Last Miss Phillips

by Briggs, Laura

  You possess but a small fortune, I am told, which has given you comfort, but also placed you at the mercy of others whose happier state must sometimes seem a trial upon your feeling. It would be a great hardship on yourself if you were forced to choose a station beneath your own to possess one of the great gifts of happiness which is bestowed on mankind. Therefore, I wish you to have a small sum, that you might add to your own fortunes and secure a modest independence if you so choose.

  In these times, a woman unmarried with means may live respectably in society, I am told. She need not marry and be made unhappy by an unequal partnership in life.

  With sincere regards,

  Mrs. Ananias Allgood

  She refolded the letter after reading. There was no other sound in the room except the ticking of the mantel's clock and the rustle of Mrs. Jenner's starched skirts against the sofa.

  "Thank you." Kitty addressed Mr. Hooker with this remark. The barrister stirred, rising to his feet as if taking this as a sign his business was concluded.

  "Good day, Miss Phillips," he said, bowing to her. The ladies upon the sofa rose also.

  "Good day," said each in her turn. Kitty's self-possession was enough to meet their departure calmly and with a polite smile. It was only after they had gone that she re-read the letter, again and again.

  Mortification sank deeply into her heart with each word. The well-intended gift, the gentle reproach of her friend and neighbor. Did they all believe her to be a woman desperate for matrimony, miserable in her situation? If the dying widow had believed her thus, then surely all the town must think of her as an object of pity.

  "Is it true what they say–that Mrs. Allgood has left you her fortune and you're to leave Beiberry?" Lucy Foster asked.

  She had hastened to Marebrook Manor despite the distance between the estate and Goldleaf. Kitty had seen the girl crossing the lawn and went out to meet her swiftly.

  "Lucy, you shall freeze," she said, taking note of the girl's thin cape and bonnet. "Come inside and warm yourself–"

  "I can't, for my aunt doesn't know I've slipped away," she answered. "Please, Miss Phillips, is it true? My aunt says it is; she says you shan't stay in the village above a month, for you've a handsome fortune yourself, no matter what Mrs. Allgood thought–"

  "Enough, Lucy," said Kitty, hastily. "I am not leaving the village yet. It is true that Mrs. Allgood was very kind to me at the last," she continued, her voice trembling slightly with this remark. "But I have made no plans yet; nor would I leave without informing my friends I would do so."

  "Mr. Turner will," said Lucy. "My aunt says that he will go back to Scotland, for there is nothing for his chances since you–" Here, she stopped speaking on her own, a hand clapped over her mouth.

  "I'm sorry, Miss Phillips," she said, "I am, truly. My aunt would say never to speak of it to you, for it must make you unhappy–"

  "I was not engaged to him." Kitty made this declaration firmly, her hands upon the girl's shoulders. "Those rumors have no truth to them. Mr. Turner is a very kind man. A good man–but he has no interest in me beyond that of friendship."

  "Then why should he leave?" There were tears in Lucy's eyes. "Why should either of you leave if there is nothing the matter?"

  This truth was the most painful of all; for Kitty could not answer it, even if she wished. That something which did not exist–could not exist, in the eyes of both parties, she felt assured–could alter their circumstances so greatly was a thing beyond any power of human rationale.

  "There are different reasons for each of us to go, I am sure," Kitty answered, although her voice was rendered uncertain in its tones by this rumor regarding the surgeon. "But there is no reason for you to fear that I shall leave Beiberry without paying my respects to all of my friends."

  Reaching to touch Lucy's cheek, she smiled fondly at the girl's tear-stained countenance, for there was very little to separate their circumstances except years and wisdom. Would it not be Lucy's fate, she wondered, to be rendered miserable by such a decision? A small gift to console her for the disappointment of having fallen out of notice with the world.

  "I would wish you to be happy, no matter what happens, Lucy," she said. "To be happy in life is so difficult. It must be begun early or else the habit will not grow fast. I would not have you fear the gossip or the smallness of your world. I would not wish you elegance, even, if you could be happy."

