At the question come to her uncle's eyes, seeing it hover on his lips, she turned hastily to Mrs Taylor, and the flow of words was diverted - away from the precipitous cataract they had been approaching and into less dangerous waters. Her words took more coherent form, though they were no less heated. "Mrs Howell would never hear of certain things spoken - she disapproved of so much. There were things I only wanted to speak of, to ask, and of whom else should I have asked? She said I was impertinent or rude, ignorant or vulgar if I ventured so much as a word on a forbidden subject. You and Miss Ross - and the Hobarts and Miss Rose, and even Mr Grahame - made it clear that you did not approve of the things I had done, but you were willing to hear me and to talk to me truthfully, and-- and you showed me kindness despite whatever I said or whatever I had done. You did not measure me against other young ladies of your acquaintance or against your own youth, or preach everlastingly about a young lady's place and what she must do to better her marriage prospects." What began as a raging torrent dwindled to a bitter trickle and then suddenly ran dry.
Though she had promised herself that she would not interfere, at this impassioned speech Mrs Taylor found she could not keep from speaking, from answering the hurt, the longings, and the frustrations betrayed by the young girl's words. "Beth, I am sure Mrs Howell had only the best of intentions towards you, though she may not have known the best way to go about them. It is possible she was too much uncertain of herself to speak of certain things. Some of those qualities and accomplishments that she and others value are undoubtedly good and useful at times, but they are not all a necessary foundation for marriage or even for friendship. I doubt whether your child will much care if you can sing lullabies in twenty other languages, so long as he may hear love in your voice. Netting purses or drawing screens will do little to comfort an aching heart or a bruised soul. Improving one's mind is a most laudable goal, and pursuing music can be a fine use of time, but neither can take the place of improving one's spirit."
During all of Beth's jumbled speech, the colonel had remained silent, much taken aback, trying to understand the girl's meaning. Although she had touched on a topic he meant to probe further, by the time she had done, and Mrs Taylor after her, he had forgotten it, wishing now only to reassure her as to her own worth. "Forgive me, El-- Beth, my dear, if ever I led you to believe that you were of value to me, or to anyone, only insofar as you resembled your mother. That was never my intent. Mrs Taylor has the right of it - many accomplishments, and even great beauty, are no more than a surface gilding, drawing attention but providing no lasting attraction if there is nothing of substance beneath. Men - at least those men from whom a sensible lady would wish attentions - do not want silly, frivolous, vain wives, no matter how beautiful or accomplished. Even rakes and scoundrels have a value for better things. It is just as insulting to men as it is discouraging to ladies to suppose that only one type of woman - and a shallow woman at that - would be acceptable to all men. What is deemed attractive to some men is exactly that which is abhorrent to others. Only in the broadest terms may I say that it is a good mind - though not necessarily a clever one - good sense, cheerful spirits, and a warm, loving heart that will bring lasting happiness to your husband and children, that lend a true beauty of expression - that 'fine air' you spoke of. There are many well-born ladies who are fretful or jealous, vain or grasping, or who have a sharp, cruel tongue, who have not the attraction of a hearty, open spirit and a happy smile." Taking up his neglected teacup once more, his face grew more thoughtful, his words more abstracted. "I must admit that a beautiful voice and a creditable performance on the pianoforte gives me great pleasure, but they alone would not suffice for any but the merest acquaintance or simply as an evening's diversion at a party or a concert hall."
