When he spoke again, the passion was also extinguished from his voice. "I am sorry." He formed the words carefully. "I did not know. That you wished your music to be nothing more."
She turned towards him. "There are a great many people who want more in life than a mere career of pleasing others, Mr. Scheimann," she answered. "I think you have not been enough in society to understand that."
"I am sorry," he repeated. He might have said more, only she did not wait to here further persuasion or explanation. She departed from the room, leaving him stationed foolishly beside the pianoforte.
The visions of her glorious career vanished; as did the images of himself by her side. The passion of the musician he had seen in her was all a mistake, perhaps. A dream inspired by a weakness within himself. A clumsy longing alien to his nature might have transformed her beauty and material longings into ethereal genius; mistaking the worldly ambitions burning within her, the shallow desires, for some greater drive of ambition and glory.
He would see her one more time after this; a final struggle for his dying dream against his better judgment. A curt but satisfied dismissal from Charles Harwick took place on this occasion, along with a final monetary compensation for his time. Then, a final interview with the girl whose pianoforte was already beginning to gather dust and whose music had clearly gone untouched since their last interview.
Again, he strolled forth from the Harwicks' front door, his stick striking the foundation stones of the buildings he passed with unhappy force. The warnings of Mr. Harwick and his own neighbor on life's disappointments in a woman's nature were but a cheap comfort. The only true consolation was his work; and his compositions filled the void of ambition briefly occupied by his student's triumph.
It was a relief to him when the Harwicks left France. A relief to know that it was unlikely a humble composer and music teacher would ever again encounter them in Europe's society.
Chapter Twenty-Three
"He has given her a book of poetry," whispered Mrs. Jenner. "A book of Keats' poems, mind you."
"But what does that signify?" asked Mrs. Thompkins. Her voice trembled with excitement, her fingers in the act of hanging out a ribbon of newly-washed lace to dry.
"Is that not the poet of love? Why else would one give such a gift, except to confirm such a feeling," said Mrs. Jenner. "Certainly that is his intention. And I have it on good account from one of the squire's maids who has seen the book inscribed with his own hand."
"Then it is settled between them," said Mrs. Thompkins. She delivered the same statement to the Servennias' household later in the afternoon when she delivered a clutch of goose eggs.
"I cannot believe it is true," said Mrs. Servennia, bitterly. "He is but twenty–and she is all of thirty and four, if a day."
"But it is quite openly known at the squire's house, I believe," said Mrs. Thompkins. "They converse upon poetry and love and he has given her some sort of declaration, it is said."
If one were careful to study Mrs. Thompkins’s countenance as she spoke these words, one might detect shades of a romantic passion rising in the widow's cheeks as she wove this fanciful scenario into existence from gossip.
"It is really too hard to be borne," Mrs. Servennia complained later to her husband as he watched his new hunter being led through its paces by the groomsman. "If it had been one of the village women, it would have been distasteful enough, of course. But a gentlewoman like Miss Phillips! It is hard on all of us that he should be so bold and altogether foolish."
Her husband failed to reply. After a moment of waiting, she continued.
"In all this, I cannot perceive why he should wish to marry her, unless it is a foolhardy endeavor to gain a foothold in London society,” she said. “If so, he shall be very disappointed indeed, for I have heard she has next to nothing except a small fortune, and the house in town is but let to her brother in law."
"Perhaps it is all a mistake," said Mr. Servennia, who really had little interest in the subject compared to the grace of his horse's maneuvers. "People have been wrong about these matters before."
Her daughters were more sympathetic when they spoke among themselves on the subject. "It is too bad," said the middle Miss Servennia. "Mr. Turner was such a pleasant gentleman and very agreeable and now he is to be married and will have to leave off dancing and music."
"No doubt he has gone to make wedding preparations," surmised her sister. "Although I have heard that he cannot afford a ring and the bride shall have no jewels for the wedding."
"I think it isn't proper for us to talk about them," Lucy Foster said. "Why is everyone so very hard upon poor Mr. Turner? He hasn't done anything except give someone a book of verse."
