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

by Anna Willman

  Louisa flushed. “You would not despise me.”

  “Never,” Guinevere said. “But you have promised Ned and must keep your word.”

  “Yes, you are right. Only that is not what I started out to say. It is about Edmund. I realized just now that I am not being open with my own son, and oh, Guinevere, I truly do not want him to know about Lancelot and me!”

  “Of course you don’t. Just think of the effect it had on poor Thomas Digby. That is not to say that Edmund would ever treat you as Thomas treats poor Marianne, but it would be distressing to him nonetheless.”

  “Yes, I think it would. He is very fond of his father, and would not wish to think that tie less than…complete. Nor do I think Ned would be pleased for his son to discover his…well, his interests.” Louisa looked down at the floor and shook her head. “But neither do I like to have secrets from my son.”

  “Openness is the ideal, Louisa. But to practice it in the extreme can amount to cruelty.”

  Louisa turned back to the mirror and tugged at a curl until it peeked out from under her hat in a most natural way. “And yet it has worked well for me so far.”

  “Yes, my dear, but sometimes, when there is something that does not concern only you, that is not your secret alone, then you must learn to practice discretion.”

  “But is this not my secret?”

  “It is yours and Lancelot’s to be sure, but it is also Edmund’s and Ned’s, for it concerns them deeply. Their whole future together as father and son stands in the balance. As Lydia Westlake’s secret concerns her children and their future. Nothing short of the danger of a disastrous marriage could justify openness in this case. And so we proceed with extreme caution.”

  “And we need Edmund to come with us to protect both him and Elizabeth from knowledge that might harm them.”

  “Well said, my dear.”

  “And they will learn the truth only if it is necessary to prevent a greater evil.”

  “Yes.”

  Louisa eyed the angle of her hat one last time and nodded her satisfaction. She picked up her gloves with a decisive air. “Edmund and Ned are in the downstairs parlor. Let us go and recruit my son and be on our way.”

  They found the two gentlemen deep in conversation – a discussion which broke off as soon as the ladies entered the parlor. Both Ned and Edmund rose and made their bows.

  “We are off to call on Mrs. Westlake, Edmund,” Louisa said, “And we thought that you might care to join us. I’m sure that dear Elizabeth would be happy to see you.”

  Edmund shot a look at his father and then replied, “I am sorry, Mama, but you will find no one at home. The Westlakes have gone from town. They left two days ago, suddenly and without warning.”

  Louisa glanced at Guinevere in dismay. “But where can they have gone? And why so suddenly?”

  “I do not know,” Edmund said. “I was just telling father that I received a note from Elizabeth saying her mother was distressed about something and would be away. When I went there yesterday, the butler would tell me nothing to the point. I suppose they must have gone to their estate in Kent. But I believe there is an aunt somewhere near Bath. Perhaps she has fallen ill, and they have gone there.”

  “Elizabeth’s brother would surely know,” Louisa said.

  “Yes, but he is stationed in York, so that does not help us.”

  “I called on Mrs. Westlake only a few days ago,” Guinevere said, “And she said nothing then about leaving London.”

  “Something unexpected must have occurred,” Louisa said. “In any case, we will leave a card at her place and then make some other calls. You will not care to accompany us, Edmund, I am sure.” She grabbed Guinevere’s arm and they left the room.

  When they were alone in the carriage, she whispered in Guinevere’s ear, “It was your visit that frightened her away, I am sure of it. Did you not say that she was wary of you? Oh, Gwen, I am so afraid that this will end badly.”

  Guinevere leaned back against the cushions, trying to think clearly. She had hoped their visit to Mrs. Westlake would end all of their troublesome worries, but now there seemed to be no end in sight. What she really wanted to do was wait at home for Charles, but it seemed that she was not quit of Louisa’s troubles yet.

