An Intimate Education: A Comedic Tale of Open Hearts and Narrow Minds

by Anna Willman

  Thomas took a bite of his trout and did not reply.

  “It seems to me unreasonable to hold a woman of her quality to the same stern standards that may apply in the world of business, or amongst gentlemen of honor. Surely you see the sense in that.”

  The look he gave her spoke his disagreement most eloquently. Still, after applying herself to the dish before her, she persisted.

  “Forgiveness is a great act of charity, and essential to the maintenance of a happy home. Do you not agree, my dear?”

  “Do you, then, forgive me?” he asked her, goaded at last to speech.

  Sarah looked him straight in the eye and said, “You know that I do. I must, you see, if I am ever to be happy again.” She waited a second before adding, quietly, “And so must you.”

  He averted his eyes and applied himself to the consumption of a generous portion of sweet onion pie.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: In Which Lady Guinevere Confides In Lady Legerwood

  Guinevere, who had slept very little during the night, was relieved to find, when she called on Louisa the following morning, that her friend’s health was greatly improved. Louisa’s speech was clearer and her spirits more elevated. Guinevere had come prepared to sit quietly while her friend slept, but Louisa was settled comfortably on her chaise lounge and ready for conversation.

  Miss Manning, in contrast, remained agitated. Her eyes were rimmed with red, and she fluttered as much as she had when Louisa had been ill.

  “Truly, Emily, I keep telling you that I am indeed much better,” Louisa told her cousin gently. “It is clear that you have exhausted yourself looking after me. You have been very good to me, much too good, and I insist that you take advantage of Gwen’s visit to get some rest.”

  Miss Manning shook her head and shed a few tears, wringing her hands and protesting that nothing could be too good for her dearest Louisa.

  “Nonsense,” Louisa responded. “It is clear to me that you have quite worn yourself out. If this keeps up, it shall be my turn to wait upon you. Really, Emily, you must go and lie down, for I declare I do not know how I shall manage if you do not become your good calm self once more.”

  Miss Manning sniffed loudly and left the room, glancing back just before closing the door with a look of such anguish that Guinevere felt a sudden affinity with her.

  This thought must have registered upon her face, for Louisa, who had been watching her, said quietly, “What is it my friend? Something is troubling you?”

  “Oh Emily, I must not bother you with my foolishness just now.”

  “Am I not to be your friend as you have been mine?”

  Guinevere hesitated, “Are you truly feeling so much better? You were so ill yesterday, I left here feeling most concerned about you.”

  “I confess that I am a little tired still, but you can see for yourself that I am much improved. Indeed I expect to be well enough to call upon Mrs. Westlake tomorrow. I think it must have been something I ate that disagreed with me, but now I am done with it. Do tell me what’s troubling you.”

  “I hardly know how to say what I am feeling, but as Miss Manning was leaving, I found myself feeling very much in accord with her distress.” Guinevere paused. She was not in the habit of confiding her deeper feelings to anyone but Charles, and yet, what Louisa had said was the simple truth. Louisa was her friend. And she certainly needed a friend right now.

  “What is it, dear? You look so terribly sad just now.” Louisa said.

  Louisa’s soft voice was so warm and concerned that Gwen found tears forming. When she spoke, she was not sure whether it was because she wished to unburden herself to her friend or whether it seemed the only way to stop the tears from spilling over.

  “Oh, Louisa,” she sighed, “I have done something so wrong, so terrible, that Charles cannot love me any longer.”

  “Charles?” Louisa said. “Oh surely you are wrong. He adores the very air you breathe.”

  “No, indeed. Not anymore,” Guinevere said. She heard herself speak with a kind of horror. Once started, she did not seem able to stop the words from rushing forth in a kind of desperate babble. “I have known for some time that the passion was gone from our marriage, but something he said once led me to believe it was because we were older – that at this time of our lives, the passion was quite naturally spent. I have struggled to accept that, but it has not been easy.”