Mrs Taylor nodded her agreement. "Quite right, sir. You are also right, Beth, in that very few women, if any, can be equally accomplished in many things at once. To expect it is nonsense, in men or in women, and to try to meet such expectations will simply leave one exhausted, dissatisfied, and most unhappy. You, my dear, do have qualities and accomplishments that would recommend you to any gentleman - any person - of worth. What I have found especially beautiful these last months is to see how generous you have become in serving at humble tasks, and I assure you that it is not only I who have noticed," said the woman, with a warm smile. "Such humility and generosity of spirit is all too rare among ladies of good birth and education, many of whom will not stoop to tasks that they feel are beneath them. Even if you place little value on such a trait, you must know that you are not at all lacking more outwardly acknowledged accomplishments. You have a very special talent, and you have been using it generously, not for the sake of your own vanity but for the benefit of others, although, to be sure, there has been an element of the practical about it - there is no shame in that, Beth. Have you shown your uncle what you have been doing? Col Brandon, Beth has an extraordinary talent for art and very good taste with it. This is not simply my own judgement, sir, but that of a respected London master. You must see her sketches. She has been making drawings and silhouettes for families in the village and has thereby delighted many." As the girl remained silent, Mrs Taylor put her knitting aside, rose and fetched the girl's book, laying it before the colonel and opening it to show the drawings Beth had made.
Brandon bent his head to study the first one, pausing in his examination to exclaim, "Why Eli-- Beth! These are beautifully drawn. I had no idea your skill was so great. Forgive me for not paying attention earlier. This is indeed a fine accomplishment, my dear, and one that will give joy and be of worth for many years, much more so than some of the others you spoke of. Beauty will fade, a dance or other performance is soon forgotten, but this is something that will last, and your skill will only grow better with time and practice." As his niece made no response, he added, in his most persuasive tones, shedding his usual reserve in order to draw her out, "Will you not tell me something of these drawings? Are these all scenes and acquaintances from Auldbridge?"
Beth sat drained of emotion, ashamed of her outburst and frightened once more at her prospects. She despaired of her future, conscious anew that she was even further from those standards of perfection she had so despised. No matter how kindly anyone spoke to or of her, neither accomplishments nor special graces were likely to provide her with a good husband or home of her own. She would be looked down upon, dependent all her life on the charity of others, a millstone 'round her uncle's neck, perhaps even keeping him from a happy marriage of his own. While Mrs Taylor and the colonel leafed through the thick collection of sketches and drawings, Beth was distracted by many less pleasurable prospects than those she had captured on paper, and she spoke only when appealed to, and then often at only the second or third appeal. It was left to the older woman to point out scenes and neighbours from the village and to build up a picture for Col Brandon of the life Beth had been leading since May.
Many persons playing a role in that new life were introduced, in settings most revealing of their characters as well as the mind of the artist herself: Jenny and all her treasured dolls, displayed around a simple table set for tea, each doll neatly dressed and placed with a regard to its comfort - Lord Auldbury playing his instrument, with Mrs Taylor accompanying him, both rapt in their music, utterly unconscious of any onlookers - Mr Burns and Ralph Gilbert working together at some plans, the younger man with a strong, supporting arm 'round the older man's frail shoulders, their papers spread on the old carpenter's lap - Hannah and Stephen walking together arm in arm on their way to a Sunday service, her plain face lit up with a smile, he returning it with a handsome smile of his own as he attended closely to what she was saying - the Hobarts and their daughters sitting together in church, the simple lines of the sketch betraying Phoebe's puckishness, her sister's more ladylike ways, Mrs Hobart's usually worried frown (a little relaxed in this setting), and affability beaming from every inch of Mr Hobart's round face - Mr Grahame, drawn most sympathetically, with his ready smile and his flair for the dramatic being marked while his misfortune was masked - Miss Rose and Mr Burke riding together through the village, as easy and dignified on their mounts as nobility, despite their simple dress, with no hint betraying Miss Rose's blindness - Ralph Gilbert, Mr Burke and Mr Stanton with penny whistle and fiddles, in a scene from the evening party at the Burns' those many weeks ago, the old gentleman smiling in his enjoyment - a beautiful garden in full late-summer dress, the blooming flowers forming a riotous rainbow that wreathed the grey stone vicarage, obscuring its windows. These drawings and many more gave Col Brandon much to think on, and much to comfort him despite the thought of his niece's more distressing experiences. There was one drawing among the many enlightening and beautiful scenes, however, that mystified this sensible gentleman, while Mrs Taylor, though she offered him no illumination as to the subjects, strove to keep from laughing when she saw it: two geese waddled down the High Street of Auldbridge, near-sighted eyes slightly crossed as the two heads consulted close together under wide floppy bonnets tied 'round the downy heads, beaks wide open as if in mid-cackle or hiss. One of these comical figures held a needle in one wing and a thimble on the tip of the other while the second figure cleared the path before her broad webbed feet with a stout broom.
