by Beth Andrews
‘Really, Laura.’ Isabel’s response was not at all what I had expected. She seemed more annoyed than sympathetic. ‘There is no need for such an emotional display,’ she added coldly. ‘Besides, my bosom is not very large, and can receive only so much.’
I pulled away from her a few inches, but continued to address her, ignoring the others.
‘But you little know, dear friend, what I have endured.’ I wiped a tear from the corner of my eye. ‘I am now both an orphan and a widow. . . .’
A simultaneous gasp from Sir Sidney and his daughter expressed their shock, for they had hitherto been quite unaware of the death of their son and brother respectively.
‘What has become of my poor brother?’ Augusta demanded. ‘Is he truly dead?’
‘Yes,’ I said, turning to face her with a disdain even haughtier than her own. ‘Now, cold and insensible nymph, you may glory in being the sole heiress of your father’s vast fortune.’
This disclosure produced what I can only describe as the most tepid effect on those whose hearts should have been shattered into a million little pieces. Sir Sidney bit his lips and turned pale, while Augusta’s eyes welled with tears. Neither wailed nor tore their clothes and hair. I considered it quite a shabby way to mourn the dearly departed.
Isabel remained perfectly calm—which I could forgive her since she had never known my Edward. It was she who put the next question to me.
‘Pray tell us what happened to your husband, Laura.’
I took a deep breath, and then recounted to them all that I have already written in this little book: how we sought shelter with Augustus and Sophia, the arrest of the former and the disappearance of Edward in search of him. I told how Sophia and I had searched the desolate streets of London, how we met our grandfather at a strange inn (only leaving out the behaviour of Gustavus and Philander, which I thought the assembled company might not be as generous about as I was). I narrated how we journeyed into Scotland and assisted MacDonald’s daughter; and finally, my voice quite in shreds, I told of the death of Edward, Augustus and Sophia.
‘And that, to put it briefly,’ I concluded, ‘is how you came to find me on the road to Edinburgh, with nothing in my pockets, save a few shillings I purl . . . I received from Bridget’s old grandmother.’
‘But you seem to have no remorse at all for your behaviour, Laura,’ Isabel said accusingly.
I was quite bewildered by her attitude. I had expected her praise, not her censure.
‘For what should I feel remorse?’ I enquired proudly.
‘But for you,’ Augusta interjected, ‘my brother might be alive today!’
‘In all fairness, Augusta,’ Lady Dorothea put in quite unexpectedly, ‘Edward’s own stupidity had as much to do with his demise as anything this woman has done.’
‘I have always behaved in a manner which I believe reflected honour upon my feelings and refinement,’ I proclaimed, still exasperated by the way they appeared to view my predicament.
I plainly saw Augusta roll her eyes and shake her head in a gesture of the utmost contempt. Isabel, at least, was not so crude.
‘I’m sure you imagine so,’ she said, making at least some attempt to understand me. ‘And imagination, I suppose, is everything these days.’
‘I can bear no more of your baseless accusations!’ I cried, leaping to my feet and almost ready to flee once more. In this, however, I was forestalled by Sir Sidney himself.
‘Well, madam,’ he said, taking a deep breath and addressing me with exquisite formality, if not with joy, ‘with all your manifest faults, you are still the widow of my only son. I will see that you are provided with a suitable establishment at a considerable distance from myself—and necessary living expenses, of course.’
‘So I should hope!’ I faced him proudly. ‘Though it would have been more to the credit of your sensibility if you agreed to provide for me because I am the refined and amiable Laura.’
‘That,’ his tart-tongued daughter said, ‘is a matter of opinion on which some of us will beg leave to disagree.’
‘However that may be,’ Sir Sidney continued, ‘you may yet be carrying within you my unborn grandchild. As such, it behoves me to care for you to the best of my ability.’
‘That contingency is most unlikely,’ Lady Dorothea interjected. ‘Edward seems to have been more intimate with Augustus than with Laura.’
Sir Sidney frowned, but only said, ‘Nevertheless, I will do my duty by her.’
