Acceding to our wishes, the aforementioned affair was a small informal gathering, attended by no more than twenty people. Balthazar, who sported a splendid custom-made tuxedo, took on the role of co-host. My parents flew in from New York, both of them overjoyed that I had finally met a woman who was superior in every way to Amanda Archer, née Blackstone, whom they had both intensely disliked and had, in fact, warned me about. Prior to the wedding, Abigail and I had visited Mother and Father and the three of them had greatly enjoyed each other’s company. (During this sojourn, my parents informed me that my former grade school companion, the taciturn Mr. Jerome Duckworth, resided in Palm Beach, Florida and was currently employed as a motivational speaker. Ha!)
Bob Fletcher and Constance arrived together as they had officially become a couple, although they had no plans to tie the proverbial knot. Under Bob’s tutelage, Constance had become a devoted and proficient golfer and the two of them had recently returned from a week’s vacation in Palm Springs, a city that boasted a number of superior golf courses. They were both deeply tanned as a result of their trip to this desert outpost and filled with joy and good wishes for us, the newlyweds.
After some vacillation, I refrained from inviting Dr. Van Buren or Dr. Partridge, as I feared that their presence might cause my new wife some confusion. Six months prior, Dr. Van Buren had published a scholarly paper regarding Abigail’s unique delusion and, as a result, Van Buren Syndrome had become the accepted name of the disorder. Although his documentation of her case had received great acclaim, he had confessed to me that he was somewhat conflicted about having a disease, albeit a rare one, named after him. I had also been tempted to invite Mr. Williger, as he had been most kind and generous to me, until I recalled that his presence would no doubt place both he and Sandra in a somewhat uncomfortable position. Of course, I invited Felix, who performed a Greek dance and threw some plates at a tree, as was the custom in his homeland. I discovered later that said plates were part of a prized set of some considerable value that Sandra had inherited from her late grandmother although she did not appear in the least upset at their annihilation. Ms. Anastasia Goldfine arrived in the company of a man who I judged to be at least fifteen years her junior. I did not inquire as to their relationship for that would have been discourteous, but apparently he was not her son. Also present were several of Abigail’s colleagues from Phil’s Rib and Steak Emporium.
As father of the bride, Balthazar offered up a superb oration that contained several amusing reminiscences from Abigail’s youth and concluded with a heartfelt declaration of love and admiration for his daughter as well as an expression of affection for me, his newly appointed son in law. It was a most emotional speech and Abigail placed her head on my shoulder and wept. My father followed this with a violin rendition of La Vie en Rose, a performance that oozed with profound sweetness and aptly demonstrated his proficiency as a musician.
After the wedding repast had concluded, Abigail insisted that I dance with her, although in my case dancing was more of an aimless arrhythmic shuffle. She was rather talented at it, though, and I took great pleasure in watching her gyrate sensually, although at one point she nearly fell off the dance floor. I gathered from the intimate manner in which Eliot and Sandra danced that they had recaptured their love for one another, which made me quite elated. To my surprise, Ms. Anastasia Goldfine moved about the dance floor quite energetically, her arms flailing, her feet keeping pace with the beat of the music. Later in the evening, Felix engaged us in a Greek folk dance called the Kalamatiano, which required us to form a circle and kick our feet. Though I was thoroughly inept at it, I found it most agreeable, partly because I had, by that time, consumed some alcoholic fortification, but not enough to cause a repetition of my regurgitation of several months before.
Although I generally do not care for social events of any kind, I found this particular one to be most pleasing for it meant that Abigail and I would spend the rest of our lives together. I was deliriously happy.
Following our honeymoon in Venice, Italy (a journey to literary graves, although my preference, was obviously out of the question), Abigail and I pooled our resources (mine had increased thanks to Dean Fletcher) and rented a small three-bedroom domicile on the outskirts of Highland Falls that afforded us an excellent view of the foothills and an extra room for any ensuing progeny that might require separate quarters. We leased a small truck and enlisted the aid of Mr. Williger for the process of relocation. He was most gracious and refused remuneration, although, when he was not looking, I secreted a fifty-dollar bill under the base of a plastic model of a girl in a hula skirt that adorned the dashboard of his car.
Once all the boxes were situated in the parlor of our new house, I was eager to begin the process of unpacking, although Abigail claimed exhaustion and retired for the night. For some reason, I was possessed of considerable energy as well as a desire to rid the premises of the plethora of cartons that occupied most of the room. The majority of the boxes contained my books, which now included ten hardcover copies of All About Emily (I had changed the names of the characters), which I had expanded into a novel that had recently been released by a well-respected New York publisher. Although sales had been decidedly mediocre, I was gratified by a fair degree of critical acclaim and was determined to write another novel once things had settled down in our household.