Surprised, amused and touched by all he saw and heard, learning and understanding more from these drawings than from any conversation he had yet had with his niece, the colonel glanced up at Beth every so often with a word, a compliment, or a question about the drawings or their subjects. His praise finally penetrated the girl's downcast thoughts, bringing a slow, shy colour to her pale face and cheering her as had nothing else this day.
At another mention from her uncle, Beth was coaxed to make the effort to speak herself, introducing Mrs Taylor to scenes from the well-known buildings and prospects in Bath (artistic if fanciful views of Beechen Cliff and Blaize Castle, of the Pump Room, of Milsom Street with its shops and tearooms, and of elegant carriages conveying elegant ladies about the elegant town) - to her friend, Cecily Robertson ("may she be protected from harm, the silly, stubborn thing - she would not say a word about you"), and to Mr Robertson ("the very image of the poor, innocent, near-sighted old gentleman - I would know him anywhere"). After some dozen drawings, the colonel turned over another leaf - and sat transfixed, staring at the page. As Beth saw the likeness that had caught his attention, she blanched as white as the sheet of paper itself and made to take it away, but he held it fast.
"How do you know this man? How did you come to take his likeness?" The sharp, demanding tones contrasted with the admiring compliments he had been paying his niece and drew the surprised attention of Mrs Taylor, who had never heard any but the mildest of tones from the gentleman.
"I-- I saw him and-- and decided to draw him."
"When was this, and where?"
"S-- Some time ago, uncle. I do not recall exactly--"
"This drawing is not that of someone unknown to you, a stranger. It speaks of a more intimate acquaintance. How do you know him? Where did you meet him? Was it at Delaford? But it could not have been! Was it in Bath? How did he strike up an acquaintance with you? Did he know who you were?" His voice was hoarse with anger, startling both his niece and Mrs Taylor, who looked thoughtfully from one revealing face to the other.
"W-- why is it you ask, uncle? D-- Do you know him?"
"Much to my regret, yes, I do know him. I would know how it is that you know him, and know him clearly well enough to have drawn him thus."
"I-- I met him - saw him - in Dorsetshire."
"You met him while you were with Mrs Howell?"
"No! I-- I met him while walking in the woods and fields. We had some conversation. Mrs Howell knew nothing of it. She-- she would not have approved."
"I should think not! She, at least, would have more sense than has Mrs Da-- How much time did you spend in his company? What sort of conversation did you have? Eliza, I must know the truth - do not deceive me. Is this the man with whom you ran away? Is this--" The colonel's anger robbed him of his voice even as he awaited the answer.
Beth shrank back in her chair, dropping her eyes, for she could not bear to meet her uncle's when he looked so.
"Eliza? Do you know this man, Mrs Taylor? Has Eliza told you if it was he--"
"No, sir, I do not know him, nor has Beth told me anything of him. I know nothing more than what she has told you, sir." As the colonel was evidently restraining himself only with difficulty from a great outburst, she turned to Beth. "My dear, I think it best for you to answer your uncle's questions truthfully. No good will come of concealment, and you have nothing to fear from the truth." Over Beth's bowed head, Mrs Taylor sought to meet the eyes of Col Brandon, silently willing him to control his outrage. The colonel apparently took the hint, for he forced himself to sit back and to speak more gently.
"Eli-- Beth, please tell me the truth. Was this man your... your lover?"
