“Now that we are onto the subject of giving alms, I can think of one recipient who would be a great deal worthier than that dreadful cousin of yours.”
“Good lord,” Adam remarked, “we have not been engaged a day, and already you are taking charge of my financial affairs.”
Charity laughed, but continued in solemnity, “The person that I believe we must give any required assistance to is Mrs. Warwick.”
“Yes, of course,” Adam responded, his tone immediately becoming somber.
“She has no child to care for her in her old age,” Charity continued, “and as such I believe that the task falls to us to ensure that she always has whatever things she needs, for as long as she lives. She is a proud and independent old lady, and I am quite sure that she will refuse any help that we offer. But I believe that we must offer it, do you not?”
“You think of everything and everyone, my dear,” Adam replied, his tone containing the sort of rapture that is experienced by lovers who are engaged and have all the future stretching out ahead of them. “I shall learn to hold myself to far higher standards, with you at my side to guide me toward the right path.”
“I do not wish to be your guide,” Charity replied, “for there are a great many things that you know and I do not. I wish to be your wife, and for us to always guide each other and to challenge each other to be better.”
Adam turned to face Charity, his hands encircling her waist to gather her close.
“That seems to be as good a wedding vow as any,” he said and kissed her rapturously.
Chapter 43
Charity sat in the garden of the vicarage with Esther, enjoying the scented air that signified the change of seasons from spring to summer. The roses were beginning to bloom, and life felt easier and more exciting than it ever had before.
Of course, there were difficulties to contend with. She was back living in her father’s house, though the two of them exchanged very few words and she spent a good deal of her time with Mrs. Warwick or Esther — at least, the time that she was not spending with Adam or up at the big house getting to know his father.
She knew that Adam would be calling for her soon, along with Mr. Edwards for Esther. The four young people had been granted permission to all walk together — the Reverend Miller did not think himself in a position to make harsh judgements of others, and if anyone asked, he felt that the presence of Mr. Edwards, as a clergyman, rendered the gathering respectable.
It was supposed that there could be no harm in it when they were all there to keep their eyes on one another. In practice, of course, Esther and Mr. Edwards walked together at a distance, thinking longingly of the time that they could finally be alone, and Charity and Adam did just the same thing.
It took the Duke a great deal of time to recover from the revelations of the Reverend Miller’s confession.
For a time he raged, as perhaps he had every right to do. He cursed everyone within earshot, and although Adam did his best to prevent Charity from hearing him railing against her father, it was perhaps inevitable that some of the insults filtered through the still air of the Hall.
It was difficult for Charity to hear, of course, but in her heart, she felt that the old Duke had every right to the righteous anger that he had been denied so long.
Once the storm of his rage had spent itself, the old man was struck by great sorrow and called Adam to him to humbly beg his pardon. Charity did not know precisely what was said between father and son, but after twenty minutes she was called into the room where the Duke lay, so that the Duke could take both her hands in his, and greet her, with tears in his eyes, as his future daughter.
Not being inclined to wait any longer, Charity and Adam would go to church the weekend coming, having been granted a dispensation to wed, and that Esther and her Mr. Edwards would marry two weeks following, after their banns had been read. There had been some talk of a double wedding between the two ladies, but Esther had shaken her head at the idea.
“I have no wish to steal any of the happiness you may feel on your day and take it for myself,” she said.
To that Charity had laughed. “My dear friend, I am quite confident that you are wrong. Happiness is not limited in quantity, and there is plenty of it to go around.”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” Esther replied with a shrug, “but I have already caused you enough mischief with my silence. I want to do whatever is most conducive to your imminent happiness, in order that I may atone for my past mistakes.”
Charity felt strongly that Esther was being too harsh on herself, but she had decided not to press the matter too heavily. As far as she was concerned, she could not bear the idea of delaying her marriage to Adam a second longer than she needed to. If Esther was able to perceive matters in a more restrained way then perhaps that was owed merely to her calmer nature.
But for the time being, Charity and Esther were waiting for the young gentlemen to arrive, and enjoying the sensation of the sun upon their faces, and that feeling that we all have all too rarely in life of having no care in the world, of being content in the present and joyous at the prospect of the future.
“Did you imagine only a month ago that both of us would be engaged by the time that summer arrived?” Charity remarked, turning her eyes to the flowers that now illuminated the whole garden with their riot of color.
Terrible things had happened, lies had been told, and unkindnesses had taken place that could not easily be reversed. But with so much new life emerging all around, Charity felt that all things were possible.
