by CE Murphy
During this monologue, Archer continued to write as if Miss Webber did not speak, and Elsabeth, to Rosa’s view, stared rather fixedly at her page. At this last, however, she could no longer contain herself, and looked up with a smile so sweet that Rosa feared what would pass her lips.
“Miss Webber,” Elsabeth said in tones of such admiration that even Rosa’s kind-heartedness could not mistake them for anything other than pointed, “you are so wonderfully thoughtful toward Miss Archer that I am quite desperate to meet her myself. I cannot help but wonder that you do not write to her yourself, to express your raptures in your own words, rather than urge Mr Archer to take your dictation.”
A faint pink blush appeared along Miss Webber’s cheekbones. “I would, save that my pen is dull.”
Mr Webber looked up in surprise. “Why, Julia, but you take such pride in sharpening your own pens. Surely, that cannot stop you.”
Elsabeth’s mouth twitched. She returned her gaze to her book, and Rosamund, dismayed, sought refuge in looking to the fire but could not long keep her attention there: Miss Webber’s falsely gay laugh called it back. “You are right, Robert. The truth is that I cannot bear to sit and write knowing how much finer Mr Archer’s hand and skill with words are than mine. Instead, I shall call upon Miss Elsabeth to take a turn with me about the parlour. You will, will you not, Miss Elsabeth? If you can be torn from your book. Such an obsession with words you share with Mr Archer!”
“I am sure I share very little with Mr Archer.” Elsabeth obligingly put her book aside to rise as Miss Webber did. Miss Webber immediately put her arm through Elsa’s, and together they paced the length and breadth of the parlour, pausing only for Miss Webber to invite Rosamund to join them and for Rosamund to decline with a smile.
“Do not be foolish, Julia,” Mr Webber said. “Miss Dover is only barely recovered from her illness. She cannot expend her energy in such a manner.”
“No, of course not. How silly I am. Perhaps you will join us, Mr Archer.”
This was said as they passed Archer, who paused again in his writing and this time paid some slight attention to the young ladies as they paraded. “I think not,” he replied after a moment’s consideration. “I have seen Miss Elsabeth walk, and suspect that she may have something competitive in her nature; given one such as myself to match herself against, I fear that would not only match but outstrip me in pace and stamina, and I should be quite ashamed. It is better that I allow you to pursue your idle entertainments while I pursue mine, and no one shall be considered better than another.”
“Indeed, Mr Archer,” Elsa said so archly that Rosamund again feared what next she might say, and found herself in the midst of a coughing fit that slew all chance of Elsa making inopportune remarks. Elsa rushed to her side, Mr Webber fetched more tea and Miss Webber returned to her chair with an unbecoming squint toward the Dover sisters.
It was as well that Miss Dover had been taken by such a cough, Archer felt; he had very little doubt that Miss Elsabeth would have pursued his statement that not one of them should be considered better than another. He had meant, of course, in the game of walking, and yet could see that he had placed himself in a compromising position regarding their unequal stations in life. He could not, certainly, have apologised for his earlier disdain of her lower situation, nor did it feel at all comfortable to him to even imagine doing so. And yet there could be no other reason for him to broach the topic at all. It made him deeply uncomfortable, for a woman with a mother and younger sisters such as Elsabeth Dover had could not be suitable, never minding that the family as a whole was too poor to be considered. He ought not think of her at all, and yet the mud stains on her skirt—now thoroughly washed out, he noted—and the freedom with which she had spun on the road, would not leave his mind.
He watched, pen set aside, as Elsabeth begged leave to take Rosamund back to her room, for it was clear the elder sister had undergone too much excitement for the afternoon and once more needed to rest in order to be certain that her illness would not return. They were given leave, with Webber full of concern, Miss Webber narrow-eyed and Rosamund Dover departing on a too-observant glance toward Archer himself.
“I am quite well,” that lady insisted privately to her sister as they navigated the broad shallow steps of Newbury Manor. “Elsabeth, what were you about to say to Mr Archer?”
“Only that it was certainly too late for anyone to forgive a matter of established stature,” Elsabeth replied without pity. “Miss Webber’s fears that he may harbor some interest in me are so risible as to be worth playing to, but the man himself has made it quite clear that station lies above all for him. Did you see how very black his suit was, Rosa? At two in the afternoon! Whereas your Mr Webber has the exquisite taste to wear a very handsome blue, marking himself as a pleasant fellow not determined to be dour on all accounts.”
