The changes she felt towards herself in the village were palpable. There were glances made towards Miss Phillips which seemed to her eyes to take the form of a winking congratulations for her younger husband; others seemed to turn away more quickly, an imperceptible disapproval of her supposed union with one beneath her.
None spoke of it directly in their kind inquiries regarding her health and family–indeed, Mrs. Thompkins had cried half the night when news circulated that Mrs. Hobbins's shock over her report had banned the marriage–and none endeavored to learn the truth from her. Except for the unspoken existence of this rumor which poisoned Kitty’s thoughts and humor, it was as if nothing changed outwardly between herself and the village.
Mr. Turner had not returned to Beiberry Mile and there was no word of him. Kitty did not seek solace in any friend, avoiding Lucy Foster and even the frail Mrs. Allgood, both of whom she assumed were no doubt aware of the stories by now. As for Hetta, she had gone forth from Pennicott without informing anyone of her absence.
The consolation of music did not even reach Kitty with full effect. Every note had become a reminder of sadder scenes in London, the happiness of the duet at the Servennia's party.
Louisa did not mention these rumors in her letters to London, but she exacted her feelings in a very scathing report of small-minded gossip in Beiberry and the unfortunate companionship Kitty had engaged while there. These reports had circulated through their society of friends, made evident to Kitty when she received a letter from the sage Mrs. Fitzwilliam, whose frail hand wrote with bold characters and great tremors which blotted the page with ink.
Dear Miss Phillips,
I hope you are tolerably well in that place, for I know it's a vast deal different from London. I've heard no good reports of the place from anyone, but I suspect that's it's a great deal like every other village in England, full of sharp tongues and no end of prying into one's general affairs.
Your sister Mrs. Hobbins is there now I understand; and seems to think Mrs. Giles is greatly improved. It was a sad matter indeed with her child and I am heartily sorry for her. She shall be comforted by having eight others healthy and living to console her, I suppose.
I've heard that Miss Harwick has come there also of late. Such a troublesome, ill-bred girl is best confined to the country, although it is a hardship upon them. While in London, she behaved herself prettily enough, although it was more a credit to her money that her character. It seems hard of Providence that such a girl should still be comely and youthful while one like yourself is but a plain spinster in society, but that is part of the Divine mystery, we are told.
Take care that you do not catch cold from the damp country air, for there are such bogs and marshes about.
With kind regards,
Mrs. Charlotte Fitzwilliam.
This letter Kitty folded with a spark of indignant feeling, as well as a sense of mortification. Was it not enough that she should be plagued by rumors, that she should have unpleasant reminders sent to her by others? This passion of feeling would be crushed in a moment's time by a different one, the wretchedness of knowing she was accused of disregarding family and feeling.
In disconsolation, she sat in the kitchen in the early hours of dawn with a cup of tea which she had made herself rather than rouse the servant Patience for such a task. She had slept little that night; and sat here at length with a desire that all thoughts be banished from her mind.
A step creaking upon the threshold made her rouse herself for the sake of appearance before Tillie or Patience. But it was not a servant come into the room, but her sister Anna. Her long braids hung past her shoulders, her shawl drawn over a dressing gown for warmth.
"You are early, Kitty," she said.
"I did not wish to rouse anyone," said Kitty. "I was only seeking quiet, where I might sit near the fire."
Anna seated herself at the table. "I think Louisa's coming has not been kind to you," she said. Reaching across, she took Kitty's hand in her own, noticing the tears gathering in Miss Phillips's eyes.
"She has spoken as she feels she must," said Kitty.
"She has spoken coldly," said Anna. "It is unfeeling, for she has no reason to chide you. There is but a half-truth in those reports at best and she has known your character to be sound all her life. Why should she treat you as if you have betrayed our family in some way?"
"You feel it also," said Kitty. "Else you would not have spoken so little this past week." She was not afraid to meet her sister's eye with this statement, since they both knew it to be true.