  "But I would rather be elegant than happy," protested Lucy. "If I were elegant, I might have a chance at something better, my aunt says. It is plainspokeness and plain looks that prevent me."

  "Elegance cannot lighten your spirits," answered Kitty. "It cannot make your heart light. It is only an outward show, I fear; that is why I would have you keep the plain if there is anything in it that would please you and not your aunt."

  She drew back from her friend after these words. "Now you must go home before you are missed," she said. "For it is too cold to stand and worry about the gossip in the village."

  "Yes, Miss," said Lucy, faintly. She turned and hurried towards the drive again, her cloak streaming behind her like a pair of green wings taking flight.

  *****

  There was not all unhappiness or doubt born from the conditions of Mrs. Allgood's will. Mrs. Josephs took her leave of Beiberry with a lighter heart and a fortune in her possession. Destined, as she informed Kitty, to return to her former friends in Surrey.

  "I shall take a house there," she said, as they sat in a room at the inn where Mrs. Josephs was staying for the remainder of her time in Beiberry Mile. "I have thought of opening a shop once–tea or millinery or such–but now I suppose I may be comfortable without such things."

  Her black lace fingerless gloves were crossed neatly upon her lap, her silk showing signs of wear and unfashionable origins. Mrs. Josephs was not yet comfortable with her fortune, it appeared.

  "When shall you leave?" asked Kitty, kindly.

  "In a week's time. I have a brother near Esher who shall make inquiries on my behalf. Until then, I shall make my farewells and make some of the purchases I require for my journey."

  The Littlewoods were also grateful for the terms of the will; it was an increase in fortune to a large family of many labors for their good living. They were sorry for their cousin's wife's death, although she spoke but little to them in life, but it was kind of her to remember them at the last. This Mrs. Littlewood said when she called at Marebrooke Manor with a basket of eggs for its mistress.

  The inherited cottage of their relative's youth, which was far beyond repair, was to be pulled down and a new one built on its site for the eldest Littlewood daughter, who was lately betrothed. A small sum would be put aside for the two eldest boys to attend school.

  "A bit extra shall be set by, of course," Mrs. Littlewood said, "after Lily's dowry is made and our own house is made a bit more comfortable, for ten thousand is a grand sum, not that we be needing it. But I've promised Jack and 'is brothers a set o' metal soldiers from it." She wrapped her arm tenderly around her young son, who hid his face shyly from Kitty and Anna.

  "Jack deserves them for his bravery," Kitty smiled. There was but a faint scar about the young boy's head, disappearing beneath a shock of fair hair.

  "Mr. Turner would agree, Miss," said Mrs. Littlewood. "He says 'ello to Jack upon every occasion we meet in t'village, which has not been much since 'es been away so often w' a patient fair ill and in need of nursin' for months now."

  "I have seen so little of him in town but had not wondered why until now," said Anna, for she knew Kitty would not speak on this subject without help.

  "He paid ye a handsome compliment when we spoke, Miss Phillips," said Mrs. Littlewood. "Sayin' ye was the steadiest he ever saw in a lady. Such a gentle, well-born creature as t'was ever seen, but w' a bit of courage beneath, as it t'were, he said."

  "That was kind of him," Kitty answered, half afraid her face betrayed more feeling than she intended. "But he is kindness itself, so it not a surpr
ise he should speak so well of others."

  "Aye, perhaps so," Mrs. Littlewood answered archly. "But if 'e takes in his mind t'leave us, I hope t'will be for as pleasant a place." With that, she and her little son took their leave.

  This would be a final occasion for Mrs. Littlewood to appear as a laboring wife. The fortunes of the family, along with their own prosperity, would begin a future of greater comforts, less labor, and general endeavors to improve themselves from their manner of speech to the matter of dress.

  "It is true that Mr. Turner is considering leaving," said Anna, later that evening. "His practice does well enough, but he has a friend in Scotland who would offer him a place as well. He seems keen upon being away ever since the holiday." She was seated in her parlor, stitching a piece of embroidery.