While Abigail slept soundly in our bedroom, I began the arduous task of removing the contents of the aforementioned boxes and attempting to decide where they would go. Having conquered most of this work by midnight, I found that I still possessed enough energy to begin unloading some of Abigail’s belongings, although I refrained from attacking the boxes marked “Clothing,” for I had no idea how she wished to organize these items. And so I began with a small carton marked “Miscellaneous.” I was halfway into unloading its contents when I came upon an unmarked manila envelope that was lodged beneath an assortment of empty file folders and magazines. As the envelope was Abigail’s personal property, I resisted the temptation to open it, but curiosity eventually got the better of me. Inside the envelope was a slightly faded manuscript, the title page of which read, Miss Brighton’s Most Ardent Wish By Abigail Bird. As the date had been typed in the upper margin, it became clear to me that this was the short story Abigail had written prior to her accident, the sample of her writing that she had intended for me to critique at our first mentoring session. Of course, I knew that she would recall neither the origin nor the existence of this manuscript, a fact that caused me to wonder why she had even packed it. Perhaps she had merely dumped the contents of a drawer into the moving box without bothering to sort through any of it. Or maybe she had simply not noticed it amongst the other paraphernalia. I myself had long since forgotten about it. But now, here it was, lying in my hands, which were filthy from the day’s labors. Eager to discover the nature of Miss Brighton’s most ardent wish, I turned the title page and commenced reading.
Miss Brighton’s Most Ardent Wish
By Abigail Bird
As the weather that day was most pleasingly temperate, Miss Amelia Brighton, the eldest unmarried daughter of Lord and Lady Brighton of Kent, decided to consume her afternoon tea out of doors, on the well-manicured lawn that swept before her ancestral home like an endless green blanket. She had recently completed her lessons for the day so she had taken with her a new novel written by her favorite author, Miss Jane Austen, who resided only ninety miles away. The local vicar’s wife had recommended it. But as she took the book into her well-manicured hands and began to peruse the opening page, she found that she was unable to concentrate, for her mind drifted to thoughts of her tutor, Mr. Ian Ambler of London. Recently installed at Dudley Manor, Mr. Ambler had been educated at Oxford, where he had studied Literature, Greek, Latin, History, Philosophy, and the Art of Woodcraft.
He was quite a tallish man, no more than four years her elder, who wore ascots of a peculiar nature and spoke with an excess of v
erbiage, though she found this appealing as she was given to the same tendency. He was, in a sense, quite handsome but his demeanor seemed more similar to that of an older man. She believed that they had much in common, most notably a consuming interest in literature. Therefore, it was a shame that she was required to learn such tiresome subjects as Greek and Latin for which she would never have much use, although the art of woodcraft was blessedly absent from Mr. Ambler’s curriculum. Woodcraft was not an art that most women engaged in, certainly not women of Miss Brighton’s station.
But Mr. Ambler also suffered from an excess of reserve, which she found most troublesome. In a very short time, she had developed a great fondness for him, and although they had spent most of their mornings engaged in the pursuit of higher learning, which was the purpose of his tenure at Dudley Manor, they occasionally passed the time in the garden or the salon discussing literature and other topics of common interest. Yet he did not seek out her company as she had hoped, nor did he initiate assignations or conversations. It was always she who proposed such pastimes. And, although she was grateful for his company, she was beginning to wonder if he had even the slightest affection for her. Did he perhaps feel it improper for a tutor to consort with his student? Would her strict parents disapprove of such boldness on his part? Was he in love with another woman? Was he merely timid? Or was he a simpleton?
Yet it was true that she herself was somewhat wary of engaging with a man, for a suitor whose original intentions had been matrimony, had recently spurned her. Did Mr. Ambler perhaps sense this? Was he aware of it? After all, there had been gossip.
Whilst strolling in the garden the day before, she had deliberately allowed her hand to swing quite close to his, hoping that he would take it in his or at least touch it. But he did not react to her hint of intimacy. Nor did he kiss her when, on several occasions, she had deliberately put her face close to his. She longed for him to give her some small signal that he felt some affection for her but he did not. As she too was afflicted with timidity, she was unable to demonstrate a display of passion. Besides, propriety demanded that the man initiate a gesture in that direction.
Over a short time, she began to feel the stirrings of love for Mr. Ambler, yet he still appeared to be oblivious to her feelings. She found this state of affairs most frustrating. How, she wondered, could a man be so appallingly dense? Had he suffered a previous rejection that kept him from requiting her love? Alas, she was too meek to inquire, as perhaps this information may have been of a personal nature and she did not wish to meddle. Moreover, such an inquiry would most assuredly not be ladylike and Miss Brighton prided herself on her excellent manners.
Then one day, much to her delight, he performed a small act that gave her reason to hope. It was a subtle gesture but she felt that it had been more than mere kindness. At her request, they had visited a small annual festival that was held by the peasants in the town. As they wandered about, she stopped at a vendor and purchased a cold liquid-like confection that she ate from a bowl. They sat side by side on a bench while she consumed it.
“It is a most tasty treat, Mr. Ambler,” she informed him. “I believe they call it ice cream soup. Do you perchance have a sweet tooth?”
“I do indeed, Miss Brighton,” he replied. “Yet I have a preference for cupcakes, chocolate ones that are called Hostess.”
