Sadness and fatigue were evident in the companion’s features, the weariness of a long night of vigil without rest. Kitty could only imagine the weight of Mrs. Allgood struggling upwards between the weak arms of Mrs. Josephs and the childish frame of Patience Tibbets.
Taking Mrs. Josephs’ arm, she ushered her carefully to a spot where the chance of her voice carrying upstairs to the house’s occupant was greatly reduced. Through the open kitchen door, she saw Patience betake herself to the furthermost corner of the kitchen, as if to remove herself from hearing their conversation.
“What is the matter, Miss Phillips?” asked Mrs. Josephs.
“As one of her friends, the condition of Mrs. Allgood pains me greatly,” said Kitty. “It is not my place to offer advice, for I am but a comparative stranger to her. But you are her friend; and I hope that you will accept my plea on this subject and consult someone on the matter of easing her pain. Someone who might administer relief to her on these occasions; or help induce sleep when she is uneasy.”
“But there is no one she will see,” Mrs. Josephs uttered with a cry. “There is only the surgeon with Mr. Harris gone away and she will not see him, for he is a gentleman of trade. She fears that he has learned by–by unChristian means of cutting corpses and handling the unclean.”
“I know she does not approve of it,” soothed Kitty, “but Mr. Turner is a gentleman and greatly skilled. She must have help, Mrs. Josephs. She must be persuaded, for her own sake and for your own. Indeed, if Mrs. Giles were able, she would join me in urging this matter, for you know her solicitude for her neighbors.”
She held the arm of her companion in her grip, with a pressure at once gentle and urgent. In Mrs. Josephs’ eyes, resolve was weakening even as guilt rose in the form of tears.
“I will speak to her again,” she said. “I will tell her that you have greatly recommended it; for surely that will persuade her as much as the squire’s wife’s word.”
*****
“I’ve not but seen Mrs. Allgood twice in my life,” said Lucy Foster. “The first was when I come to the village, of course; and the second was a visit I made with my aunt before Christmas last year. I don’t think she thought much of me, for she never asked me to be brought again.”
She was seated outside with her book when Kitty arrived, near the wash hung out to dry by one of the Servennia’s maids. Her lank red curls were dressed in long braids pinned up, her muslin dress showing signs of being made over with lace and ribbons to appear more fashionable.
“She spoke kindly of you when I was there,” said Kitty. “I think she spends a great deal of time thinking of the past. The people who are in the world now seem quite different to her only because they speak and dress differently.”
“She would think my cousins prettier,” said Lucy, frankly and somewhat gloomily. “They’re to be accomplished ladies. I cannot get my hair to curl properly and cannot read the notes even when you’ve been at me for an hour to get me to play them right.” Her book tumbled closed on her lap.
The urge to soothe this unhappy, plain girl swept over Kitty, as if the realization that her own lot might easily be Lucy Foster’s was foremost in her thoughts. Lucy’s discontentment with such a fate would breed ill-feelings and resentment; a shadow falling upon a young heart early to blight its prospects for cheer and kindness.
“You must not be melancholy, Lucy,” she said. “You are young and have a great deal of willingness to learn. You must give it time; your cousins are older and merely growing up more quickly.”
“It is more than that, Miss Phillips,” Lucy answered. “Everyone can see it. Aunt says I’m so very awkward and inconvenient that I shall never get a proposal from any man. For you know I’m too poor to be of interest to a gentleman and aunt would think it low to marry a tradesman. She thinks no man of any sort would want a girl as dull and stupid as me.”
“I hope that you do not think of yourself as you say your aunt does.” Kitty was seated beside her on the low bench, the music books placed aside as useless. “You know that there are many honest men of good character and heart who would be pleased with a bride who possesses the same.”
“You mean a man in the trades and not a gentleman,” said Lucy. “I suppose that is true. Perhaps they don’t care if their wife isn’t comely, unlike a peer or a wealthy beau."
“There are a great many gentleman who are in the trades,” said Kitty. “They are equals to men above their rank in every way except in fortune.”