  "I did not know," said Kitty, who managed to sound as if this mattered very little.

  Anna looked up from her stitches, as if anticipating further remarks upon the subject. There were none, however; and though she watched her sister’s face for a long moment, Kitty’s eye did not meet hers.

  The subject was then changed. "There is an invitation for you," Anna said. “On the tray in the hall. It was brought by a footman from Lord Grantly's estate today."

  "For me?" said Kitty. "But I scarce know his lordship. I do not think we have spoken above once. It is surely for you and William."

  "It is not," answered Anna. "It was sent expressly to you. With the compliments of his lordship." As she spoke, she rose and retreated into the hall, returning a moment later with the card.

  "Open it," she commanded. "It is an invitation to his sister's luncheon, I am sure of it. Lady Anthea does not wait for spring for these matters, for she always fears that the best company in the county will be in London by then."

  "I do not understand why they would ask me," said Kitty, feebly, as she read the card from the estate.

  "Perhaps it is because they fear you are to go to London without making their acquaintance," said Anna. "Even I have assumed you will go to London in another month or so."

  Kitty was silent. "I suppose I shall," she answered, at length.

  "I had always assumed that you were happy in London," said Anna. "And at Enderly, for it is such a grand house. I had assumed you would be happy in my own, for until now I never gave it thought."

  "It is not unhappiness, Anna," Kitty answered in protest. "I have no wish to leave you or Louisa–nor the children."

  "I did not say you wished to leave us," said Anna, gently. "Only that you were not happy." She took up her needlework again.

  "Mrs. Allgood's advice is quite sound. You might take a cottage of your own in the country," said Anna. "You could be respectable and independent and live as you like. Your money was enough for that, only we did not suppose that you wanted it."

  Kitty's fingers touched the edges of the card as she listened, but gave no indication of what she was feeling. A great many emotions occupied her at this moment, a great many fears and doubts and faint dreams which came into possibility with a speed beyond mortal expression. With them, the realization that they were only made possible because everyone assumed her to want something which she should not have.

  "You should go to the party, Kitty," said Anna, gently. "I wish it; and so would your friends, who would see you happy again."

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Lady Anthea's luncheons were not the grand affairs which everyone pretended them to be, but merely a fine repast served to the county gentry with whom her brother was associated and to the best citizens of Beiberry as a matter of courtesy. She was seldom in Beiberry society, having long suffered a malady which prevented her from exerting herself for long periods of time. Her anxiousness to be remembered among the community, however, exerted itself in several kind and polite gestures made to them throughout the year.

  Miss Phillips wore her brown silk and her newly-trimmed bonnet, for Anna insisted upon it.

  "I will not have my sister seem less than the country gentry when she stands before Lady Anthea," she said, inspecting Kitty's appearance. "She is a kind and genteel woman, but has very odd notions about general appearances in society."

  Anna sighed after a moment of studying Kitty‘s reflection. "This brown will do," she said, "although it disappoints your complexion a little. It seems to draw the color away from you. I wish I might persuade you to wear the pink one."

  "I should never have been persuaded to purchase the pink muslin," Kitty protested, by way of excuse, "only I was encouraged–persuaded to buy it against my better judgment. It did not suit at all when I wore it." Her fingers fumbled with her gloves, which were drawn through the strings of her reticule.

  "What are you doing there?" said Anna, who spied three of her children peering curiously through the half-open door. "Go below, that your Aunt Kitty might have her privacy." She closed the door behind them.

  The brown silk was not as flattering as Kitty once imagined it to be, however; for her reflection was wanting in her own eyes as well. Her hair was dressed low in a becoming fashion, pinned with a simple brown comb at the knot and only her pair of pearl drop earrings as any further ornament on her person.

  The sound of Mr. Giles's carriage wheels was audible as the vehicle rolled before the front door to await her. She tucked a handkerchief into her bag and went below.