“I did not imagine it for a second,” Esther replied. “And it should have been sooner, in your case, had it not been for my own foolishness in concealing the full truth from you.”
It was the first time that either of the young ladies had spoken about what had passed between them — about the deception that Esther had played her part in. It was evident, from the stiffness in the way that Esther sat, that she was much discomfited by the matter, but felt compelled to broach the subject for the sake of her conscience.
Charity turned to her friend and looked her fully in the eye, taking one of her hands so that the strength of her feeling could be better conveyed.
“It is true,” she replied, “that you should have told me what you saw that day.”
She waited for a moment or two, knowing that she needed to speak the entire truth, but pained nonetheless by the sight of Esther’s downcast expression and hurt eyes.
"But it is also true,” Charity continued, “that you intended to do me a kindness by concealing from me what you believed to be my father’s murderous nature. You hoped that Adam might be exonerated without my father being brought into the matter.”
“It was deeply foolish of me,” Esther replied, her voice quite thick with sorrow. “I had no right to make such judgements, and with my silence, I allowed a terrible toll to be taken on the lives of the innocent. I have learned that the truth must always be spoken, even though it might seem painful to do so.”
“I think that we have all learned that,” Charity replied gently.
“But I have understood, too, that lies, even lies of omission can emerge from a place of sincere kindness. Your omission was one such rare example, and although I am distressed by the consequences, I cannot hold it against you. If I have learned anything from all that has taken place, it is that all of us are better than our worst mistake.”
“Besides,” she continued, “much like my father, I believe that the remonstrances of your own conscience are far greater than any that I could offer. Therefore, dearest friend, let us not spoil our present happiness with chiding ourselves for our mistakes. They are in the past, after all, and the only thing that we can influence is the present.”
At this, Esther’s face broke into a grateful and loving smile, and she squeezed Charity’s hands very tightly.
“There are a great many felicities in the world,” she declared, “and I know that I have found one such in my love for Mr. Edwards. But
truly, I believe that there is no greater blessing to be had than that of the company of a true friend.”
Charity smiled in response, and then glanced toward the gate, where she could see the figures of two young gentlemen coming up the path — her own Adam, and Mr. Edwards. They moved with the lively step of young men in love and so eager for the future that they could almost imagine the peal of wedding bells in the summer air.
“I shall relay that observation to your future husband,” she replied laughingly, “and see what he makes of it!”
“Indeed, you may!” Esther replied with great feeling, looking down the path to where Mr. Edwards was. “As I have just said, I now believe that the truth must always be spoken aloud, and to me, the truth is that your friendship has been one of the most significant influences in my life, and I shall always treasure it accordingly.”
The two young women clasped hands for a moment, and then rose as one from the bench so that they could greet the two young men who would very soon be their husbands. The greeting was always a very pleasant one, characterized by shy affection and the promise that soon all need for shyness would be removed.
They walked together for over an hour, chatting easily with each other. Now that Adam was quite convinced that Mr. Edwards had never intended to pose as competition for Charity’s affections, the two young men were rapidly becoming great friends.
She suspected that one of the reasons for Adam’s prior absence from village life was that he had not known another young man who had mirrored him in age and understanding, and it was evident to her that Mr. Edwards was just such a man.
Just to think of the long evenings that the four of them would spend in each other’s company, in one married home or the other, made her glow with pleasure.
They walked as far as Mrs. Warwick’s cottage all together and then asked Mr. Edwards and Esther if they would mind waiting outside for a few moments while Charity and Adam called on the old lady.
Naturally, Esther and Mr. Edwards were only too happy to oblige, as it meant that they might enjoy a brief interlude of time alone in each other’s company.
As soon as they had found out what had happened to Mary Warwick, as soon as all the other immediate concerns had been dealt with, they had gone together to the old woman to break the news that they finally knew what fate had befallen her daughter and grandson.
The old woman listened carefully to the story, without saying anything, and then nodded her head and asked very quietly to be left alone. They had obliged her request, but they were not sure that it was best to leave her entirely alone, and therefore started to call on her every day as a part of their walk.
On one of their visits, they found the old lady sitting at her kitchen table.
It was the first time that Charity had ever witnessed Mrs. Warwick simply being, rather than doing something. For as long as she had known the lady her hands had always been busy with one thing or another, crafting some medicine or performing some household task.
Now she was still. The pestle and mortar lay unused, and the needle was abandoned. The little cottage had the feeling of a shrine rather than a home.
Her stillness at that moment seemed to suggest to Charity that she had, at last, found some peace. She did not look up when they entered, and at first, Charity wondered whether she had grown a little deaf and not heard them. However, after a few moments in which the two young people lingered in the doorway, Mrs. Warwick spoke.