“Perhaps you ought to forgive Mr Archer a little,” Rosamund ventured as she was tucked back into bed. “I do believe he meant to make an apology, Elsa, and I was dreadfully afraid that you would respond in such a manner as to turn him away from you forever.”
“Rosamund Dover!” Elsabeth stood, no longer straightening blankets or arranging pillows. “Do you mean to say you manufactured that cough to save me from myself? How devious of you! I believe Miss Webber is providing ill influence, and you have hardly seen her! You must be brought home at once,” she said merrily, “else by the time you are well, you shall be as inclined toward machinations and matchmaking as Mamma! But never fear. If Mr Archer truly wishes to apologise for being abhorrent, I shall listen, for I confess he is very handsome.”
“And very rich,” Rosamund put in with as much slyness her sweet soul had available, which brought a laugh to Elsa’s lips.
“Yes, and very rich, and possessed, according to Miss Webber, of an excellent penmanship and a fondness for books.” Elsa could not help another laugh: laid out so, Archer’s good aspects seemed very appealing indeed. “Very well, you may almost convince me that he is nearly perfect, save for snobbery, and it is the last that makes me unable to imagine that he might be moved to offer an apology. I am nothing to him, nor do I wish to be. You shall marry Mr Webber and I will be your happy spinster sister, living on your kindness and making certain your servants don’t take advantage of your generosity, as they will no doubt be inclined to do. Now, because you were so wicked as to cough falsely so I would not say something unretractable, I shall cruelly leave you to rest for a few hours and return home to collect a dress or two more suitable for dinner than that which we have with us. You must rest,” Elsa said in her best attempt at scolding, “and idle away the time until I return.”
“I shall try not to relapse,” Rosa promised solemnly, and nestled into a smiling sleep as Elsabeth took her leave.
(15)
Miss Webber was quite horrified at Elsabeth’s stated intention of walking home for the afternoon, though not quite horrified enough to offer use of the Webber carriage. Mr Webber, who might well have done, was not within the drawing room when Elsabeth paused to announce her plans; nor was Mr Archer. This was pleasing to Elsabeth, who regarded Rosamund’s opinion of Archer’s apology attempts as nonsensical, and yet, having half-argued herself into acknowledging his appeal, did not wish to involve herself with the gentleman in any more conversation than absolutely necessary, in case Rosa was right. It was therefore with a light and happy heart that Elsa struck off down the drive and thence, as soon as the Newsbury walls fell away, across the fields toward her own home. It had been some days since she had taken exercise, and felt its lack keenly: to be out in the wind and air refreshed her in a way that nothing else could, even the delight of dancing at a ball.
There had been little rain since the downpour that had brought on Rosamund’s illness. Now the green fields were dusted with loosening dirt, and the sky, relentlessly blue, let sun pour onto Elsa’s shoulders until the heat was enough to make her breathless. She did not need the coat she wore, but neither did she wan
t the burn that would come if she removed it, and so she hurried along, smiling into the wind and at the dusty horizon. It seemed that she could pour some of the warmth from her walk into magic and thus cool herself, and only mindfulness of Rosa’s tantalisingly close future kept her from doing so. She was as alone as one could be in the countryside, but even so, there might be company over the next rise, or some idle farmer watching from a distance behind her. It would never do to risk Rosa’s happiness on a moment’s playfulness, even if her walk was so vigourous as to dampen her hairline and cheeks.
So intent was she upon her own walk, and so determined to do nothing unwise, that Fitzgerald Archer was quite upon her before she saw him at all. His path was at angles to hers, determined, it seemed, that they should meet: Elsa stopped where she was, standing surprised in soft dirt and grass, as the gentleman strode along the crest of a rise at such a pace as to meet her.
It had not been his intention when he left Newsbury; indeed, it could not have been, as Elsabeth had not yet made clear her own plans to leave the manor. Archer could not, though, say that Miss Elsabeth had not been his inspiration to walk; Miss Webber had called attention to Miss Elsabeth’s proclivities toward the exercise in her insistence that the ladies wander the room together, and, upon Miss Elsabeth’s departure with Miss Dover, Archer had felt it necessary to take some air himself. Certainly, if he had said as much to Miss Webber, she would have offered the carriage to Miss Elsabeth, but he had not, only excusing himself with the bare necessaries of politeness before departing.