“What an odd name,” she mused.
“I also enjoy another victual that is made of a crunchy cheese variety. I find these to be most appealing in their taste.”
“Such a coincidence! I too enjoy a variety of cheese!” she exclaimed, wondering how the conversation had meandered in this peculiar unromantic direction. “I have not, however, sampled one of a crunchy type.”
He turned to observe her. “Hark,” he declared. “You have spilled a small drop of your liquid confection upon your blouse.”
“Goodness me!” she remarked. “I can be quite the clumsy oaf at times.”
“Please allow me to remove it from your person,” he offered. And then, much to her astonishment, he removed a handkerchief from his coat and swept away the drop. It was a most bold act for it required him to touch her anatomy, which he had never done before. She interpreted this small gesture as an awakening of his love for her and she felt at that moment an odd excitement sweep through her loins. He loved her! She was certain of it.
But as the days passed, Mr. Ambler performed no further gestures of this nature although she remained certain that he would. One morning, prior to her lessons, her dear father, Lord Brighton, informed her that Mr. Ambler had been suddenly called away to London to attend to his mother who had fallen ill and that most likely he would never return to Dudley Manor, and that another tutor had been engaged to continue her education, an elderly widow by the name of Miss Violet Trousdale. Devastated by this woeful news, Miss Brighton hied herself to her bedchamber and copiously wept until the tears soaked her pillow. She remained there for several days, desolate and forlorn. Would she ever find another gentleman of Mr. Ambler’s quality and attractiveness or would she remain a spinster for the rest of her life?
Her heart was broken as if it had been severed in two by a sharp blade. She never saw Mr. Ambler again.
How delightful, I thought! Such an excellent lampoon of the literary style of the era! Clearly, my new wife, or rather the previous version of my new wife, Abigail One, had had an impressive talent for parody. Woodcraft indeed! Utterly hilarious! If Miss Jane Austen were alive today, she would have appreciated this superb spoofery.
As I perused the story again, I began to notice a few oddities contained in the unfulfilled liaison between Miss Brighton and Mr. Ambler that reminded me of my early relationship with Abigail One. The dollop of a confection that had besmirched her clothing had occurred in reality with the strawberry ice cream at the art fair. There was also our common affection for literature and her description of Mr. Ambler’s attire, reserve, and verbosity sounded quite familiar.
On yet another reading, I became aware that the initials of Amelia Brighton were identical to those of Abigail Bird and those of Ian Ambler were the same as mine.
My mind raced and my heart fluttered. Had Abigail, in writing the story, attempted to inform me in a subtle way that she loved me? Had this been her motivation for writing this tale of unrequited love? Yes, I decided. Yes, indeed! Yes, yes, yes, a thousand times, yes! She had never really intended for me to be her mentor—that had obviously been a ruse! How alarmingly dense I had been—thickheaded at not perceiving her feelings for me and even more so in not reaching the obvious conclusion immediately upon reading the story no more than ten minutes before. Abigail One had loved me all along! My cowardly diffidence had been for naught!
Thus enlightened, I placed the manuscript back in its packing box, taking pains to secrete it beneath the other detritus, and tiptoed to the bedroom, where I quietly shed my clothing and slipped into my pajamas. Abigail was slumbering soundly and I gazed adoringly at her as a barely audible whimper escaped her lips. Quietly, so as not to awaken her, I pulled the covers back and climbed into the bed. A few strands of her hair had fallen into her face and I gently pulled these back and tucked them behind her ear. Then I moved closer to her, so that my entire body touched hers, and placed my arm around her slender waist.
Acknowledgements
Whom, I wonder, shall I acknowledge this time around? My old college English professor who encouraged me to become a writer without mentioning the possibility of starvation? My agent who encouraged me to make the book more marketable without telling me how? My editor, who pointed out that it might have been wise for me to have paid more attention when my teachers were explaining grammar? Or to the cumbersome Dewey Decimal System, now, sadly, no more than a vague memory among those of a certain age?
Nah.
Since The Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird is the story of two people whose lives are utterly consumed by classic literature,
I think it appropriate to pay homage to those who love to read, that noble minority of souls who still look to books for engaging stories and endearing characters, for clever turns of phrase, for the joys of well-wrought interior monologue.
They say that we booklovers are an endangered species. I think not. My meanderings throughout the maze of social media have led me to believe that reading is indeed quite alive and prospering. One can easily find a plethora of those dedicated to reading on Instagram and Tumblr; Goodreads reaches twenty-five million people, twice as many as the previous year; book bloggers abound; Facebook offers hundreds of groups dedicated to a variety of books, not to mention countless author fan pages, many with thousands of followers.
Amazon’s cybershelves contain the largest collection of books in the history of the written word and the retail giant has given birth to the most innovative approach to reading since the invention of typesetting. Thus, thanks to Amazon, I may now travel with hundreds of books without increasing the weight of my suitcase by more than a few ounces, giving new dimension to Stephen King’s famous observation that “Books are a uniquely portable magic.”
Strange Courtship of Abigail Bird Page 26