Lucy’s cheeks blushed beneath their braided frame of red. “It might be so,” she said. “That the likes of one like Mr. Turner–the surgeon–would not be so bad, perhaps. No matter what my aunt would say, for one such as him is honest and clever.”
This produced a strange reaction in Kitty’s own frame, one she made an effort to suppress. “Mr. Turner is indeed a gentleman,” she answered. “I am sure–I would certainly hope–that he would be wise enough to value a woman of his acquaintance for her thoughts and not merely her finery.”
“Is that why you’ve never married, Miss Phillips?” asked Lucy, glancing at her. “Was it because no gentleman noticed you in such plain colors?” This inappropriate question cut through Kitty with the sharpness of glass.
“That is an impertinent question, Lucy,” she answered, with a note of harshness which Miss Foster had never before heard in her acquaintance’s voice. “You must not ask such things of anyone–you do not know of these matters.”
“I am sorry,” said Lucy, meekly. “Indeed, I am, Miss Phillips. Please don’t be angry with me.”
Her cheeks had gone pale as she sat upright with her hands clasped before her. The sight of such earnestness was cause for self-reproach in Kitty, who touched the girl’s arm comfortingly.
“I am not angry,” said Kitty, in a more gentle voice to soothe the girl's unhappiness. “I should not have been so forceful in my reply. Come,” she rose from the bench, “we shall go in and begin your lessons again and forget about everything except the bright future which lies ahead.”
Lucy was in the act of obeying when they caught sight of a carriage approaching Goldleaf along the birch lane. Even from a distance through the trees, Kitty recognized the sleek horses and coach as belonging to Hetta Harwick.
“It is Miss Harwick, isn’t it?” Lucy echoed her companion's thoughts as the coach drew before the house. “She must’ve come to see my aunt; she shall be disappointed that she’s away from here, perhaps.”
It was not to the front door that the footman went, however, but to the gate leading to the little servant’s yard in which Kitty and Lucy now stood.
“Miss Phillips,” he said, with a bow. “My mistress wishes you to accompany her on a drive, if you will oblige her.”
“A drive to what place?’ asked Kitty, who was rather astonished at Hetta’s appearance upon this morning. To her surprise, the lady herself appeared, having emerged from the carriage without assistance.
“I have a great desire to go exploring, Miss Phillips,” she said. “And a great desire for companionship in the same endeavor. If you and your companion–” here, she favored Lucy with a charming smile, “–agree to such a pleasure, then I would request your company for the day”
Lucy’s mouth had fallen open with surprise. “A day with Miss Harwick?” she said, in the hushed voice of one who does not believe her fortunes. “Oh, Miss Phillips–it cannot be real.”
“Have your companion fetch her bonnet, Kitty,” called Hetta. Without waiting for any further urging, Lucy hurried off at a most unladylike pace in the direction of Goldleaf.
Hetta remained at the gate, as if awaiting her guests as the footman had returned to his post beside the carriage door. Her choice of garments for this occasion was most unusual in the old-fashioned district of Beiberry, consisting of a green plaid skirt upon a muslin bodice, with a matching green hat and plaid Tartan across her shoulder.
“These are the colors of my mother’s Scottish clan,” she said, as Kitty approac
hed. “I thought I would wear them for today, since bold plaids are very becoming.”
“And fashionable, I suppose,” answered Kitty. “I shall feel very underdressed by comparison.”
“Nonsense. Your brown fashion is very becoming to you. And we,” she plucked a late rose from the vine climbing the garden fence, “shall add a bit of color to see if it suits your complexion as well.” She tucked the open bud in the trim of Kitty’s straw bonnet with a smile of approval for its effect.
In the carriage, Lucy was too tongue-tied in the presence of her hostess to say very much at all. She had been given the honor of a seat beside Hetta, where she crouched against the wall to avoid crushing the green and gold Tartan skirt. Across from them, Kitty surveyed Hetta mildly.
“You are thinking of some way to reproach me,” said Hetta. “I am sure of it. For we have not spoken in above a week.”
“I have nothing for which to reproach you,” answered Kitty. “I am only surprised to see you today. And in such a manner as this.”
