by Syrie James
“Is it?” My heart pounded. I took a deep breath, trying to prepare myself for whatever might be coming. “What did he say?”
“He told me that you are—” Isabella leaned forward, lowering her voice. “I hope you will believe, I do not mean to be impertinent?”
“I am certain you do not mean to be.”
“He said that you are—” she paused, her eyes gleaming with excitement, “the most wonderful story-teller.”
It was the last thing I expected. “Indeed?”
“Charles and Maria agreed. They said you told them the most entertaining tale that day, and it was a wonder it was not published. Well, I thought, any one that accomplished, must be a great reader, and a good judge of literature, and perhaps even writes her own stories down. But Ashford left the room, and no one else seemed to know. So I thought I would come here straight away, to enquire into the matter.”
“I am afraid I do not follow you, Miss Isabella. What, precisely, is the nature of your enquiry?”
“A very simple one. I read an entire novel last year, all the way through! It took me a great while to finish, but I was glad I did. So inspired was I, that I recently took up the occupation of writing, myself! I have so longed for a friend with whom I could share my thoughts, some one who could guide me in my endeavour.” From her satchel, Isabella produced a notebook, which she thrust at me. “Here is my first effort: a story, unfinished as yet. I wondered if you would be so kind as to read it and honour me with your opinion?”
I stared at her, astounded. I was prevented from making any reply, however, for at that very moment the door was thrown open again. The maid reappeared, carrying a tray with some sort of beverage, and made the following announcement:
“Excuse me, Miss Austen, there’s a gentleman to see you.”
I had not even an instant to process that remark, when Mr. Ashford immediately strode into the room.
Chapter Nineteen
Miss Austen,” said Mr. Ashford, bowing, an urgency to his tone.
I rose to my feet in silent astonishment. Mr. Ashford opened his mouth to speak again, when he caught sight of Isabella and froze in consternation. A brief, awkward silence followed. The maid vanished. If I had thought the events of the previous afternoon to be uncomfortable, they were nothing compared to the moment before me now. I was trapped in the same room with the two people I least wished to see or speak to in the world, without the relief of another person.
“Ashford!” cried Isabella at last, with a laugh. “Well, this is a surprise.”
Mr. Ashford bowed stiffly. “Miss Churchill.”
“Had I known you were coming here to-day, Ashford, we could have shared a carriage.”
“I imagine so,” said Mr. Ashford. He glanced at me with a frustrated and embarrassed look.
I was filled with anxiety, but determined not to shew it. Why, I decided suddenly, should I feel uncomfortable in front of this man? I had done nothing wrong. He had wronged me. Let him feel his own shame and discomfort, if he may. “Do sit down, Mr. Ashford,” I entreated with a smile.
“Thank you.” He perched on the edge of a chair. “I cannot stay long.”
“But how odd,” said Isabella, as she sipped her glass of punch. “Why have you come all this way, Ashford, if you are to arrive and depart in the same breath?”
“I came to—” He was clearly at a loss for words, and I discerned in his gaze a range of emotions which seemed to be at war within his heart—mortification, aggravation and something else which appeared to be directed solely at me—was it apology? At last he said, “I came to issue an invitation.”
All those affectionate feelings which I had buried, with one earnest look from him, were attempting to retake possession of my heart. I struggled to ignore them, determined to cling to fury and indignation, but resolved to be polite. “An invitation?”
“To you and your friends. To join us at Pembroke Hall. I understand—I believe my housekeeper said—you did not see the gardens or the waterworks yesterday?”
“It is true, we did not have that pleasure. Although we did have a very extensive tour of the house itself, which I thought extremely beautiful.”
“Thank you. I am glad that you—I am pleased that you had the opportunity to see it. I do hope that you will do me the honour of returning on Friday as our guests, and of course stay to dinner.”
“How kind of you to offer. I am sure my friends will be delighted by the invitation. I shall be sure to tell them when they return.”
“What a wonderful idea,” said Isabella. “I had intended to go home tomorrow, but now I will surely stay. What is another day or two? It could not be more perfectly arranged.”
The look on Mr. Ashford’s handsome countenance—his furrowed brow, pursed lips and flared nostrils—all conveyed his irritation and annoyance, which he struggled to contain behind a terse smile. I could only hope that my own tortured feelings were not so readily discernible as his.
“It will give you time, Miss Austen, to read my little story,” continued Isabella, “and you may share your comments when next you see me.” At Mr. Ashford’s incredulous look, she laughed. “You are right to be surprised, Ashford, for you do not know all. Remember the story I told you I was writing? Well! Wait until you hear! Miss Austen has agreed to read it and give me her advice.”
He glanced at me. “That is most gracious of you.”
“How could I refuse?” I replied.
“Indeed. How could you?” With a tense frown, Mr. Ashford stood. “If you will excuse me, Miss Austen. I shall look forward to your reply with regard to Friday. And now, I beg to take your leave.”
“I must be on my way, as well,” said Isabella, rising and retrieving her parasol. “Words cannot express my gratitude, Miss Austen, for your assistance in this little matter.”