So it was settled, and I was rewarded in some measure for my sorrows and misfortunes.
Chapter Seventeen
Thus ended the adventures of my youth. Both love and friendship were forever lost to me, for I never found another husband to compare with Edward, though I have twice since tried the married state with much the same result. Nor has there ever appeared in my circle a friend like the lovely Sophia.
With the money provided by Sir Sidney, I retired to this remote spot, forever to lament the death of my mother, father, husband and friends. Of course, mourning, as everyone must be aware, can be quite an exhausting business. I am constrained to renew my strength with the occasional party, ball, or theatrical entertainment.
As for the others, all remain much the same to this day, with the exception of poor Philippa, who has long since gone to her reward; her husband still drives the stage to Edinburgh, however. Sir Sidney married Lady Dorothea, to the mutual advantage of both their fortunes; and Augusta so far debased herself as to wed a Frenchman. Philander and Gustavus went on the stage, performing in pantomimes and other entertainments, under the names of Lewis and Quick. I often attend their performances when I am in London for the season. Isabel returned to Ireland for a time, then established herself in Bath as one of the pillars of Polite Society.
As for me, nothing can ever offer consolation for all I have endured, nor erase the memories which time merely burnishes to an ever-glistening lustre. The loss of my One True Love, Edward, is a tragedy which has blighted my entire life. I therefore conclude with this word of advice to all young ladies of tender sensibilities: preserve yourself from a First Love and you need not fear a Second.
Take heed, dear reader, from my fate. And so, adieu.
PART THREE
(Marianne’s Conclusion)
The preceding narrative is not, in fact, a complete record of the life and exploits of Laura. Nor does it do justice to at least one of the other unfortunates who figures in her story. The recounting of Laura’s last days is an arduous task that has been left to my own feeble pen, but it was one that I could not, in all good conscience, neglect.
I visited Laura’s home on three occasions over the course of a fortnight in order to read aloud her effusive prose. When at last I had finished, she expressed herself as being intensely gratified by hearing her words given voice, which accolade I accorded all the respect of which I felt it to be worthy.
‘I’m afraid,’ I told her then, rising from my seat, ‘that I must be going. The evening is far advanced, and my mother expects me for supper.’
‘But stay,’ she abjured me mysteriously. ‘Before you go, allow me to reveal to you the heart of my humble house.’
‘If you insist.’
She led me down a narrow hallway to a small ante-room festooned almost entirely in black draperies. As we passed through the doorway, directly facing us was a large demi-lune table above which hung two portraits. One was of a somewhat gloomy-looking young man and the other a desiccated blonde. The table was covered with about a dozen votive candles, looking more like an overdressed church altar. They provided the only light, making the rest of the room appear like a small cave or grotto.
Coming up behind her, I could see that each portrait was draped with a swag of black velvet which puddled against the wall at the back of the table.
‘Here, Marianne,’ she said in hushed tones, ‘is the shrine to my lost love, my vanished hopes and dreams.’
‘These portraits, I suppose, are those of your husband a
nd your friend?’
‘They are.’
She then reached down and picked up two miniatures which lay flat upon the table before the candles. Holding one in each palm, she displayed them for my delectation.
‘These are my parents, and here on the table is also a silhouette of Augustus.’
‘A fitting tribute,’ I said conventionally, ‘to those who are gone.’
‘It is the least that I can do.’
As she spoke, she turned away to replace the two portraits and I heard her gasp. Puzzled, I looked at the table where her own gaze was fixed, and noticed that one of the candles on it had burnt out.
To my astonishment, she turned back toward me with a face so contorted with rage that it scarcely seemed human.
‘Gladys!’ she screeched at the top of her lungs. ‘Gladys, come here this instant!’
‘What is the matter, ma’am?’ I enquired, quite concerned at the purple hue of her countenance.
She ignored me completely, moving swiftly to the door. As she reached it, a maid (whom I correctly assumed to be the missing Gladys) passed through into the room, a look of terror on her face. She was a thin, timid-looking girl, who was clasping her hands together and looking everywhere but at the face of her mistress.