“I have grown rather tired of my solicitor’s letters and Pennicott’s dusty shelves,” said Hetta. “I have been told of the splendors of Reiker’s View, and since it is but a mile from my home, I felt I must visit it.”
An incredulous laugh escaped Kitty’s lips. “Pray tell me that you do not intend to drive to the top,” she said. “It is a steep incline and poor footing for the horses who shall have no pleasure in the view.”
“Of course not. We shall walk there from Pennicott,” Hetta answered. “The carriage was but a convenient means of conveying my friends thither.” With a pert little smile, she turned her gaze towards the scenery rolling past.
Reiker’s View was in the possession of Six Mile Grange; which was, in turn, the possession of Lord Grantly. From the gardens of Pennicott, Kitty could glance behind her and see the faint shimmer of Walter’s duck pond and the high walls of Marebrook Manor, whose fields spread in the opposite direction. Before her, however, past the forest of Pennicot’s borders, was a steep green lawn dotted with trees and large stones in rugged fashion.
“Are you pleased with Pennicott, Ma’am?” Lucy had found her tongue in the presence of Miss Harwick after a long silence.
“I am vastly pleased with it,” said Hetta. “I had a particular wish to be away from London and it has served me admirably.” She lifted her skirts with one hand as she climbed, the free one trailing through the petals of a tall and spindly wildflower in passing.
“Will you return to London, then?” asked Lucy.
Hetta’s face was a mask, it seemed; for although her expression was mild and pleasant, there was no light of emotion behind it. “I do not know,” she answered. After a moment, she tucked her arm in Kitty’s in companionable fashion as they drew onwards. Lucy Foster lagged beside them for several moments, then ran ahead through the light grass.
“I suspect you were not pleased with the party we attended,” said Hetta. “You were very quiet on the drive to Marebrook afterwards.”
“I was content enough,” Kitty answered. “That is to say, I had a pleasant time. I suppose that all parties are alike, when enough time has passed.”
“I would have thought you to believe otherwise,” said Hetta. “You would believe that some occasions are made dearer than others by certain conversations or discoveries. Perhaps the presence of certain guests over others.”
Kitty blushed. “In our youth, I suppose we may have thought so,” she said. “You are forgetting that I am very much concerned with other matters than dance cards and muslins, Hetta.”
“Why?’ Hetta’s tone was light. “You have no hearth and home to occupy your thoughts; neither have I. We are much the same as we were before.”
“It is not the same,” Kitty argued. “You and I–we were in the same position to begin with, it is true–but now we are nothing alike in our lives nor in our futures, I suspect. You must at least own that there are paths which each of us might encounter but only one of us shall travel.”
Fatigue or irritation had crept into her voice; its impatient tone was not lost upon Hetta’s ears.
“Has the society of Beiberry been pleasant for you?” asked Hetta, changing the subject. “For my part, the widows of the society spend a great deal of time talking about everything and everyone and far too many of the men believe themselves a wit. But it is a charming village, nonetheless; and there are interesting acquaintances to be made.”
“I have made the most of them, I hope,” said Kitty, after a moment’s silence.
She did not release Hetta’s arm, although her thoughts pulled away from those of the young woman beside her. A great many recollections of London’s scenes had returned to her; the hours of solitude at the drawing room’s pianoforte now seemed more akin to loneliness, the room cast in shades of gloom and grey as she sat before her music. The fragile hours of girlhood slipping away seemed to fly past her in this vision of her present self, the color and pleasures of the girl Miss Phillips erased within it.
This melancholy occupied her still, once they reached the top of the hill. The open terrain seemed flat in its gentle incline, dotted by great rocks protruding from the earth like unchiseled statues of stone. From the crest came the view of the horizon: a rolling green blanket below, dotted with miniature trees and sheep like patches of white. The manor connected to Six Mile Grange, a gloomy stone house like an ancient castle gently tumbling in on itself so that its outer walls seemed bare of life except for lichen and moss.