"I was only hurt that you did not tell me," answered Anna.
"There was nothing to tell," protested Kitty. "They are rumors, as you have said yourself."
"But you did not speak of him at all, Kitty," said Anna, gently. "And that is where you know yourself to have wronged me."
In response to this statement, Kitty's cheeks were infused with a blush. She turned away, but Anna held fast to her hand.
"I think you fear the presence of such an amiable young man is a temptation of feeling," she continued, "and that is why you treated such a little matter as a secret."
"It is nothing to do with him," said Kitty. "It is myself that I cannot bear. That I should feel anything at all in the presence of one who is but a stranger." Her words ended in a sob. Her tears followed a moment later, her breath coming in short gasps as she endeavored to control herself. Anna's arms were about her, drawing her close.
"And why should you not feel them?" Anna whispered, stroking her weeping sister's hair as they leaned upon each other, one for comfort, one for affection, as the fire in the grate burned low. "Even now, what harm is there in a feeling?"
Chapter Twenty-Four
"Miss Harwick, Ma'am." James the valet was in the doorway of the morning room where Kitty was sitting alone.
Louisa had gone to call on Mrs. Servennia in Anna's company; most of the children were with Mr. Giles who had taken the boys to fish on the pond. As for Kitty, she had been alone in thought, her music untouched in the room above and her poetry unread.
Hetta entered, drawing her gloves from her hands and smiling in Kitty's direction. "I have come on horseback," she said, "with the thought that you might like also to ride. Mr. Giles's horses are always engaged with something or other, so we shall have my manservant saddle one of my carriage horses for you."
Kitty said nothing; Hetta continued to speak.
"Your sister has come for a visit, I hear," she said. "I suppose I must pay her a call, although I suspect she did not care for me when we were in town. At least, she did not care for me except as a fragment of society."
"You have been away for several days," observed Kitty, quietly.
"I had a desire to procure a new bonnet or two in London, since none in Hartlepool would do," said Hetta. "I also had my house opened for the sake of returning to town soon, as you know. I would have brought you with me, of course, had you wished to come."
"Are you aware of the rumors in the village?" asked Kitty.
"What rumors?" asked Hetta, after a moment’s pause.
"They have increased greatly, it seems, so they must not have escaped you," said Kitty. "They are regarding myself and Mr. Turner."
Hetta's face betrayed no sign of emotion. "I have not heard them," she answered, "although idle gossip is common enough in a place like this. Come, why should you care what they say?"
"Because it shall affect myself and my family," said Kitty, vehemently. "It is a laughing matter to you, perhaps, but it is my reputation they speak of. They have seen me in Northumberland in the company of Mr. Turner and now they believe there is to be a marriage between us."
Hetta gazed at her. "There is not to be, is there?" she asked. "Although I am sure he has shown a great regard for you–"
"I have given it thought, Hetta," Kitty spoke without waiting for any more of her companion's reply. "I believe it was not by accident that I met with Mr. Turner there. Indeed, I do not think it was by accid
ent that you chose to visit the border counties; or persuaded me to join you." Here, she looked at Hetta, as if awaiting a denial.
There was a long period of silence before Hetta spoke. "Kitty," she began. There was a hesitation in her voice, a betrayal of emotions at once disturbed and cornered, at which Kitty's heart sank beneath a tide of anger and sorrow.
A betrayal–then it was true, what she had feared in the corner of her mind for so many days. For there was indeed truth beneath her friend's ruffled dignity,
"You have meddled with my feelings," said Kitty. She endeavored to keep her voice calm, although the effort of choking her emotions was great. "It has been deliberate–the journey, the encouraging me to come into society–was it all for your amusement? To see me a joke with my name tied to another's, a bit of sport which has made me a mockery?"
Hetta's lips moved to reply, but nothing emerged. In her eye was something which Kitty suspected might indicate some mischief still lingered, a spark among the flames.