“I am glad to see you,” she said at last. She turned to look at Adam. “As soon as you came back, I knew that the two of you would find each other, and be very happy together. It is a great fortune to find the one that you love.”
She gazed off into the distance. Charity wondered if she was thinking about Mary’s father, or perhaps some other man whom she had once loved. She wondered if Mrs. Warwick’s heart had been broken once when she was younger, and that was why she had dedicated the rest of her life to helping others.
Charity thought, with a heavy heart, that what was certain was that Mrs. Warwick’s heart had been broken a second time when she had lost her daughter and her grandson.
“It is too much,” she said, after a pause, “to lose a child, and to lose that child’s child too. This heart can’t stand it any more. But you two, you’ve still got the rest of your lives. Take care of the things that you love, and be happy with them.”
“We will do our best,” Adam replied.
“Yes, you will,” Mrs. Warwick said, as though she could see the matter all for herself.
“You will be very happy together,” Mrs. Warwick said, speaking in that same quiet tone. The words sounded like something between a wish and a prophecy.
“Thank you,” Charity said. She did not reach out to take the old woman’s hand, because she did not need to. Everything that could possibly be expressed between them was included in those two syllables — thank you.
* * *
Mrs. Warwick died two days later.
The doctor could find no cause for her death and said that she seemed to have simply drifted off in her sleep.
“The way that we would all hope to leave this earth,” he said, “if we had any choice in the matter.”
Charity was saddened at the death of the old woman. How could she not be? She had known her since she was a little girl and found in her brisk and unsentimental manner much of the care that she had never received from her mother.
Yet, Charity did not cry when Mrs. Warwick died. It seemed selfish to mourn her too deeply. She knew in her heart that the old lady wanted to go to a different place, a place where she had a family to love and care for.
Had she taken some special herbal draught to help her along to her final rest? Who could tell? The doctor only said that she died peacefully, without any apparent pain.
It was the final piece of magic that Mrs. Warwick performed, in a lifetime that had been characterized by little acts of magic.
She was laid to rest in the churchyard, alongside the graves of her daughter and grandson. Mr. Edwards performed the funeral service because the Reverend Miller recused himself. Mr. Edwards spoke plainly and with feeling, in a manner that made Charity sure that, given time, he would be an excellent preacher and clergyman.
Most of the village attended the funeral. It seemed that there was not one person among them whose life had not been touched by Mrs. Warwick in one way or another. Over many decades, she had cured their ailments and brought their babies into the world. Charity felt it a great pity that she had received her recognition only in death, and was largely ignored in life.
Her headstone was to be made from the same fine marble as her family’s, also bought by the Duke in honor of the poor, kind, clever old woman who had received so little from life, and given so much to others.
Some in the village whispered that she had been too filled with grief at the deaths of her daughter and grandson. But Charity was sure that her death had not been caused by a sudden surge of grief or a sense that she could not bear to go on living.
Mrs. Warwick had been broken by grief since Mary and Freddie had died. But, thanks to Charity and Adam, she had found out what really happened to her daughter, and so her unresolved work on earth had been completed.
Charity was certain that the reason she had died was merely that she felt that she had lingered long enough among the living, and now she wished to spend some time at rest with her daughter and her grandson. Given how industrious she had been all her life, Charity knew that Mrs. Warwick’s final rest was a very well-deserved one.
Epilogue
A Few Weeks Later
They went to church.
Of course, they did. It was what was required of a young man and a young woman who wished to promise, before God Himself, that they intended to walk together, hand in hand, for the rest of their days.
And of course, it was the Reverend Miller who performed the office. Though the relationship between him, his daughter and her intended remained deeply uneasy, it would
have looked too peculiar if he had not. None of them wanted to give the village something else to gossip about. He had married a great many young couples in all his life as a clergyman, but Charity suspected that never before had he done so with such a profound mingled sense of pride and shame.
Pride in his daughter — the young woman before him who stood so radiant alongside the upright figure of the young man who was now her husband. Shame — how could he not feel ashamed, when there was so much to feel ashamed about?
But no more of the Reverend Miller. Let it suffice to say that he would spend many hours in prayer and reflection, many hours thinking how best to ask the forgiveness of his daughter, and many more still, considering how he should face Mary Warwick and little Freddie when he met them in the next life.
But let us turn our attention to happier things — to the couple standing at the altar, and the other couple who sit in the congregation, illuminated by the glow of their own soon to come marital joy.
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