He did not break stride, seeing her stop; after a moment, Elsabeth was obliged to carry on, as there was nowhere else for her to go. Within minutes, they met, Archer bowing shortly and Elsabeth curtseying just as briefly. “Forgive me,” Archer said. “I had not meant to intrude upon your walk.”
“Nor I upon yours. Now we must decide, Mr Archer, whether we are to pretend we are not acquainted and must only mumble greetings at one another, or whether we are to walk along together as companions. I understand,” Elsabeth said drolly, “that I may be a competitive spirit, and as such may drive you into your grave with the pace of my walk. I should not like to be regarded as responsible for your doom, so if you prefer to pretend you do not know me, I shall continue on down this hill and you may carry on across it.”
“Ah.” Archer looked the length of the rise, which was unremarkable in comparison to any other around them. There were no especial landmarks to be seen; no houses save the ordinary, no lakes or rivers or copses that might mark where they stood in the countryside. “The truth is, Miss Elsabeth, that while I can return to Newsbury by retracing my footsteps, I am a man who is loath to retread territory I have already explored. But that said, I do not know these lands well enough to wander on my own and be certain of finding my way home again. If I can promise that my heart is hale and my wind unlikely to be broken by a strenuous pace, perhaps I might walk with you so far as a road, whence you might direct me home again?”
“Will the sun not tell you where you are?” Elsabeth asked, but nodded an agreement. “I’m afraid we will be very nearly at Oakden before I can set you on a road again, but you will at least know your way from there.”
Archer glanced at the sun as if it had betrayed him, but fell into step with Elsabeth in a distinctly non-companionable way: his hands were held behind his back and his gaze was fixed on the uneven earth before them. As he did not feel pressed to make conversation, neither did Elsabeth, and within a few minutes, she was all but able to forget he walked a few steps behind her. The urge to bring wisps of fire to life came upon her again, and, thinking of his inevitable horror, she laughed as they came close to her father’s lands. Archer hurried the handful of steps to catch up, a curious “Miss Elsabeth?” accompanying the rush.
“A frivolous thought, Mr Archer. I fear I’m plagued with them, and yet I hate to be considered silly, so I dare not speak them.”
“You seem entirely too certain of yourself for anyone to think you silly, Miss Elsabeth, if you will forgive me saying so.”
“I should rather be thought sure of myself than foolish,” Elsabeth replied with a certain degree of satisfaction. “Now, look, here is Oakden, and—oh! Sophia comes to visit. Have you met Miss Enton, Mr Archer? I shall introduce you. Sophia! Sophia!” Elsabeth raised her voice in an entirely unladylike fashion and waved wildly until Sophia Enton, approaching the Oakden gates, turned to see Elsabeth Dover and Fitzgerald Archer crossing stepping stones over the stream that ran close to the Oakden house. Elsabeth outpaced Archer by some distance to reach and hug her friend, who returned the embrace with astonishment.
“Did you hear already? Is that why you’ve come home so quickly?”
“Hear?” Elsabeth asked in alarm. “Hear what?” “Leopoldina—oh, dear.” Sophia froze whatever she had to say on her lips and curtsied to Archer as he joined them.
Elsabeth, afire with curiosity, introduced them unnecessarily—Archer remembered Miss Enton and bowed over her hand more gallantly than Elsabeth might have expected—and seized Sophia’s hand as if to squeeze news from her. “What of Dina, Sophia? What has happened?”
“Oh, Elsa. A summer storm struck Bodton this afternoon, a terrible sudden storm. Dina was nearly washed away. She was washed away, Elsa! Pulled into the river, and only through the good graces and swift actions of a Captain Hartnell was she saved!”
Elsa paled quite dramatically, so that Sophia was obliged to support her. More surprisingly, so too did Archer, though even as he did so, his customary stiffness returned. “A Captain David Hartnell, perchance?”
“Indeed!” cried Sophia. “The very same! Do you know him, sir? He is the hero of the hour, and even now has been welcomed to Oakden as Leopoldina’s saviour!”