The girl's whisper was forced through stiff lips. "I-- I met John in Dorsetshire. He was... kind to me, and-- and we made plans to go away together from Bath - just for a lark. We meant no harm! We had such wonderful plans." Beth's eyes filled with tears. "B-- but how do you know him, uncle?"
"He has a relation near Barton Park in Devonshire, and I have met him there. I have also had occasion to see him and to hear of him in town. John Willoughby is not a man I would have chosen for your acquaintance, Eliza. Whatever you may think, I consider his behaviour towards you as neither kind nor wonderful." After a few moments of thought, during which Beth held back both her breath and her tears, the colonel continued, "I am not fond of the man's company, but at least I will know where to find him when it is time to do so."
At the look in her uncle's eyes, Beth's tears were driven away as a new fear came to her. "W-- what do you mean, Uncle? Why should you wish to find him? What will you do?"
"He must be punished, Eliza." The words were spoken evenly, quietly, but with deadly determination.
"But-- but I am as much to blame as he - and more so, for I could have refused to go with him. He did not force me, uncle - he would never have done so. He is not so bad a man! It is my fault, uncle! You must not meet him, or cause him any trouble! Please, uncle!"
"My dear girl, he is much older than you and was born to be a gentleman, though he does disgrace the very word. You are young and inexperienced, and he took cruel advantage of you. What he did he had no right to do, by any measure of conduct, whether you agreed or not. He must be punished for such behaviour. I will not allow him to go about preying on innocent young girls with no way to defend themselves from his wiles. Who knows how many others he may yet harm? How many others will trust him and accept his attentions? Would your mind rest easy knowing that he might well, at this very moment, be deceiving yet another young girl with romantic notions - a young lady with warmth of heart and eagerness of spirits, perhaps one unacquainted with the ways of the world and not well enough protected by family? Would you have another young lady end in your situation - suffering as you have suffered, deceived as you have been deceived, ruined as you have been ruined? What he has done I can never forgive. I can not and will not allow such behaviour to go unchecked."
During the time of happy reunion, and less happy revelation, in Audley Square, two more letters had been sent out from another part of town - both in fulfillment of vows made earlier, both making their way westward from London, both with return directions painstakingly made illegible.
October--, 18--
Miss Cecily Robertson
Dear Miss Robertson,
When we met in Bath earlier this year, I promised to inform you if I came into possession of news of your friend, Miss Eliza Williams. I am pleased to be able to tell you that she has been found and is well. Further details I will allow her to communicate herself.
Your most humble servant,
34 Belmont Place
Bath
Mr J. Browning
October --, 18--
Mrs Amelia Smith
My dearest Mrs Smith,
It has been a great many years since we last met, and I do not know if you will recall the circumstances, or remember me at all, though I recall with perfect clarity our last visit - such a delightful occasion it was! Although we have neither met nor written since, a matter of some gravity has recently come to my ears of which I feel I must inform you - in my great concern for your welfare, of course, and for the honour and reputation of your good name - and in my desire that all matters between us be honest and open. How I have fought with myself and quarreled with my conscience as to what is best to be done, but to no avail! I must tell you what will surely disappoint you, but it is just as surely your right to know what a man who claims kinship with you is doing. I refer, my dear Mrs Smith, to Mr John Willoughby of Combe Magna, a relation to us both. I am almost beyond speech, yet the words shall - nay they must - be found to tell of the disgraceful carryings on of that young man. Courage, dear cousin, for it will all come out soon enough! Better you shall hear it from a disinterested friend and relative than that it should come from a stranger, in some form of unruly gossip, to strike you in the face without a by-your-leave as warning, is that not true?