"Then Louisa was right," Kitty continued. "I should never have consented to this friendship, for I knew you had no feelings in the past for others."
The anger in her voice was now unchecked in her quiet declaration. Her figure trembled, as if everything in her manner defied Hetta to deny it as truth.
"Kitty," Hetta spoke, then hesitated, her gaze lingering in the direction of the hearth. "It is perhaps true that I knew the surgeon was in Northumberland...but it is not the matter you think it is..."
Kitty had been perfectly still for these words; but now she spoke again. "I wish you to leave," she said. "I wish you to go now. We have nothing else to say to each other."
"Kitty–"
"Go," Kitty repeated. The altogether bitter force of her nature and the evident feeling which caused her voice to break checked Hetta's attempts to soothe. She looked at Kitty a moment longer, a look which her friend did not understand or interpret.
"It was not what you think, Kitty," she said. "You do not believe me; but you will understand some time that I did not intend it in this manner."
It cost her evident effort to speak quietly, since there were signs of another emotion rolling beneath her surface. She turned and disappeared through the passageway again, pulling on her gloves as if nothing more than a pleasant ride awaited her.
Kitty's eyes were dry as she remained seated at the table. After a moment, she pressed her hands to her face as if to contain a storm of emotion which did not emerge. Thus seated and trembling, she remained there for some time after Hetta's departure.
It was bitter, indeed, to have it end this way; to speak in this manner to one she regarded as a friend. Never had she imagined that the interest which Hetta took in her was for the sake of amusing herself, in much the same manner as gossip claimed she amused herself in the past with those beneath her and the unhappy suitors in her path. But the village gossip could not be denied; nor could the sudden interest Hetta felt for her cousin's estate or Kitty's presence at parties–no doubt to observe her blushes whenever Mr. Turner was present.
Her face burned with these memories, along with a sense of humiliation for what Louisa would say if she suspected such truths in this matter. When she heard the sound of her sister's carriage, she rose and hurried upstairs to her own room before they could see her unhappiness.
*****
In accordance with her previous intentions, Miss Hetta Harwick made her arrangements to embark for London from Beiberry Mile. The house Pennicott was shut up again; her possessions were packed into trunks, her kindest regards were sent to Lord Grantly, and her carriage was harnessed and made ready.
"We shall miss you indeed, Miss Harwick," proclaimed Mrs. Servennia, who had been anxious to commit the young lady to a final invitation to tea. "You have no doubt tarried here as long as you wish, but it seems unfortunate that you should leave just when hunting has begun and everyone takes to the countryside for the Season."
"No doubt you shall be happy to see your London house again, Miss Harwick," said Mrs. Jenner, who had made a farewell present of a dozen large eggs and many eager compliments to the elegant lady, "for we're told there is none like it for style in Mayfair." She had come in reality to catch a glimpse of Hetta's French maid again, whose silent, dark elegance seemed very foreign in the widow's opinion.
"It is nothing at all like the fashion, I assure you," Hetta answered, politely.
"'Tis an unfortunate loss to Beiberry to have her go," said Mr. Hooker, removing his hat with a courteous bow as he observed Miss Harwick handed into her carriage one last time in Beiberry Mile. "A sad affair to have her pretty face absent from Lord Grantly's parties, eh?" he added, with an impudent wink to his neighbor.
With a final charming smile for the villagers observing her departure, Hetta was transported away from the village as her carriage rolled onwards to London.
Kitty did not bid her farewell. She did not watch the carriage drive away upon the road and did not acknowledge Miss Harwick's departure in any manner. Instead, she remained in the children's school room all morning, seated at the pianoforte with an open sheet of music before her long after any niece or nephew was present for their lesson.
The holidays were upon them, the merrymaking in country house and cottage no small affair in Beiberry Mile. Carts rolled forth to bring back greenery, halls and windows were decked with no end of mistletoe and holly boughs, and great promises of cheer were evident in the making of puddings and fruitcakes and bottles of spirits procured for a Christmas toast.