  She tried to stop the flow of words, but managed only a brief gasp, a choking hesitation, and then continued. “And now I find that he is unhappy, too. He says that I am bored by his company, and while that is not at all true, really it is not, it is true that just the other day I thought that I might consider taking a lover. And Charles must have sensed something, though I dismissed the thought just as soon as I had it.”

  Talking had been of no use, for Guinevere was crying now and neither the tears nor the words would stop. “I cannot imagine how I could have had such a thought. It makes me tremble and blush with shame. I found myself wringing my hands last night, just like poor Miss Manning, to think I could even contemplate such a betrayal. I would not hurt Charles for anything.” And then, finally, the words stopped and she simply sat there and let the tears fall.

  Louisa was quiet a moment, and then said, tentatively, “And that thought is the terrible thing you have done?”

  “It must be.” Just three short words, choked out.

  Louisa waited quietly while her friend struggled for control. When she saw that Guinevere had recovered a little and could hear her, she said, “A thought is not the same thing as a deed, Gwen.”

  “No, but even thinking it…Oh Louisa, do you think it means I am tired of Charles? What if he is right? It is true that I have neglected him of late. I have been much occupied with Lancelot’s doings and all that has flowed from them. Charles says that I talk of nothing else, that I have no interest in anything else, no interest in him.”

  “Do you suppose he is jealous of Lancelot?”

  “He never has been before. Nor has any reason to be now,” Guinevere said, and then a look of great distress contorted her face.

  “What is it?” Louisa asked.

  Another flood of words. “I think that perhaps the truth is that maybe it is Charles who is bored. No longer willing to listen when I confide in him, when I tell him what I have been up to. My goings on used to amuse him. But it seems that is no longer the case. Oh Louisa, I am so afraid that he is bored by me!”

  “Why how could that be true?”

  “I’m not a beauty like you, Louisa. It was a miracle that Charles admired me when I was young. Now that I am old it seems that whatever attraction he once felt has died.”

  Louisa stared at her friend with sympathy and also something not far from amusement. “Now you are being foolish.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Go and sit at my dressing table and look in the mirror.”

  “What?”

  “Just do it.” Louisa flapped both hands waving her friend towards the dressing table.

  Guinevere dried her eyes and went and sat before the mirror.

  “Now tell me what you see,” Louisa commanded.

  “I see what I always see. I see my nose.” She hesitated and then added, “My enormous nose.”

  “What else?”

  “I see my eyes. They are red from crying.”

  “Yes,” Louisa said with exaggerated patience. “And what would they look like if they were not red?”

  “They are large and a pleasant enough shade of brown, with little flecks of gold in them. They are set much too close together which gives me an odd look.”

  “What else do you see?”

  “I see my hair, which is rather nice. Thick and still shining, though now it is all white where once it was dark.”

  “Better. What else do you see? If it were not you looking, but someone else, what would she see?”

  Guinevere was silent for some time, trying to see herself as another might see her. It seemed impos
sible. Perhaps if she turned it around. She turned her head, looking out of the corner of her eye, trying to imagine it was someone else’s reflection she saw. Finally she said, with some hesitation, “I’d see a well-preserved woman of uncertain years. She carries herself well enough. She might occasionally be called handsome, though never a beauty.” As she spoke, the face in the mirror grew rosy with embarrassment.

  “Good,” Louisa said. “Now close your eyes and picture Lady Levenby.”

  Guinevere shut her eyes. “A good soul,” she said. “One of the kindest ladies I know.”

  “But what do you see?” Louisa persisted.

  “I cannot say.”

  “Say what is true. Speak honestly. Your words will not be repeated.”

  Guinevere sat in silence a moment, her eyes closed. Then she said, “Poor Jane. She is sadly faded. Her face sags and she has grown so stout that even the tightest of corsets cannot make her look well in the latest styles.”

  “Now picture Lady Chadwick.”

