“But what of my life?” I ask.
“Oh, you left that a perfect mess as well—judging all and sundry as you are wont to do, acting out of self-righteous certainty when you really know nothing at all, riding though you were warned against it, causing untold amounts of grief through your self-destructive actions. And feeding your own delusions about forbearance and fidelity and trust, I might add. Poor Courtney. She does have her work cut out for her.”
At first I cannot even speak, and finally I sputter, “You mean Edgeworth, don’t you. I was the wronged party in this business, not him!”
“Is that so.” She regards me calmly, coolly.
“So you would have Courtney in command of my life. How long do you suppose it will take before she is drawn in by Edgeworth’s charm and address? Especially if she has arrived in my world with as little memory of my life as I have of hers.”
“Would that be such a crime?”
“He does not deserve her good opinion!”
“What right have you to say what he deserves and what he does not?”
“How could he be any less guilty than he looked that day on his estate when I spied him with his own servant?”
“Perhaps the answer will be revealed someday. But for now the past is of little consequence. In the meantime, you might do well to remember the words of your favorite heroine: It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first. Even if a man who looks like a thief is, indeed, a thief, that is not the whole story. Only by stepping into his shoes can you begin to comprehend what made him a thief, and what else he is besides a thief, for we are not only just one thing, we are many. You of all people should know that.”
And she starts to laugh, a high, clear, musical laugh.
“Now, now,” she says. “Do not look so downcast. And do have some of your tea. It will do you good, I am sure of it.”
I want to refuse. I want to be stubborn, as if giving in would be beneath my dignity. But I cannot resist the kindness in her countenance. And so I sip at my tea, and, sure enough, I do feel calmed. I would like to be angry, but somehow it requires too much effort.
“So, my dear,” says the lady, putting down her teacup. “We both know that it is not Mr. Edgeworth who is behind your sudden wish to revisit the past.”
I want to say something in my defense, but my face burns with shame.
“Best to get it out all at once,” she says kindly.
“The truth is, I am ruined,” I say. “And no respectable man will ever pay his addresses to me.”
“Are you so sure of that?”
“I am no longer sure of anything.”
“Now that is the wisest thing I have heard you say yet.” She smiles.
Despite my best efforts, I smile back at her, but the thought of what I must tell her next is sobering indeed. “At first I was able to say that this is what Courtney did, not I, but I can no longer do so. . . . You see, I—”
I cannot even get out the words.
“It’s all right, my dear.”
“I have had these—feelings—in my body. These—memories somehow. And I am mortified by them.”
She knows; I can tell she does. Yet there is no judgment, no revulsion, in her countenance. “Let’s get the worst part over and done with, shall we? Like having a tooth drawn. Best not to hesitate.” She smiles again, radiating kindness.
“The worst part. Well, that these feelings, or memories, or whatever they are, were of Frank, a man for whom I have no respect. And when I had these memories, it felt as if I were not mistress of myself. Such feelings are bad enough, but what is worse is that there is someone else. Someone whom I greatly esteem—or at least I did esteem him until I discovered his . . . intimate connection with another woman. A woman whom he then deserted. And that is not his only offense. He had lied to protect Frank, whom he knew was with another woman while engaged to me. I thought Wes must have had his reasons but—oh dear, I do not know what to think. I thought I knew him. I thought I knew myself. I know that things are supposed to be different in this time, in this place, than they were in my own world. But I do not know that they are different at all.”
She leans across the little table and pats my hand. “There, there, my dear. That was very brave of you. And to reward your courage I shall tell you something that will help you greatly: These, shall we say, impulses of attraction to Frank are merely cellular memories.”
I ponder her words for a moment. “You mean like Cowper’s words in The Task, ‘It opens all the cells Where Mem’ry slept’? ”
She smiles, delighted. “Very good, my dear. But there is much more to the human body than the cells of which Cowper wrote. For he, and those of his time, had no conception of how truly tiny and numerous those cells are, and not only in the brain, but in the entire body. For your body is made up of trillions of tiny cells. Science has made many discoveries since your time, and the body is indeed a miraculous machine.
“So you see, in addition to the memories stored in your brain, which you experience like the revisiting of scenes of your life—or in this case, of Courtney’s life—there are also the less easily identifiable cellular memories. The cells of the body retain memories of the experiences the body has had—and not just the aches and pains and tastes and smells, but the joys and sorrows, the desires and longings. Which is why one day you might awaken feeling cheerful, while another day you may awaken feeling depressed. Your body remembers that a year ago today or ten years ago today, you felt cheerful or depressed. And it feels that way again.
“The key is to be aware of the fact that cellular memory exists and to know that you have the choice to let those memories retreat into the past or allow them to rule your present. Once you understand what they are, you can choose to focus on the present moment and see what it offers you.”
I try to absorb it all, but I’m not sure. “So you mean I have a choice?”
“Of course you do, my dear. That is the blessing of free will. Just because you may feel a fleeting desire in your body does not mean that your mind must follow it.”