"You are such a tiresome girl, Lucy," her aunt replied. "No wonder you weren't fit to catch his eye–a girl spurned by such a man and prepared to congratulate him on making a silly engagement!"
"What have I done wrong, aunt?" cried Lucy. "I didn't ask Mr. Turner to marry me and he didn't have a liking for me that anyone knew of."
"You exasperate me," said Mrs. Servennia. "Don't you know that anyone between the age of sixteen and twenty-four ought to have had him for the asking?" Too vexed to continue sewing, she rose from her chair in the parlor and went upstairs without another word to her niece or daughters.
Kitty had returned to Marebrook Manor with Miss Harwick and her servants but three days longer than the fortnight originally planned. She brought gifts of seashells for her nieces and nephews, a new pair of lavender gloves for her sister, and a description of the vessels in harbor for her brother-in-law which entertained him vastly at dinner.
She had not mentioned in her letter the encounter with Mr. Turner and did not mention it to anyone once she returned home. It had been a great effort not to feel anything at all on the subject since that night. Once again, she listened to Latin lessons recited aloud and relevant dates from history being lisped by her nieces and nephews. Her music was open on the pianoforte and she played several older selections from her stock, including "Greensleeves" and the gift of Israel and Egypt. The melancholy of the Israelites in their plight was comforting to her and had the power to soothe troubled feelings which stirred within her occasionally.
Neither she nor the residents of Marebrook Manor were aware that as they engaged in their quiet afternoon pursuits, a familiar carriage rolled through the Essex countryside along the public road. It stopped in the village of Beiberry Mile at the inn, where the horses were watered and where its presence attracted the eye of a lady there engaged in the business of hiring a horse and cart from the stable.
Seated in the carriage, Mrs. John Hobbins made an elegant picture in her velvet traveling jacket and bonnet. She surveyed the countryside with indifference and her own reflection with more satisfaction, displayed by a pocket mirror procured from her reticule.
Upon receiving the unhappy news of Kitty's letter, she had been greatly depressed for the sake of her sister. It was true, perhaps, that Anna had many children–too many, in the secret estimation of her well-bred sister–but it would not do to neglect her in her grief when Anna feared that this lost child was also her last and her motherhood was turned into a state of mourning.
Louisa had consulted Mr. Hobbins upon this matter and received his advice that she journey to Essex herself and be personally assured that Anna's spirits were mending after such a tragedy. It would not do to trust Kitty with this matter, for what did Kitty know of a mother's heart?
She might have gone unconcerned with village matters altogether, had she not taken notice of her servant engaged in conversation with a local woman in a bonnet and shoulder cape who seemed greatly excited by their presence. Languidly, she addressed her maid.
"Jane, go and see if there is something the matter," she said. The maid climbed down from the carriage, approached and addressed the woman in question. The result was the ushering forward of this villager, much to Mrs. Hobbins's discontentment.
"You are Mrs. Hobbins?" ventur
ed the village woman, her bonnet bobbing as she curtseyed. "We have not been introduced; but I am an acquaintance of both your sisters." There was an agreeably fawning smile upon the woman's face which reconciled Louisa more quickly to this stranger's boldness of address.
"And you are, my good woman?" she asked.
"Mrs. Alice Thompkins, Ma'am," the woman answered. "I am vastly pleased to have the honor of congratulating you first on the news of your sister's marriage."
"My sister's marriage," repeated Louisa. "Whatever are you speaking of?"
Mrs. Thompkins looked dismayed. "Why, Miss Phillips' engagement," she said, at length. "To Mr. Turner. It is common knowledge here."
"And who, pray tell, is Mr. Turner?" Louisa's voice had grown frosty.
"Why, he's the village surgeon, Ma'am," Mrs. Thompkins answered.
*****
"Mama, there is a carriage come!" Caroline cried out from the upstairs rooms, where she gained an advantage over her siblings in watching the entrance of four horses and a black carriage moving swiftly towards the manor courtyard.