  “We cannot know anything yet,” she said at last. “It may be that the sister is indeed ill. Or perhaps Lancelot has written to Mrs. Westlake. Or something else may be amiss. We must wait and see.” She paused and then, with a little sigh, added, “If they do not return to London soon, we may have to go to Kent to call upon them. I promise you, Louisa my dear, that I will see this through with you.”

  “Thank you, my friend,” Louisa said, squeezing her hand. She sat in silence for a moment and then asked, “Where shall we go after we have left our card at the Westlake home?”

  “I was thinking perhaps we might call upon Marianne Digby.”

  Back at the Legerwood town house, as soon as the ladies had taken themselves off, Edmund turned to his father. Ned had fallen back into his chair and was regarding his son with sympathy.

  “I will discover where Elizabeth and Mrs. Westlake have gone,” Edmund said, “and follow as soon as I can.”

  “But first…”

  “But first I will attend to the matters you have suggested. Mama will forgive me, I am sure. And in any case, if I have your blessing, I am content.”

  And with a filial bow, he departed.

  The object of his inquiries meanwhile sat in a bow window overlooking a vast expanse of lawn and composed a letter. It was a cool day, but the light rain that had fallen early that morning was long past and the sun was shining brightly on scarlet maple leaves and golden oaks. Elizabeth displayed little interest in the colorful vista before her, however. Rather she was all intent upon her letter with an earnestness that left no room for the appreciation of Nature’s glories.

  She had just signed and sealed her missive, when her mother entered the room. Elizabeth tucked the letter into her stationery box and looked around.

  “Will you stay here alone all day, when the weather is so bright and beckoning outside?” Mrs. Westlake asked. “Do come out for a walk with me, my dear.”

  “There is no brightness for me without my Edmund,” Elizabeth replied, turning back to the window. “I have no taste for country life when he is in London.”

  “Come, Elizabeth, I have told you this is only for a short time. Why will you not be patient?”

  “Why will you not tell me the reason we have scurried out of London? What has upset you so?”

  Mrs. Westlake sighed and sat down beside her daughter. “Believe me, child, you are better off not knowing. Can you not just accept that it is for the best? That I am doing what I can to assure that your wedding takes place as planned?”

  “If there is a possibility that my wedding won’t occur, then you would do well to tell me what that danger is so that I can confront it.”

  “My brave girl. But it is quiet discretion that we need, not confrontation. And indeed, Elizabeth, the issue that concerns me is none of your doing, and so you cannot undo it.”

  “Then there is no danger, for Edmund loves me and will never abandon me for another’s fault.”

  Mrs. Westlake shook her head. “Perhaps his parents will not agree.”

  There was a defiant gleam in Elizabeth’s eye. “He will laugh at them! He is of age and so am I. No one can stop us if we are steadfast.”

  “You do not know the world as I do.”

  “Then tell me what it is that I do not know.”

  Mrs. Westlake reached out to take her stubborn daughter’s hand. “I am afraid you will despise me. You may not want to know what kind of mother you have.”

  “Tell me,” Elizabeth said, looking at her mother straight on, “And we shall see what kind of daughter you have.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO: In Which Certain Transgressions are Discovered

  When Guinevere arrived at Louisa’s house a few days later, she found her frie
nd sitting alone in a state of shock and Miss Manning banished from her rooms.

  “You were right about Emily!” Louisa exclaimed as soon as they were alone. “All that wretched moaning was her guilty conscience at work. She made me ill. She dosed me with laudanum in my breakfast tea and in those foul tasting tisanes!”

  “Miss Manning poisoned you? I cannot believe it!” Guinevere exclaimed. She sat down beside her friend and stared at her in amazement.

  “Well, dosed me. Without my knowledge or permission. She says she was careful not to give me more at any one time than twice the amount the doctor had prescribed. I suppose she thought that would be safe, but then when I became so ill, she fell into a panic, thinking she might have killed me. And she might have for all I know. Really Gwen, I am quite beside myself with anger and now Ned insists she must leave this house at once, and of course he is right, but I don’t know how I shall go on without her.”

  “But how did you find out?”