I think again about Wes’s words. “He said that the lady—Morgan is her name—told him she just wanted to have a good time.”
She looks at me carefully. “So did Courtney. And so did you, I might add.”
I feel myself blushing yet again as I think of those memories I had of Frank and of the desire I had for Edgeworth. “But I loved Edgeworth. And Courtney loved Frank.”
“And that makes you better than Morgan? Do not be so quick to judge. You, like she, still wanted pleasure, and why would you not? After all, pleasure is the opposite of pain. And humans will do anything to keep the pain at bay.”
I think of James, our footman, and how I kissed him that one night when I was mad with grief over Edgeworth. And I know that the lady is right. I had no thought for what my recklessness might cost James. Or myself. I only wanted to keep my pain at bay.
The lady sips her tea and regards me kindly. “Today’s women are no less desirous of love, and marrying for love, than they were in your time. But they, like so many women before them, simply fear it is an unattainable goal. And thus they settle for what fleeting pleasures they can find, creating an endless cycle of pleasure, despair, pleasure, despair, ad infinitum. Human nature is the same today as it was in your time. The only difference between today’s world and your world is that people have more choices now than they did then. Do drink your tea, my dear.”
I raise the cup to my lips, and as I gaze at the fire burning merrily behind the lady, I cannot deny that in the brief time I have been here, I have had more choices in a single day than I had in my entire life as a gentleman’s daughter. Choices of everything from what I might wear and how I might spend my day to how I could earn my living. But yet the thing which I now know I want the most seems the farthest from my reach.
I take a deep breath. “You said before that I had not finished what I started. But what else
can I do? I thought Wes was a good man, and indeed, I cannot deny that I formed an attachment to him.”
She smiles. “No. You cannot.”
“But what is there to be done? On the one hand, he said he told Morgan that he could not get involved, and he claims this was all for me. But is he not bound in honor to her? And even if he were not, what he said to me clearly undoes any feelings he might have had.”
“Is that so.” She pours more tea into my cup. “Drink, my dear.”
I take a tiny sip.
“Why don’t you tell me what he said. Exactly.”
“He said that he didn’t care how many men a woman had slept with. But that no man wants to see a woman stoop to someone like Frank. You see? In his eyes I am worse than ruined!”
“Are you sure that is exactly what he said?”
“Of course I am.”
“Drink your tea, my dear.”
I do. And it is as if my mind has slowed.
She cocks her head to the side, smiling kindly at me. “You’re sure those were his exact words.”
“Well, I—” Somehow being right is not all that important anymore. “He said”—and I close my eyes to picture him speaking—“I don’t care how many men a woman has slept with. But what no man wants to see is his woman stoop to the likes of someone like Frank.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Whose woman?”
I gasp. “His woman.”
“And?”
And I summon his words as if he is speaking them himself: “Or have such low self-esteem that she would consider a life with him. To think that she can’t have better than that. Because she can.”
“Very good. And what is the most important part of what he said?”
“Low self-esteem? I gather from my reading that the word has taken on a somewhat different shade of meaning in this time.”
“Yes, it is more than simply having a favorable opinion of oneself. It is about respect for one’s true dignity, not simply for the face we present to the world. And surely it is true that a lady who would choose a life with Frank, or someone like Frank, must not esteem herself very highly. And for Wes, it was painful to watch. So yes, this is an important part of what he said, but not the most important.”
And all at once I understand. “It pained him that she thought she could not have someone better than Frank. Because she can.”
“And who, my dear, is this mysterious ‘she’?”
I smile with the most glorious happiness. “I am.”
“You see? There is still much to be done.”
Yes, there is. Because I can have better. For myself. And for Courtney. After all, am I not the steward of her life? Her future happiness—and mine—is in my hands. Except—
“What of the lady? Morgan. Is she to be forgot?”
“The lady, as a creature of this time, has far more choices than she would have had in your time. And with choice comes responsibility. Wes told her what the limitations of their alliance would be, and yet she chose to pursue it. That she suffers now deserves all of our compassion, but it does not require the sacrifice of Wes’s liberty. He has not acted dishonorably.”
A thrill of relief rushes through me at the thought of Wes unshackled and free, as Anne thought of Captain Wentworth when she learnt he was not to marry Louisa Musgrove after all.
Yet there is still one unanswered, and unavoidable, question.
“What am I to make of his lying to protect Frank, whom he knew was with another woman?”
“You must ask him that yourself,” says she. “Welcome to the age of communication, my dear. One needn’t wait till one is engaged to engage in the difficult subjects.”
And if he acquits himself? What then? Will I, in turn, be whole in his eyes? Her eyes are gentleness itself, and she answers my thought as if I have spoken it aloud. “When you unite with your true love, it will be as if he is your first, and you his. In the eyes of love, there is no past.”
And my eyes fill with tears of joy. All forgiven. All washed away.
“Go forth,” says she, “and choose the present.”
Twenty-seven
The lady rises and offers her hand. “I do hope we meet again, Miss Stone.”
Miss Stone!