Well! I realize that Mr Willoughby's goings on have never been as gentlemanly - and certainly not as discreet - as one might expect by virtue of his birth and connections, but this time he has really gone too far! It would be bad enough for him to be carrying on with a lady of high birth and fortune, but he must needs make himself conspicuous with a young lady without a penny to her name, and with no family or name of note itself: a Miss Williams, though she is said to be the ward of a gentleman of some means. I should like to make quite clear, my dear, that no blame attaches to the girl herself, or to her guardian, a most honorable gentleman. Mr Willoughby has misled this Miss Williams and has comported himself most disgracefully, and now, if you please, there is a child to come, and such an innocent will bear the shame and misfortunes of his father's dallyings. The poor girl herself is dreadfully cast down, and no wonder!
I was extremely unsettled when I learned of this - and how I do feel for you, my dear! I find it all most scandalous! But as distasteful as this duty is to me - and I do assure you that nothing less than a consciousness of this being my most solemn duty would allow me to speak of such things - I felt sure that you would wish to know of these circumstances. Perhaps it is not too late. Perhaps he can yet mend his ways so that this poor girl might not be completely ruined, so that the rest of the family might hold their heads up. If you will not apply some sort of pressure, some sort of correction, who shall do, my dear? For who else has such an influence on him as you? Of course, I assume he has reckoned you to be too much doting on him, or perhaps too ill and too confined to notice what he does. I have always maintained that he has been shockingly spoilt, seeing as he is so comely. He has but to snap his fingers or wink an eye and ladies young and old run to him. I would not have you think I blame the young lady in the case too terribly much, for it would take stern stuff, indeed, and a vastly greater wisdom and experience than such young ladies generally possess, to resist good looks and wealth - the wealth, that is, that she must have assumed from his style of living, which even to my ears has seemed to be terribly extravagant. If he will not listen to reason, perhaps it would be best that he should be forever cut off from the family - publicly and finally - for his own good, my dear cousin. If we can not save his body, perhaps we may yet save his immortal soul!
Please do, do forgive me, my dear, if this letter appears to you a bit of officious impertinence, but I have done only what I felt to be my duty, that is, to inform you of this grievous matter, and leave it to your own excellent good sense and judgement as to what is best to be done.
I hope this dreadful news finds you in tolerable health, and that it does you no harm. Indeed - I would be most desolated if it did.
All my best wishes as always,
Allenham Court
Allenham, Devonshire
Your devoted cousin,
Joanna Smith-Browning
As Mrs Smith came to the end of this disturbing epistle, she removed her spectacles, cleaned them thoroughly with her pocket handkerchief, and replaced them on the bridge of her nose, but still she could not quite make out the signature. A great drop of wax on the still-wet ink had rendered it an all-but-illegible smear. Really, this cousin, whoever she was, must have been terribly careless to allow it, but perhaps the agitation with which she obviously wrote was responsible, and one could not blame her - for what a letter this was! Though she could scarcely remember any such cousin J-- S--ing and did not recognize the hand, as good a hand as it was, Mrs Smith was so unworldly as not to doubt that the information the letter contained was true and offered only in good faith and for a good motive - and not the less since her own suspicions as to her kinsman's conduct had already been raised.
Doing thorough justice to the letter writer's faith in her, she rapped her stout cane on the polished floor of her sitting room and summoned her maid. Not an hour later, a message was imperiously dispatched to John Willoughby, requesting the honour of his immediate presence at Allenham Court, where, though nominally in residence for more than a month now, he had rarely graced the table for a single repast, being always to be found elsewhere, of recent weeks most often at the neighbouring Barton estate.
The mysterious letter - most carefully thought out and written - caused, therefore, precisely the mischief intended.
Author's note: This is the end of Chapter 10, though it is not quite the end of the story. Like John Blevins, I like to see my loose ends neatly tied up - and I've left some still dangling: a few courtesy of Jane Austen in S&S and a few more of my own making. I probably won't get back to this for a few weeks now, but I hope to continue by the beginning of October. Thanks to all who have read and commented so far - it's been a great encouragement, and often a great spur to my imagination or an aid to my own enlightenment! :-)