  “I asked her. Not if she had poisoned me, I never guessed that. But I kept thinking about what you had said about how she seemed guilty of something, and then of course I realized there was no use wondering, so I asked her.”

  “You just came out and asked her?”

  “Yes. I asked her why she was acting so guilty, and she started to wail and begged my pardon and told me everything.”

  “But why did she do it?”

  “For my own good, she said, so I’d realize how much I needed her by my side and wouldn’t go off without her.” Louisa ‘s sense of outrage seemed to overtake her so that she could no longer remain seated, but must rise and pace back and forth, all the time talking, her voice raised in indignation. “For my own good! I am so very tired of people doing things for my own good. There is no one I can count on to be open with me but you, Gwen. No one else understands that I do not wish to be protected and cosseted like a child.”

  Guinevere, watching her friend, could not suppress a smile. “So she poisoned you, and you are angry because she treated you like a child?”

  Louisa turned to face her. She returned Guinevere’s smile, but shook her head. “I know it sounds foolish, but truly I don’t think she meant to harm me. I fully acquit her of malice. Only I am not a child to be tricked into doing what others wish. I will not allow it.” She spoke those last words decisively, but then sighed and sat down again. “So she must go. But Guinevere, I feel as if I have lost a dear companion, and indeed I have. Ned is adamant, but do you not think it would be all right to invite her back when we return from the continent?”

  Guinevere shrugged, and her tone of voice betrayed her doubts as she answered. “You may find you no longer want her. At the very least you now know that her moral judgment is gravely unsound. In any case you need make no decision just yet. Perhaps you might welcome her as a houseguest for a week or two when you return to London, if you feel sure it is safe to do so.”

  “Oh, I shall take care to consume no food or drink prepared by her hand,” Louisa said hastily. She was thoughtful for a moment and then added, “But even though I am of course very angry, I cannot help but feel it is partly my fault, for she must have been unhappy indeed to have done such a foolish thing.”

  “Where is she now?”

  “She is packing her things. Edmund will drive her to her parents’ home in Sussex this afternoon. Ned says I must not see her again, not even to say goodbye. I know he is right, but I wish I could tell her that I know she meant me no serious harm and that I still regard her with kindness and am sorry to have caused her so much unhappiness.” She hesitated and then said once more, this time in a wistful tone of voice, “Of course I am still very angry with her.”

  “Would you like me to be your emissary?” Guinevere asked.

  “Oh yes, I would. That would satisfy me and Ned as well.”

  So it was that Miss Manning was interrupted in her tearful attempts to supervise the upstairs maid packing her trunk by a knock at her bedroom door. She went to open the door and found herself facing her nemesis and instead of turning her away, fell into her arms sobbing.

  “Is Louisa all right? How is she to get on without me? I am so miserable and so ashamed. She will never trust me again.”

  Guinevere sent the maid away with a look without letting go of the distressed lady wilting in her arms. When the door was closed and they were alone, she walked Miss Manning over to a chair by the fireplace and wrapped her shawl around her. Once Miss Manning was settled in, Guinevere pulled another chair close and sat down, taking both of the weeping lady’s hands into hers.

  “I think you have been very unhappy,” she commented.

  Miss Manning fought for control, and then said mournfully, “I am wholly at fault. I have betrayed every trust dear Louisa placed in me. I shall never forgive myself.”

  “I’m having a hard time understanding what caused you to do so,” Guinevere said.

  “Did she tell you…what I did?”

  “She did.”

  Miss Manning thought about that for a moment. “I was sure that she would. You are her dearest friend. Far dearer to her than I ever could be.”

  “And yet she has always trusted you and relied upon you without reservation.”

  “Yes. But no more.”

  “No,” Guinevere agreed.

  “I could not bear to think of her going off to France without me.”

  ”Were you so eager to travel then?” Guinevere asked.

  “No, for I have never been proficient in those foreign languages,” Miss Manning admitted. “But neither is Louisa, and I was so afraid she would fall ill in some hideous place with no respectable female who spoke English to attend her. And…”

  “And?”