“It is my pleasure,” I said.
Oh! The satisfaction that a pen and ink and paper can afford when one has events of such astonishing calibre to relate, and the knowledge that they will be delivered to such a vitally interested recipient! You may imagine with what an outpouring of emotion and anxiety I related every word and nuance of the above incident when I was, at last, able to finish my letter to Cassandra. So engrossed was I in my writing, that I was unaware that another carriage had arrived in the drive, until Alethea entered the parlour.
“Well, Jane, we have had such a day!” Alethea drew off her gloves and flung herself into a chair with a tired sigh. “After seeing so many villages and castles and manor homes, they all begin to look alike. All excepting Pembroke Hall, of course. Yesterday’s outing was indeed a bright spot in our week. How are you, dearest? Is your headache better?”
“It is. Thank you.”
“Is that yet another letter you write?”
“Yes. To my sister.”
“Did you not write to Cassandra not two days past?”
“I did.”
“I have written only one letter to one sister in all the time we have been gone, and here you write to yours nearly every other day, it seems. You make me feel positively guilty. I was going to ask you something. Whatever was it? Mr. Morton and papa rode on to see some pigs that Mr. Morton is thinking of buying, about which he would seek papa’s opinion. I begged them to drop me home first; the idea of being forced to listen to those two men debate the merits and demerits of a swine for the better part of an hour left me entirely exhausted. Oh! I remember what I was going to ask.” She sat up of a sudden, her eyes alive with interest. “The maid said you had two visitors while we were gone. Two! Is it true? Who can you be acquainted with in these parts? Who came to see you?”
“Miss Isabella Churchill, for one.”
“Miss Churchill? I am all astonishment. But wait, that is right, you have met before. Whatever was her purpose in coming?”
“She came to ask my advice. She has taken up a new occupation, it seems.”
“What occupation is that?”
“Having failed at music and art,” I re
plied, “she has decided to write.”
I read Isabella’s story, which was a brief tale of a girl’s adventure, rather childish, and quite unfinished—similar in tone to my own very early juvenilia—except that she did not possess the mastery of the language which I believed sufficient for the task. I would never dream of telling her so, of course, I thought miserably.
While Alethea took to our room for a nap, I ventured out alone into the parsonage garden for a walk, my mind full of the distressing events of the past two days. Oh, how I wished I had never come on this holiday, or at the very least, had heeded my alarms and refused to visit Pembroke Hall.
When Alethea had pressed me to reveal the identity of my second visitor, I had told her, with as much calm as I could muster, about Mr. Ashford’s kind invitation to make a return visit to his family estate. She had been surprised but pleased, and wondered what could have induced him to extend such a courtesy, since I was (or so she thought) not acquainted with him, but only with the Churchills. I did nothing to illuminate her on the subject, preferring to wait until we were actually in that gentleman’s company again (some two days hence, should the visit in fact take place), when it would become absolutely necessary to do so. We had laughed in anticipation of Mr. Morton’s response to the invitation, which we predicted would be enthusiastic, indeed.
My laughter had rung hollow, however. I could not think of the event without the greatest frustration and mortification.
Being forced into the presence of Mr. Ashford twice in two days had been discomfiting enough, and now I was faced with yet another meeting. Surely Mr. Ashford had not come today with the intention of issuing any such invitation. It had been clear, by his manner, his tone, his very words, that he had arrived with a very different aim in mind, and had been forced to invent another excuse, owing to the unexpected presence of Isabella.
The original purpose of his visit, I surmised, had been to at last reveal all, to unburden his heart of guilt. Over the past several hours of rumination, my imagination had supplied the words that he might have said, had he been allowed to speak freely. He might have explained that when we met at Lyme, he had been quite taken with me. Upon his return to Derbyshire, however, he had become embroiled in affairs of his family estate, and he had been reminded (perhaps by his father) that he was reaching that age where a man must and should marry. It had seemed only natural and right to chuse a young woman who was so beloved by the family. He had known Isabella all his life, he might have said, and had always regarded her with affection. Some one or two years past, when she had matured into the full bloom of womanhood, her beauty and attractions had bewitched him.
It had all been settled, he was to marry Isabella, and had thought himself content. And then we met again at Southampton. He was not prepared for the attraction he was to feel. The similarity of our minds, the charms of my person and intellect (or some other such nonsense) drew me to him. He knew he should have told me of his engagement; he reproached himself daily for this omission; but had he told me his true circumstances, he feared I might desist in seeing him (which would surely have been the case.) However, since he had regarded me, from the beginning, only as a friend, and had assumed that I felt the same, he had seen no real harm in continuing our association.
He would then have turned his eyes to me, (I imagined) with a look of deepest sincerity (one of his many talents), and said, “That you learned of my engagement from another source, will always be a matter of the greatest embarrassment to me. I hope that you will forgive me, and that we may remain friends, for I will always hold you in the highest esteem, &etc &etc.”