In the midst of this season, Mr. Turner had returned to Beiberry Mile and opened his surgery again; but Kitty saw nothing of him, in part through her own contrivance and through Anna's good recovery. No one would speak of him directly to her, for his long absence and her silence upon the subject seemed to confirm the fears that her family had broken the match.
"Perhaps he was discouraged by how very grand Mrs. Hobbins appeared," said Mrs. Thompkins. "I believe many a gentleman is made to feel inferior by the presence of grand relations."
"I've heard Mrs. Hobbins turned an ill eye upon the match," said Mrs. Jenner. "She's the one who had it broken off, mark my words. For she wouldn't want to see her sister married to a laborer of one and twenty."
"And Mr. Turner is such an amiable young gentleman," said Mrs. Thompkins, sadly.
Louisa had ceased to mention Mr. Turner's name again before her sister in the days before she departed for home. Her final words to Kitty on the subject were merely an allusion before she boarded her carriage.
"Do endeavor to think of our mother, Kitty," she said. Her hands were upon her sister's shoulders when these words were spoken; a sisterly kiss upon the cheek followed before Louisa was gone. The great sting of this final remonstrance, however, lingered with Kitty long after the carriage's wheels had ceased to rumble along the drive.
She did not ask for news of Mr. Turner despite her avoidance of him; yet she encountered word of him at almost every turn.
"He's well enough in the number of patients he has," commented Mrs. Jenner to her neighbor one afternoon in the dry goods shop. "But it would have been better for him if Mrs. Allgood hadn't favored Mr. Harris again, for she can afford a physician at every turn of health."
Kitty, who was standing but a few feet away examining ribbons, could not help but hear these remarks and did not dare turn or move–but whether to hear more or to avoid notice, she did not know, except that she must not be seen by her friends.
"He was in fine spirits when I saw him on Thursday; he wished me a merry Christmas and gave me a bottle of very fine port which he had brought back with him from Scotland," said Mrs. Thompkins. "He did speak of Mrs. Allgood, but only to say that he had sent her one also, to soothe her pains."
"It was the match which led Mrs. Allgood to be unhappy with the surgeon, you know," said Mrs. Jenner, who dropped her voice lower even though she had not noticed Kitty's familiar bonnet separated from her line of vision by a mere display of lace shawls.
&nb
sp; No longer could Kitty bear it; the mention of her own name and Mr. Turner's ill fortune succeeded in driving her from the shop altogether. She slipped through the door and was outside, unnoticed and very unhappy in her thoughts.
Mr. Hooker's Christmas party, she begged off attending, for she knew Mr. Turner would be there. A great many people would be observing them together and give rise to further gossip, which she did not wish.
"But you must come, Kitty," pleaded Anna. "Everyone will wish you there. Indeed, Mr. Hooker possesses a pianoforte which is not so fine as Mrs. Servennias but will serve for a lady to entertain them with carols. And I am quite sure he meant you when he spoke, for you know how he suggests such things."
"It does not matter," answered Kitty, firmly. "I have every intention of remaining with the children tonight. I shall make merry enough on the day itself and would wish nothing more than a quiet fire at home before our celebration."
"Tillie or Patience shall mind the children while we are away," answered Anna, "for it is but an evening, Kitty. Really, you must come."
For once, Kitty had her way in this matter and held her own counsel above her sister's. On the evening of Mr. Hooker's party, much of the village partook of the genial gentleman's good cider and Christmas cake and enjoyed a great many carols and old songs. Mr. Turner's fine tenor and Miss Servennia's weak soprano entertained the guests more than once: but not the skilled fingers of the elegant and well-loved Miss Phillips, who was sorely missed by the company. No explanation of mild illness could suffice, for the quiet and private speculation among many was that it was a broken heart which detained her, and many heartfelt regrets were paid to her through Mrs. Giles.
Last Miss Phillips Page 28