She smiles slyly and holds my hand between both of hers. “That is your name, is it not?”
I laugh. “Yes, I suppose it is.”
Her eyes twinkle. “A rose by any other name, and all that. Now go forth and do that life proud, because it is the only life you can manage. We cannot be trying to manage two lives at once, can we? So don’t you worry about what you left behind. Well, off with you, then.”
She pats my hand, and I bow. “I am most grateful to you.”
“Yes, yes, now let’s see what you do with it.”
She gestures towards the door, which has opened somehow on its own. I turn back to her, and she is gone, and so is the cheerful little parlor, and the table, and the chairs, and the fire—the room is once again the dark little store-closet it became after our last meeting.
I shiver, but not with cold, as I reenter the corridor outside the room and close the door behind me.
Let’s see what you do with it, she said. What she gave me is a great gift, and what I do with that gift is my choice. With choice comes responsibility, she said. Go forth, and choose the present.
What was it Anna talked of the very first day I arrived here? Each of us has the power to create heaven or hell, right here, right now. The present. Right now.
I rush out of the passageway and into the club again, making my way through the press of people and the wall of music, and I spy Deepa leaning against the bar.
“Deepa!” I grab her and enfold her in my arms.
“Let a girl take a breath,” she laughs when I finally release her. She regards me and smiles her delight. “You look like a different woman.”
I laugh. “That is it—I am a different woman! And it’s the best thing that ever happened to me! Must run—thank you, Deepa!”
And I dash through the club and out of the door and to my car. Pull the phone from my bag. Call Wes.
The phone is ringing. Oh, dear, what shall I say? I have never done anything like this in my life. It’s going to be all right. Just remember what the lady said about the age of communication.
The phone stops in mid-ring. “Courtney?” says Wes’s voice into my ear. “Courtney? Are you there?”
“Yes, I—Wes, I would very much like to talk to you and would it be convenient if I—”
“Thank God,” he says. “I can be there in five minutes.”
“No, I’ll come to you.” And instantly my mind traces the route to his house, until I see the house itself, though I have never been there before. Cellular memory.
“Tonight?” he says.
“Now, if that is okay with you.” What a forward little baggage I am. Proposing I drive myself, unescorted, at night, to the home of a single man.
“Of course.”
“Excellent. I’ll be there soon.” Well, well. Different world, different rules. Besides, I wish to have the freedom to drive off whenever I wish, rather than repeat that trapped feeling I had earlier when I could not even escape into my own home. And I shall be stronger if I am not in my own apartment, where the working lights and all those other lovely conveniences restored shall be a reminder of my obligation to Wes’s kindness.
Enough thinking. I must drive.
My inner map does me proud, so long as I direct my attention only to driving and not to the conversation before me, and within five minutes, I am parking across the street from the very same house I saw in my mind’s eye, a low rectangular box of a house partially obscured by tall shrubs.
As I approach the door, I take a deep breath and knock. It opens instantly, as if he has been waiting on the threshold for my arrival. His face is flushed, his expression grave.
“I’m so happy you’re here,” he says, and smiles almost shyly, gesturing for me to enter.
Th
e large, open space is at once new and familiar. I know I have never been here, but there is something comforting in its familiarity, and indeed there are fleeting little pictures in my mind of sitting at the long table, having a meal with Wes and several friends, and of lying down afterwards on the low, cream-colored sofa.
“Something to drink?” he asks.
“Yes, please.”
I gaze out upon a softly lit garden beyond a wall of windows. There are tall wildflowers, shrubs, and little stone benches bordering a winding gravel path.
“Here.” He hands me a tall iced glass. “Why don’t you sit down?” He motions to the sofa, and a book lying on a low table before it catches my eye—Northanger Abbey.
I pick up the book. “You have read this?”
He smiles. “Don’t look so surprised. I even liked it.”
I cannot help but wonder . . . “Wes, did I—did I ask you to read this book?”
He looks puzzled. “No. My niece, Emma, did.” He smiles again. “I believe her words were, ‘Solid coming-of-age story with a clever satire of gothic novels and a feminist subtext.’ Emma’s thirteen.”
“I can hardly imagine being so self-possessed at such an age.”
But before I get too distracted by the precocity of Wes’s relations, I must attend to the business that brought me here. I sip my drink for courage, but it gives me none, despite its being heavily laced with vodka. If only I had some of the fortune-teller’s tea.
I look out on the garden again; it feels like an age since I walked amongst green growing things. “Wes, might we go outside?”
He hastens to the wall of windows, slides one of them open, and motions for me to go through it.
I step outside, and the sound of the gravel beneath my shoes instantly summons a memory. I am pacing this very same path, the gravel crunching beneath my shoes, and I am fretting over the fact that Frank is supposed to be here and is not, and neither is Wes, and I am unable to reach either of them and I just know that something is amiss and—
“Courtney?”
Wes’s voice brings me back to the present. Choose the present, the lady said. A most unusual credo for a fortune-teller, now that I think on it. And most wise.
Rude Awakenings of a Jane Austen Addict Page 24