Hetta gazed at it in length; the wind blowing steadily across the terrain had drawn her tartan from her shoulder so it waved like a banner in the wind. Beside her, Lucy Foster stood reverently, her bonnet tumbled low past her shoulders.
“It is a magnificent view,” said Hetta. “Its lord is indeed a fortunate man. Although I suspect his rheumatism prevents him from climbing here.” The gaiety had returned to her voice with this last remark, her glance turning in Kitty’s direction with cheeks reddened by the breeze.
Her appearance was much like the Hetta Harwick of girlhood; but this only served to deepen Kitty’s silence at the moment. She approached the hill’s view without comment, standing a little apart from the other two as she watched the movement of the sheep flock below like a cloud rolling and breaking apart in the wind.
“I shall fetch us some of those early apples, sure to be a little green,” said Hetta. “We shall stave off our appetites until tea. My cook is quite good, I assure you, so it shall be worth the patience.”
“I shall fetch them for you, Miss,” said Lucy, volunteering eagerly. She had grasped the lowest limb available on one of the trees and pulled the fruit from one of the branches.
Kitty sank down upon one of the stones, untying the ribbons of her bonnet so the sunlight would touch her face. “Thank you, Lucy,” she said, when the girl offered her one of the half-ripened apples. She turned the fruit over in her fingers as if its appearance held equal charms as the view below.
Hetta was seated upon the grass with several apples spread out beside her, the fruit brushing the hem of her Tartan skirt. Reaching up, she untied the ribbons of her hat and lifted it from her head.
“Would you do me the honor of trying my bonnet, Miss Foster?” she asked. “I believe it would compliment your red hair more favorably than my own. The hat was modeled out of matching Tartan fabric, trimmed with green ribbons and an embroidered medallion and feathers.
“Oh, with pleasure, Miss,” answered Lucy. She allowed it to be placed upon her head and the ribbons tied carefully, not caring about the ludicrous presence of a second bonnet dangling down her back.
“There,” said Hetta, who had finished tying the bow. “It becomes you very nicely, child. I think you must have one made like it. It is very much admired in London right now, you know.”
“What do you think, Miss Phillips?” Lucy turned towards her, the freckled countenance aglow with pleasure.
“It is very lovely,” Kitty answered. “Quite as lovely as your
own.” The inferred meaning of this compliment was lost upon Lucy in her ecstasy of honor.
“May I–there is a pond but a little ways in the woods,” she said. “Might I go see myself in it, Miss Harwick?” she asked.
Hetta smiled. “Go and see,” she said. “Such curiosity must be satisfied.” With this permission, Lucy sprang to her feet and hurried towards the grove of trees climbing the side of the hill.
When she was gone, Kitty spoke again. “Do you think it is wise, to make her wish for such things?”
“Do you think it is right to starve her of such a wish?” Hetta retorted. “Her aunt doesn’t care if she is very shabby; soon enough, she will give up all sorts of things by degrees. Her fair hair for the cap of a married woman, her colored frocks for more sensible ones.” She gazed at the scenery below as she spoke.
“Color was not becoming to me in my youth.” Kitty turned the apple over in her fingers, its sheen reflecting the light. “I was–sensible even then, I suppose.”
“We must all be sensible at some time,” said Hetta. She fell silent after this.
“When I look upon Lucy,” said Kitty, softly, “it feels as if I know her thoughts. Our girlhood situations are very different, I suppose; but the outcome shall be the same, I sometimes think. She has fallen between places and cannot get out.”
This was spoken rather badly, although Miss Phillips was usually well-spoken; but this want of words lasted only as long as Lucy Foster’s distant figure was visible slipping between the trees, until her red locks and dark jacket vanished altogether from sight.
“I was greatly surprised by your circumstances when I returned to England,” said Hetta. “I will not pretend I had given you any thought when we were girls, nor when I had gone away,” she continued, with a soft laugh. “But given your character, your liveliness, I would not have supposed your future to be thus.”
“There was very little opportunity for more,” said Kitty. “I had not the good fortune of others in those seasons of my youth. When my–my mother was dead, there was money left to me, but not a great deal. It did not seem proper to do anything more than what I did.”
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