‘Gladys,’ Laura almost growled at her like a half-crazed feline, ‘did I not tell you never—under any circumstances—to let one of these candles burn out?’
‘Yes madam.’ Gladys shook like a tower in the Lisbon earthquake.
I watched in fascinated disgust as Laura proceeded to grab the maid’s left ear and use it to drag her over to her shrine, where she pointed an accusing finger at the extinguished candle.
‘Look at that!’ she demanded. ‘Look at it, you miserable creature!’
Gladys, her head twisted sideways as she squirmed in obvious pain, managed to stammer out, ‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘Does that look as if it is still lit?’ She paused, more for effect, I thought, than in expectation of an answer. ‘Well, does it?’
‘No, ma’am. I’m ever so sorry, ma’am.’
Laura twisted the ear yet harder, and Gladys buckled at the knees.
‘Have you no sensibility, girl?’ Laura asked.
‘Can’t afford it, ma’am,’ Gladys objected.
‘Have you no compassion?’ her tormentor continued. ‘No empathy?’
‘Don’t know what that is.’
At this point, I could no longer refrain from interrupting this absurd mixture of farce and sadism.
‘Really, Mrs Lindsay,’ I said with some asperity, ‘I do not know what else you can expect from the poor child. It is no great matter, after all.’
The veins in her neck stood out so prominently that I would not have been surprised had her head shot up through the ceiling like a rocket.
‘No great matter!’ she echoed, her whole body clenched and taut. ‘After having read my story, I do not know how you can say something so heartless.’
‘No real harm has been done,’ I insisted, wearied by her self-aggrandizing romanticism.
‘This space is sacred, my dear Marianne.’ She held herself perfectly erect and confronted me like an ancient Christian martyr facing the lions in the arena. ‘What this girl has done is a desecration, I tell you: a sheer desecration.’
‘I hardly think that either Sophia or Edward will offer any objection.’
She released Gladys, who promptly put a hand up to her poor ear—which was now an angry red after such strenuous abuse.
‘That you can treat this as a jest,’ Laura said, ‘is a testimony to your insensibility. I see that you are unworthy of the confidence I have placed in you. Once more I am betrayed!’
‘Can I go now, ma’am?’ Gladys enquired, preventing me from answering this ringing philippic.
‘Yes,’ her mistress agreed, not bothering to look at her, but continuing to stare at her much-vaunted shrine. ‘Go and see that the candle is replaced. When I return, all of them had best be burning, or you will feel my cane across your back, you ungrateful wretch.’
Gladys passed by me on her way out the door, but glanced back at Mrs Lindsay with such a look of hatred and anger on her face that I was quite startled. Her lips compressed in a tight line for a moment before she uttered a strange reply which I have never forgotten: ‘Don’t worry, ma’am. Everything will be burning, all right!’
A few moments later, I was at the front door, making my exit. Laura had not bothered to accompany me, as she was plainly offended by my previous comments. I was not sorry to be so slighted, however, having had quite enough of her by this time, and it was with a feeling of relief that I heard the door close behind me as I made my way down the front steps to the waiting carriage.
Nothing could have prepared me for the news which reached our house the next morning. One of our maids rushed in as Mama and I were at breakfast. She could scarcely get the words out in her frantic eagerness.
‘Have you heard, ma’am?’ she cried, addressing my mother.
‘Heard what?’ Mama asked, mystified.
‘Your friend, Mrs Lindsay, is dead!’
‘Indeed!’ Mama remarked. ‘Some good news, for a change.’
*
As to what happened to Laura, I have pieced together the following train of events, based on my subsequent interviews with her servants, who were all most obliging in relating what they knew had transpired after my departure that fateful evening.
About quarter of an hour after I had left, the staff became aware of the faint smell of smoke in the house. Before anyone could investigate the source, a piercing scream broke the silence.