  Again Guinevere hesitated. Then she sighed and said, “Her hair is dyed a bright red, and everyone knows that she wears rouge. Her skin hangs loose and flaps on either side of her mouth when she talks, and the poor woman talks nonstop about absolutely nothing. She has a neck like a turkey.”

  “Now Mrs. Goodwin.”

  “A clever mind, and generous, but she looks frightening. Her hair is thin and her features sharp. She is always fatigued. Her eyes water, and she can scarcely take a step without a footman’s arm to lean upon.” Guinevere opened her eyes and looked at Louisa. “Why are you asking me to picture these old women? Do you wish me to compare myself with them?”

  “My dear, these old women were considered great beauties in their time – in your time. They are all of an age with you. Their beauty is gone. Yours is not. You are as vibrant and charming as ever you were.”

  Guinevere moved from the dressing table to sit beside her friend once more. “You are saying that Charles has not tired of me because I am plain.”

  “He would be mad to do so.”

  “Then there is hope for me?”

  “I cannot judge what is behind Charles’ discontent, but it is not your lack of beauty. You never pay attention to such things, but I do. If you wished to take a lover, you would have no trouble finding a gentleman willing to oblige. Truly my dear, you are much admired by the men of your generation, and even by many gentlemen of younger years.”

  Guinevere shook her head. “I don’t care about others, but only about Charles. If it is not my appearance, then why has he lost interest in me?”

  “I do not suppose that he has,” Louisa said quietly. “But if I have learned one thing from you, my dear friend, it is that it is always best to speak openly about these things.”

  “When have I ever counseled openness?” Guinevere protested.

  “Not in words, but by your example. You have always been open with me and when I have followed your lead in this, I have benefited greatly.”

  “So you advise...”

  “I advise you to be open with Charles. You must tell him your fears and ask him if they have merit.”

  Guinevere shook her head. “I don’t think I can. Why I practically froze last night. I was so frightened of losing Charles that I had no words. And I was ashamed, too, that I had caused him pain, that I had had such thoughts, that I had failed him somehow. I swear to you, Louisa, I practically turned into Miss Manning.”

  “Emily? What has she to feel ashamed of?”

  “I don’t know. Nothing, of course. But the look on her face today, the constant wringing of her hands, all that was what I felt, how I acted. How can I talk to Charles when I am in such a state?”

  Louisa leaned forward. “You will think of Jane Levenby, and Mrs. Goodwin, and Lady Chadwick. You will remember that Charles was positively lucky not to have married one of those famous beauties.”

  Guinevere’s laugh was shaky. She raised an unsteady hand to tuck a loose strand of hair into place. “Oh, how absurd you are, Louisa! And how wise!”

  Louisa smiled complacently. “I know I am sometimes impossibly ignorant, Gwen, but I am not stupid.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN: In Which Lady Guinevere Calls on an Old Friend

  When Guinevere returned home after her visit with Louisa, her husband was not at home. She wandered disconsolate around the library, picking up one thing and then another, glancing at the book he had put down on the desk the night before – it was a recently published novel entitled Emma. She had recommended the book to him and wanted to smile, thinking how he would enjoy it, but instead sighed, thinking that now he might not be willing to discuss it with her.

  This was Charles’ favorite room, and therefore hers. It seemed now almost to smell of him – to embody the security and love she always felt when she was with him. She threw herself into his chair and leaned back, placing her head where his usually rested, trying to see what he saw.

  Across from her sat an empty chair.

  When Chilton happened to look in a few minutes later, he saw his mistress weeping by the fire, and stepped back silently into the hall. He adjusted a large vase that sat on a side table just outside the door, making as much noise as possible, and then reentered the library. Guinevere was standing by the desk, leafing through a book with apparent interest.

  “I beg pardon, My Lady,” Chilton said. “I did not know you were here. May I get you something?”

  “That’s all right, Chilton,” Guinevere said. “I was just going out again.”