  “And it grieved me that she would wish to leave me behind after we have been such good companions all these years. I cannot think what I did to turn her against me.” And she pulled her hands from Guinevere’s, dug a large handkerchief from her pocket, and burst into tears once more.

  Guinevere regarded her thoughtfully. When the younger woman’s sobs had lessened, she said quietly, “Louisa has never spoken to me of you with anything other than great affection and trust. Even now she wishes you well.” She waited through another bout of tears and then said, “I do not believe she was leaving you behind because of any action of yours, Miss Manning. She has not shared her reasons for this trip with me, but something she said when she was drugged and not quite herself, has led me to believe that this journey may be something of a…romantic adventure.”

  Miss Manning looked up at her, astonished. “Romantic?”

  “You are of course too young – indeed you were not even born yet – but when Louisa and Ned were first married, his father was seriously ill – so ill, in fact, that they had to move the date forward to prevent it becoming a black wedding. Then contrary to all the doctors’ prognostications, the old gentleman rallied, and though he never was really well again, he lingered on for another ten years, always too ill for his son and heir to leave England for a wedding trip, but hanging onto life with astonishing persistence. When he finally died, leaving the baronetcy to Ned, Louisa was in an interesting condition. Then after Edmund was born, and of an age that it was considered safe to leave him, well, the French had already begun lopping off heads, and the rest of the continent was in an uproar and it really wasn’t safe to travel abroad. “

  “So you think that Sir Legerwood is planning to take Louisa on some kind of a long delayed bridal tour?” Emily asked.

  “Something of that sort,” Guinevere said, not wishing to stretch what she suspected to be the truth any further.

  “But I should be very much in the way!” Emily exclaimed.

  “Yes,” Guinevere agreed.

  “But why did she not tell me?”

  “She has not told me either.”

  “She must be ashamed. How like a man to put her in such a situation. Why she is way past the age for such a thing as a bridal trip!” Emily declared.

  “
No one is ever past the age for romance,” Guinevere said, her voice a little sharp.

  Emily flushed. “No, of course not. I never meant…only indeed, Lady Guinevere, I consider myself well past the age for such romantic notions, and surely after all these years of marriage, Louisa must….”

  Guinevere did not think it discreet to follow this line of thought and interrupted. “You do not think of marriage then? A young woman like you?”

  “I am well past the age of thirty and have been on the shelf for a long time,” Emily said quietly. Guinevere thought she caught a wistful note in her voice, but then the young spinster blew her nose resoundingly and tucked her damp handkerchief back into her pocket.

  “You do not hope?”

  “To be sure, it would be pleasant to be a married lady and have the natural independence that attends the matrimonial state, but as I have neither the charm nor the beauty required to attach the affections of a gentleman, I must be content with less.” She hesitated and added with a little shudder, “Indeed it may be for the best, for I do not suppose that I am sufficiently romantic in temperament to wish for what I understand to be the more…physical…aspects of marriage.”

  Guinevere sighed and patted Miss Manning’s hand. “Life surprises us sometimes, my dear.”

  “I think I have no surprises before me. I shall go home to my parents and learn to be content. I have betrayed my dear cousin and cannot blame her for wanting me gone.”

  “Louisa wishes you well, you know.”

  “I know. Her goodwill is more than I deserve.” Miss Manning looked as if she were about to break down in tears again.

  “I believe you have learned from your mistake.”

  “Too late. My happiness is done.”

  Guinevere regarded her thoughtfully. “Perhaps not,” she said and patted the younger woman’s hand once more.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE: In Which Married Love Finds Its Way

  In due course Henderson found a house that met Thomas’s specifications. It was not a grand house such as they were used to, but rather respectable – a small house in excellent condition, with enough bedrooms to house a gentleman and his wife and a small coterie of servants. The kitchen was not modern, but it had a neat yard in back with a substantial vegetable garden and a few well-furnished flowerbeds.