‘Gladys!’ The voice of their mistress penetrated through even the thickest walls, followed by high-pitched wails of anguish. Everyone rushed to the spot whence the sounds continued to emanate.
Agnes, one of the under-housemaids, arrived at the shrine first, to see the table and the heavy draped fabric all ablaze and the flames licking up the walls behind them.
‘Oh, help!’ Laura was shouting now. ‘Fire! Someone come quickly!’
It was notable, Agnes said, that Laura made no attempt to put out the blaze herself. She merely stood, staring in horrified fascination.
Two other maids rushed in after Agnes. They immediately perceived the urgency of the situation and grabbed whatever they could—aprons, petticoats, their mistress’s shawl—and proceeded to beat out the leaping flames before they could spread to the rest of the house. All the while, Laura stood mutely while everyone whirled about her in their frantic fight with the fire.
Eventually the blaze was extinguished, but the shrine had been irreparably damaged. It was clearly too much for the near-catatonic Laura.
‘Are you quite well, ma’am?’ Agnes asked, but Laura was apparently incapable of speech by this time, and merely emitted something like a distressed tweet.
‘She’s had a bad shock,’ one of the other maids commented.
As the maid finished speaking, the portrait of Edward, which was still intact, though badly singed, fell from the wall and landed on the floor with a loud crash. This broke the spell which had held Laura silent.
‘Oh, my Edward!’ she wailed. Then, putting her hand to her head, she began to sway alarmingly, while the servants clustered around, trying to hold her up.
‘She’s goin’ to swoon!’ one of them cried.
‘You mean faint?’ Agnes asked.
‘That’s right.’
‘She never faints,’ Agnes asserted. ‘It’s a rule.’
‘Well, she’s going to break it now!’
Laura slumped to the floor, unconscious.
‘There she goes,’ another maid said.
They knelt down beside her, holding her head and fanning her. One fetched a bottle of sal ammonia, which remedy proved to be useless.
‘Get Gladys to fetch the doctor!’ Agnes ordered, taking charge of the situation.
‘Nobody can’t find Gladys,’ said the youngest maid. ‘She’s run off.’
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‘I wish I’d had the wits to do the same!’
‘I never thought I’d see the day!’ Agnes shook her head in wonder. ‘I’ll wager it’s the end of her.’
This dire prophecy was quickly proved to be accurate. The doctor arrived within another half-hour, but his countenance was grim after examining the patient. She had sustained a severe shock, which proved to be too much for her delicate constitution. Before the following morning, Laura Lindsay was no more.
Unfortunately, even in death, she continued to be a plague upon those who knew her. Not only was I entrusted with her precious manuscript, but my mother also was constrained to bear some of the burden surrounding her demise. Laura’s father-in-law, Sir Sidney, was desirous of erecting a suitable monument to the widow of his beloved son, but could think of no words (or none which might reasonably be chiselled into a headstone for public perusal) to describe so peculiar a person. In the end, he appealed to my mother, as Laura’s oldest friend, to supply something appropriate. This was a nearly impossible task which sorely vexed us both.
Barely a fortnight after Laura’s demise, Mama and I sat in the salon, discussing the question.
‘A most unfortunate and unexpected accident, to be sure,’ I noted. ‘One must be grateful that the entire house did not burn to the ground.’
Mama took a sip of tea.
‘I always thought that Laura would live forever,’ she said, ‘if only to spite Sir Sidney.’
‘He has placed quite a burden upon your shoulders.’
‘Yes.’ She sighed. ‘That pernicious woman gives me no peace, even from beyond the grave.’
‘Still, in all fairness, you are the most fitting person to compose an epitaph for her.’
‘But what can one say about a woman who dies—especially a woman like Laura?’
I set my own cup back into its saucer, considering the matter.
‘One must say something—even if it is less than honest.’
‘Indeed.’
‘It is customary to mention the virtues of the departed.’
‘If only one could think of any!’
‘Well,’ I said, after some more minutes of thought, ‘there are those who consider loving oneself to be a virtue.’