  She retrieved her hat and coat, and went out the front door. She stood in the street for a moment, uncertain where to go, and then turned right and began to walk. She paid little attention to where she was going, but strode quickly as if she had a destination, nodded at passers-by as if she recognized them, and smiled as if she were content.

  She scarcely knew what she was thinking, was only aware of a turmoil of feelings, of shame, loneliness, and fear all warring with a small corner of hope that she might yet be able to mend things.

  She felt a surge of gratitude to Louisa. Openness! So easy to practice when it involved other people’s difficulties, so difficult to put into practice for one’s own problems. She longed to see Charles and dreaded it almost as much.

  Tonight. She would talk with Charles tonight.

  She stopped walking and looked around her. And found herself standing directly in front of Marianne Digby’s town house. She turned to go, but paused, thinking how her own tumultuous emotions were but a pale reflection of what that lady must be feeling, and on an impulse, went up the stairs and rang the bell.

  A footman answered the door just as she was struck with second thoughts and had turned to retreat. She wavered but in the end handed him her card to take up to his mistress.

  “I will quite understand,” she told him, a little wildly, “if Mrs. Digby is not at home.”

  She waited for some time in a small downstairs parlor, calling herself a meddling fool and resisting the urge to pace back and forth on the blue and gold Aubusson carpet that covered the floor. What could be taking the footman so long? Surely Marianne would refuse her.

  Then the door opened and Mrs. Digby entered the room quietly. The two old friends regarded one another in silence for a few moments, and then Marianne reached out a hand and they flew into each others’ arms.

  “My poor dear,” Guinevere said through scalding tears that were shed as much for her own sake as for her friend’s. “I am so very sorry. Lancelot is a brute and I have told him so and washed my hands of him. Is Thomas completely distraught?”

  “He will not speak to me,” Marianne sobbed. “But Sarah says I must not give up hope. The dear girl comes to me every day.”

  “Your son is an honorable man,” Guinevere said, stepping back and looking into her friend’s face. “Surely he will come to see reason.”

  “An honorable man, indeed!” Marianne said bitterly. “But he is in no way reasonable. He is giving away his entire fortune!�
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  “So Lancelot told me. How he could have imagined that a man like Thomas would buckle under to him is beyond my comprehension.”

  “I don’t understand how Lancelot could do this to me. He has destroyed a precious memory, one that sustained me for many years.” Marianne dissolved into tears again.

  “I do think that he is sorry,” Guinevere told her. “He told me that he liked Thomas. But even this disaster has not turned him from his course. The old fool is in a desperate condition, having wasted all his own means, and he has persuaded himself that it is proper that his children should support him.”

  “So he confides in you?” Marianne asked, drawing back a little.

  “No more. I have told him I will have nothing to do with him so long as he pursues this course.”

  “And so he will try this again? With another victim?” Marianne’s voice raised a little as she spoke. She paced across the room and stood staring out a window with unseeing eyes.

  “He says that he will.” Guinevere told her.

  “Something must be done to stop him!”

  “Yes. But what? I have tried all I can. I’ve even offered to find him a wife with the means to support him. But he will not listen to me.”

  “A wife!” Marianne wiped her eyes and turned to regard Guinevere thoughtfully. “But that is the very thing!”

  “Yes, but the ladies of the ton will not accept him and he will not accept anything less.”

  “Pride again!” Marianne said. “Oh, I have no patience with men! No one thought of my pride. No one asked me if I cared to live with the smell of the shop when they married me to Mr. Digby.”

  Guinevere said nothing, and Marianne blushed and hung her head.

  “I should not have said that. Jonathan was a good man – noble even – and deserved a better wife than I ever was.” She rubbed at her eyes angrily. “It seems all I do anymore is cry. I weep for Jonathan, for Thomas, and even for Lancelot. It seems I have lost them all through my own foolish weakness.”

  “Your human weakness,” Guinevere said softly. “Your love for them does not diminish you in my eyes.”