This imagined discourse, which brought an unpleasant turn to my stomach, was interrupted by a distant shout and the calling of my name. I looked up across the expanse of lawn to see Mr. Morton exiting the parsonage and waving to me.
Oh no, I thought. What now? Alethea must have told Mr. Morton about our invitation to dine at Pembroke Hall, and he cannot wait to share his delight with me. The clergyman lumbered towards me as fast as his long, thick legs and heavy torso would allow; I quickened my step along the gravel path in his direction and met him at the border of the rose garden.
“Miss Austen,” cried he, catching up to me and panting for breath, “may I solicit the honour of a walk with you in private?”
“It is your garden, Mr. Morton. And there does not seem to be any one else about.”
He snorted out something resembling a laugh. “Your sense of humour, Miss Austen, is only one of your many qualities which I find so endearing.”
“You are too kind, Mr. Morton.”
“I speak only the truth. You are a woman of great charm and many surprises.” He fell into step beside me, and, as expected, said with great excitement: “Why, who could have imagined, when you first arrived—a woman from a respectable family, to be sure, but one of no great consequence, who has resided in county Hampshire most of your life—that you would know the Churchills! And by that connexion, be the means of an introduction to the Ashford family! It is too thrilling! I have only just heard the news of Mr. Ashford’s most gracious invitation and words cannot express with what extreme pleasure I anticipate the affair.”
“No words are necessary, Mr. Morton. I can imagine your sentiments very well.”
“I believe you can, Miss Austen. For you strike me as a woman of great imagination, another feature which I admire. To be able to see more than merely that which is before you, to be able to project one’s innermost thoughts and ideas into a future prospect, and then to realise that prospect—from an endeavour as simple as the installation of a set of shelves in a bed-room closet, for example, to one as complex as the design and planting of a bed of roses—these activities all require a vivid sense of imagination, and a passionate devotion to their execution. Qualities which, I flatter myself, I am most fortunate to possess, and which I always observe in others with the highest regard.”
I strove to devise a sensible reply, but the idea of Mr. Morton designing and fitting closet shelves with any thing resembling passion so amused me, that it required all my attention to keep from laughing. We approached a wooden bench in the shade of a great elm, and he said, “Please do me the honour of sitting with me for a moment, Miss Austen.”
I sat. He heaved his great body onto the seat beside me, breathing in the scents of the garden. “Is not this a delightful spot?”
“It is indeed, sir. It is very lovely. You have much to be proud of.”
“You would not find it disagreeable, then, to spend more time in this place?”
“Why no. I enjoy the out of doors; I would be happy to pass an hour or two each morning of our stay engaged in strolling about your garden.”
“Would you be as happy if you were to extend your stay?”
“Extend my stay?” I replied, puzzled. “That would be pleasant, I am sure, but my friends and I are obliged to return home a few days hence.”
“Are you indeed obliged, Miss Austen?”
“Indeed I am. My mother and sister await my return. We shall be moving, soon, to a new house.”
“I see.” Mr. Morton turned in his seat to face me, his countenance more animated now than I had yet seen it. “I shall waste your time or mine no longer with idle chatter, Miss Austen, but come right to the point. I believe I mentioned, shortly after your arrival, that until recently, I did not have the means to support a wife; but my circumstances have changed substantially. I am now able and inclined to marry, and I have chosen you, Miss Austen, to fill that role, as the future companion of my life.”
I was so taken aback, I could only manage “Mr. Morton” before his flood of words intervened.
“I recognise your surprise and concern, but pray, do not distress yourself. I am aware that such a proposal does not present itself to a woman of your position every day; but the fact that you are no longer in the bloom of youth, and have no fortune, is of no consequence to me. Your value, I believe, lies in other things. From the moment I first laid eyes upon
you, I recognised all the features of an active, intelligent, useful sort of person, not brought up too high, who could make a small income go a good way; in short, the ideal woman to serve as a parson’s wife.”
“Mr. Morton, I beg you—” I began, but he went on:
“I flatter myself that I have much to offer a woman: a comfortable home and living, and as you have yourself seen, a very beautiful garden, situated only two miles from the estate of the esteemed Lady Delacroix, who I feel certain will approve most readily of my choice; not to mention the society which we shall surely enjoy based on your acquaintance with the two great Derbyshire families of whom we have spoken. Nothing now remains but for me to assure you of the violence of my affection. May I say how ardently I love and admire you! Will you say yes, Miss Austen, and make me the happiest of men?”
Chapter Twenty
This was—at last—the conclusion of his speech?” enquired Cassandra, struggling to stifle a laugh from her garden seat outside Frank and Mary’s cottage at Alton. “Will you make me the happiest of men?”
I had returned only half an hour before, after an expeditious homeward journey from Derbyshire. Upon reassuring myself that my mother was not, in fact, at death’s door (but was at that moment sitting up and enjoying a hearty meal), I had stolen my sister away at the first opportunity, to regale her in private with the illustrious tale of my proposal.
“Those were his very words,” said I.