"Whatever do you mean?" said Anna, who had been listening to Amelia recite her French verbs while Kitty entertained Walter with paper figures cut and painted the previous evening. Anna joined her daughter at the window, a cry of surprise escaping her own lips in response.
"Kitty! 'Tis Louisa come to us," she said, astonished. "It is her carriage–why did she not write?" Gathering her skirts, she hurried downstairs with her younger sister upon her heels.
The footman handed Mrs. Hobbins into the yard before Marebrook's doors. There was a look of disapproval furrowing her brow, as if the low stone walls and green lawn did not meet her approval; but it was something else entirely which had put Louisa's countenance out of spirits. It did not improve but faintly upon the sight of her invalid sister emerging excitedly.
"My dear Anna," she said, removing her hands from her fur muff again to stiffly embrace Mrs. Giles. "You look well indeed. Such roses in your cheeks! I am pleased to see it, given your state only a few weeks' ago."
"Louisa," Anna chided gently, drawing back from her sister. "You must not be so cast down about me. I am well enough and so is William. In time, I shall be quite myself again."
Louisa's eye during this conversation was not upon Anna's warm countenance, but the presence of Kitty standing by with a smile of greeting.
"How are the children, Louisa?" her youngest sister asked, clasping her hand in greeting. "And John–"
"I must speak to you, Kitty." Louisa's voice was cold as she took hold of her sister's arm and steered her towards the house. "Immediately."
"Whatever is the matter, Louisa?" Kitty demanded. Her sister ushered her forward silently, followed by an exceedingly concerned Anna.
Once they were safely beyond earshot of children and servants in Anna's sitting room, she closed the door with a firm hand and turned upon her sister.
"What is this I hear of you being engaged?" she demanded.
Kitty was rooted in place with shock. "Engaged?" she repeated.
"Engaged," said Louisa. "To a village commoner! There is talk of it all through the town, apparently. How dare you make such an arrangement without consulting your friends upon this matter?"
"Engaged, Kitty," repeated Anna. "To whom?" She glanced from one sister to the other, as if uncertain which might answer her.
"The village surgeon," said Louisa. "A Mr. Turner, I am told."
All of the breath had left Kitty's frame as she sank upon the nearest chair. "Mr. Turner," she replied. "But it is not true. Who has told you this?"
She could not fathom its origins; it was beyond her to understand how such a story could have come into being. There was nothing, no sign or evidence except such feelings which were hidden so deeply she could scarce know if they truly existed.
"A woman in the village–a complete stranger who addressed me as one of my sister's friends and had the boldness to congratulate me upon your match–as if such a marriage would please me!"
"She is mistaken," said Kitty. "There is no such promise between us. He has not spoken to me of such a matter, nor is he likely to."
"There is no promise?" repeated Louisa. "You deny these claims as lies? Then have the goodness to deny also the reports that you have seen him, followed him, to the north counties."
Kitty's heart pounded. "Who has told you that?" she said. Had Mr. Turner written someone in Beiberry Mile? Had Hetta told someone of it–surely not. Surely it was not so.
"Then you deny it?" Louisa's voice was shrill.
"No," said Kitty, lowering her face to hide her blush. "No, it is true that I saw him in Northumberland. But it was by chance."
"You were seen with him there at a village dance ...you, my sister–without a chaperone or friend except this gentleman, supposedly."
"Is this true, Kitty?" Anna's voice trembled as she spoke.
"It is," said Kitty, feebly. "But there was nothing improper in it. We spoke with politeness and he asked me for my hand once out of the same feeling. There was nothing of–of lovemaking in his address, I assure you. And I was not at the dance alone, for I was in the company of Miss Harwick."
"Miss Harwick must be an ill influence on you indeed," snapped Louisa. "A more vicious character could not be contrived than one who would allow my sister to enter such places and entertain such notions." Louisa pulled off her gloves with a force of energy which needed outlet for her feelings. "I cannot imagine what persuaded me to allow her friendship with you when we were in London."