  Six Mile Grange's seat of residence could be seen from Reiker's View, a stone form upon the blanket square of green below like a rook chess piece. In miniature, it was forlorn and romantic; in full size, it was majestic in its simple dignity, with its stables and barns, its hothouses and coops, the aura of activity about the place even when no servants or staff were present.

  His lordship was fond of horses, kind to his tenants, and went into Society only to please his sister, who could no longer go. To please her, however, he wore a cravat and his good coat and greeted guests who arrived upon the cold lawns of his home.

  "Welcome," he said, clasping their hands in a grip made warm only by a great deal of rubbing in between times. "Come, John shall–where is John?–there he is; he shall show you into the hall." With this greeting, he would release the guest, then stroll about as he waited for the next arrival.

  There was a magistrate and a London barrister who was guest of Lord Grantly; there was a gentleman who made his fortune in wool and the son of a gentleman who had made his fortune in tea. A Lady Louise who was the daughter of someone once important came, as well as Mr. Hooker from the village and his niece.

  "We are a merry party, Miss Phillips," he said, jovially. "'Tis the height of winter and we are trapped within these walls with only Grantly's stories to amuse us." He shook his head in the midst of his chuckle.

  "I did not know his lordship was fond of stories," she ventured. Several of the guests were engaged in conversation, his lordship having escorted one or two to the stables earlier to see his newly-acquired saddle horse for the fox hunts. She stood at the window with Mr. Hooker, who was sipping a glass of the nobleman's good claret.

  "Aye, he tells a pretty tale from his youth," said Mr. Hooker. "Of course, some are not for the lady's tastes," here, he winked, "and some are greatly gilded. His was a youth of a great many adventures, which all came to naught. For he's turned landlord and master, more interested in the fields and farmers that t'will only serve to enrich some distant cousin."

  "Her ladyship does not come down, I notice," said Kitty. "I was under the impression that my invitation was from the mistress of the house."

  "Oh, 'tis, I'm sure, 'tis. But Lady Anthea does not rise upon every morn. A great complaint with her nerves or her legs, I don't remember which."

  "Her ladyship suffers from rheumatism and tremors, sir." Lord Grantly had joined them now. "She has kept to her bed nigh since–September, I believe. Only comes down now and again and sees the physician almost daily since then. She hoped to be well enough to come down today, but it was not the case. She shall be well enough by and by."

  "Her ladyship must be
very lonely, with only her physician to cheer her," ventured Kitty. "Would she allow any to see her in her chamber?" She thought of Mrs. Allgood with these words, although there was no comparison between the circumstances of the lady upstairs and the forlorn woman who had lain dying in a rustic cottage.

  "Not today, for she's greatly tired," said Lord Grantly. "But she would like you to call upon her some day. I thought of sending for you before–making your acquaintance for her sake. For Miss Harwick spoke quite highly of Miss Phillips when she was here."

  The mention of Hetta's name drew the color from Kitty's cheeks with its connection to her own unhappiness. "Then you were much acquainted with Miss Harwick," she murmured in reply.

  "A good tenant, she was," said Lord Grantly. "Very neighborly in her compliments and attentions. She rode down from Pennicot on a fine mare to pay us a call many a day. Lady Anthea had taken to her bed by then, so only her physician and Miss Harwick saw anything of her upon those days. But Miss Harwick was greatly attentive."

  "She has been known to be very kind," said Kitty. Who did not prefer to imagine what else Miss Harwick and her ladyship might have spoken of, alone or before the physician. Had they spoken of the village's rumors? If so, her own tale might have been among those anecdotes offered up for the amusement of her ladyship.

  "You possess a great musical talent, I have heard. Miss Harwick spoke highly of your skills and said we should have you to play by and by. It was a pity that you did not ride down with her on one occasion or another, so we could have made your acquaintance sooner."

  "I was greatly honored by your invitation," said Kitty. "I was also surprised, for I had but spoken to you once before in the village and have not been introduced to her ladyship at all."