“I should leave you at once,” Archer said to Elsa. “You will want to attend to your sister. I am acquainted with Captain Hartnell and am certain he will be relentlessly charming. Miss Enton, it has been a pleasure to renew our acquaintance. I am sure you too have come to view Hartnell.”
“Not at all,” Sophia replied in surprise. “Mamma has sent me to ask after Rosamund. If she is well enough, Mamma hopes to call upon the Webbers tomorrow afternoon. I am to look my best,” she said with a faint smile. “As if at my best, I might draw any man’s eye from Rosamund to myself.”
Though in the midst of extracting himself for departure, Archer said, suddenly enough to surprise all of them, “Perhaps your mother would be satisfied if you were to join us for dinner tonight. If Miss Dover is well enough to join us, I’m sure she would be pleased to see you, and if she is not, you will keep the table lively with new thoughts and opinions.”
Elsabeth, still leaning on Sophia, could not keep her eyebrows in place: they rose in surprise, and when Sophia met her gaze, her eyes rounded in question, Elsabeth allowed herself a tiny nod. “Please, yes, Sophia, though I am astonished that Mr Archer is so willing to surround himself with country opinions.”
“Perhaps I am learning to find them refreshing,” Archer replied.
“I have no time to return home to dress suitably,” Sophia protested. “I fear I must decline.”
Archer examined her quickly and carefully. “No, I think not. You are a little taller than Miss Webber, but I am sure with a hem let out, one of her gowns would fit you, and would be most becoming. Please, Miss Enton, we would all enjoy your company very much.”
Sophia cast a second, slightly more alarmed, look toward Elsabeth, but Elsa only smiled, a startling hope blooming in her chest. Archer might be intolerable, but she could quite easily learn to tolerate him should he have the uncommonly good sense to fall in love with Miss Enton. “You must, Sophia,” she said with newly blossomed enthusiasm. “Rosamund would be delighted, and you will never meet a more nicely mannered man than Mr Webber. You will be most welcome there, I am sure, and I should myself be grateful to see a friendly face for a few hours, especially if I must leave Leopoldina behind after her own frightening adventures.”
“Very good,” Archer said. “I will go to Newsbury and inform them of another guest for dinner, and ask Miss Webber if one of her gowns might be borrowed. All will be ready for you when you arrive.” He bowed to both young women, then strode off, leaving a bemused pair of young ladies behind.
“Are we very sure he’s the same gentleman as we met at the ball?” Sophia asked when he was out of earshot, but Elsabeth cried aloud, casting the question away. “A summer storm, Sophia?”
A sigh trembled from Sophia’s lips. “I could hardly say anything else in front of Mr Archer, could I? And perhaps that’s all it was. Surely no one will think otherwise. How could they? Oh, you had better go see her, Elsabeth. You are the only one who might speak sense to the girl.”
(16)
Elsabeth entered the Dover drawing room still supported by Sophia’s strength, and, standing within the doorway, was struck with the sense of being a stranger to the chaos of the family. It was a profoundly varied group within the room’s four handsomely papered walls: Leopoldina lay dramatically across the lounge, looking robust and strong despite the dampness of her hair. Tildy, always her younger sister’s shadow, stood behind the lounge in a very prettily embroidered gown that Elsa was certain she had not been wearing earlier, and yet appeared to go unnoticed in the business of the room. Ruth, pinch-faced and pale, sat to one side with such rigid posture as to appear accusatory as Mrs Dover darted around like a plump butterfly, tending to her beloved youngest’s swoon while maintaining a chatter swifter and more full of commentary than a squirrel’s. Mr Dover also stood to one side, but unlike Ruth, he seemed the picture of health, a vigourous man of a certain age. If only Rosamund, fragile and delicate creature that she was, could be added to the room, then it would be as broad a spectrum of human condition as could possibly be seen within one family.
At the heart of all this bustle was a young gentleman whom Elsa had never before seen: clearly Captain Hartnell, whom Sophia had failed to describe as angelically handsome. He, too, was damp beneath his woolen coat, and held a cup of steaming tea as if it were all that warmed him, though his delighted smile suggested he found as much warmth in the family as the tea. Upon seeing Elsabeth, he set the tea aside and sprang to his feet, crying out, “And this must be Miss Dover, though I had not expected to see her, having heard tales of her illness.”