"You did not allow it, for I received it at her invitation and my own response," answered Kitty, somewhat testily. "Miss Harwick did wrong in persuading me to the dance, perhaps; but it was not by her doing that Mr. Turner and I met upon the occasion."
"Why did you not tell me you saw Mr. Turner while you were away?" asked Anna.
"Because it was of no consequence!" cried Kitty. "It was merely an unlikely encounter and I did not choose to publicize it nor think of it again."
"They say he has sent you love letters!" declared Louisa. "He has given you gifts–"
"He has loaned me a book of poetry and nothing more," Kitty answered. "I will not hear him spoken of falsely when all he has done is shown kindness to another. He has saved our sister's life–"
"And that entitles him to an alliance with our family?" said Louisa, with disgust. "Kitty, how could you even speak of such a thing?"
"What could be so distasteful in the proposal of an honest man?" asked Kitty. "Even if he were guilty of what you accuse, what should be so wrong in his actions?"
Her argument received silence from both of her sisters. Louisa's bore marks of genuine pain, so much so that Kitty's defense was momentarily checked. She moved to the window and gazed out; Anna rose and slipped from the room, closing the door behind her.
"You would entertain a marriage with such a man," ventured Louisa, "regardless of our family feeling?"
"He has made no such offer," repeated Kitty, quietly.
"Is this–Mr. Turner–aware that you have no fortune?" asked Louisa.
"I do not know. We have never spoken upon money. But I believe it is common knowledge in the village that I am no heiress."
"And he has given you nothing except this book of poems?"
Kitty sighed. "I have told you everything," she answered. "There has been nothing between us except friendship. I cannot account for the gossip, for there has been nothing on my part to encourage it. And there is unlikely to be anything more." With this, she gazed down at her folded hands rather than meet her sister's eye should it turn towards her.
The clock in the room ticked in a manner which seemed at once loud and frightfully slow to Kitty's ears. In the hearth, a burning log split beneath the heat and collapsed with a gentle thud. There was no other sound except Louisa's quick breath, which was growing slower as her emotions again grew calm. A period of time which seemed an eternity to Kitty's ears as she watched her sister's pride crumble inwardly, h
er shoulders bowed and fingers toying faintly with her gloves.
"When our mother died, it seemed best that you come to me," said Louisa, at length. "I have always endeavored to make you comfortable in our home, I hope; and it has benefited your own small funds to require but a little of it each year for your dress and general wants."
"I am grateful," Kitty answered, her voice choking slightly.
"You were not independent in spirit, nor were you inclined towards society, so I did not believe a time would come in which this arrangement would seem distasteful to you. Nor that you, at your time of life, would consider any marriage, much less one designed to suit yourself as little as possible in feeling and position as these rumors claim."
"I have never sought a proposal," said Kitty. "You know this perfectly well."
"Then you must promise me that such a notion is beyond you." Louisa looked upon her sister with an unhappy countenance. "I will not have my sister gossiped about as a woman whose silly attachment has destroyed all the deference owed to her position and family."
"There is no truth to any of these rumors," said Kitty. "What you ask of me, Louisa–it pains me to think that you would believe me capable of such wrongs in one breath, then call upon my character to prevent them in another." Her voice was edged with pain, her hands holding tightly to each other as if gathering strength from this gesture.
This was not the answer Louisa was expecting; it was evident in her profile's countenance, in the exasperation with which she stuffed her gloves, finally, into her drawstring reticule.
"If it does not matter to you that you make a laughingstock of your family in the countryside, then perhaps it would be better if you were in London again." Louisa's skirts rustled against the floor as she swept from the room, the door banging closed behind her.
The rumors which had not reached Kitty before now seemed to consume her thoughts and the world in which she lived. Louisa, who had once desired Hetta Harwick's company for a walking party now wished her banished from Marebrook Manor; Anna was silent upon the subject, although it was evident she was injured by Kitty's indifference on the subject of the surgeon until now.
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