Born of Persuasion

by Jessica Dotta

  That night, as I stood bareheaded in that dismal, dripping bower, memory of Mama’s burial found me anew. The heartache I’d refused to make room for suddenly rose up, seizing me. Warm tears blended on my cheek with the cold rain. It was a strange breaking, to grieve that something imaginary wasn’t real.

  We are not meant to take gnawing pain and cocoon it inside, for the ache only grows. That first sob rent its silk envelope, releasing the reservoir of tears. Rare are the moments when we purge the anguish of our souls. There is nothing dainty or feminine about it. Harsh, bestial sobs wracked my body as I sank to the ground, finally acknowledging my loss.

  I keened as I hadn’t yet—for the loss of Mama, the loss of Sarah, the loss of who I believed Edward to be, and the future I once pursued.

  “Juls.” Arms wrapped me from behind as Edward knelt, gathering me from the marshy ground to settle me against his chest. “Do not weep,” his voice lulled as he cradled me. “Forgive me; I meant it not.”

  But all I could see was Mama’s dead face. I was reliving those numb, horrible moments of realizing she was gone, the harrowing silence of the house, and the necessity of locking away all emotion.

  “Do not.” Edward pulled me closer against him. “Do not.”

  Was I weak? Was it wrong? I clutched the back of his cassock as I sobbed against his sinewy chest. His clothing smelled like smoke, not the sooty scent of a coal fire, but of burning wood. It felt real and earthy—not bound in the past, but something present and alive.

  Edward spoke into my hair, murmuring comforting words and pleas that I collect myself.

  But I would weep until energy was spent, until I’d cried so hard my breathing refused to regulate itself.

  “Be calm. Take slow breaths,” Edward whispered to me. “It will pass.”

  All around us, rain tapped on the rustling trees above and on the slick ground. By the time my gasping subsided enough that I could distinguish the sounds, my nightgown was soaked, my eyes and throat burned.

  As Edward continued to hold me and breathe his warmth into my hair, I closed my eyes, taking in the feel of his arms, running my fingers over his back and broad shoulders before twining them in his hair. I cared not that the moment was fleeting, that my path was barred from Edward’s, and his from me.

  “Juls.” His voice grew strained as he pushed me away. Obediently, I withdrew, but in doing so caught a clear glimpse of him.

  During our youth, a peculiar look would sometimes cross Edward’s face and his body would stiffen. He’d grow resolute and would retreat to brood under a tree. Fear used to tingle through me that perhaps I’d upset or disappointed him.

  That night, as I encountered the same expression, I learned my error.

  Before he could veil his thoughts or mask his hunger, I saw his unbridled desire.

  I leaned toward him, tilting my lips up to his.

  No other invitation was needed. The boy who had always taken great pains to remain chaste with me lost his battle as a man.

  He cupped my face with rough, calloused hands and kissed my forehead, cheeks, and eyes before finding my mouth.

  I entwined my fingers in his curls as he drew me closer, pressing me tightly against him. Part of me marvelled at my own actions, while another part grew disquieted over his level of boldness. His mouth moved to my neck, both thrilling and alarming me. His hands quaked, as if I were made of delicate china and he was holding back his full strength. His hand slid down the curve of my waist, and his mouth to my collarbone.

  All at once, common sense rose up and insisted I envision our future.

  After indulging his desires, he’d blame me. Was I not the atheist? Would he not look back someday and remember me as the temptress? How well I could see him, standing behind a pulpit, relieving his conscience by condemning cottagers for their lust. This one act contained the means of securing Edward but at the cost of killing all love between us.

  How, I thought next, could I be so rational and logical during a moment like this? It wasn’t right. Yet, I reasoned further, as he tightened a fistful of my hair between his fingers, would I find love in Scotland? Was it not better to be the wife of a guilt-ridden vicar than to be banished and alone?

  “H-h-hello?”

  Edward’s body stiffened, then slowly, noiselessly, he shifted in the direction of the voice.

  A lantern bobbed near the edge of the spinney like a misguided faerie. In its light I recognized the Windhams’ lanky hall boy, squinting as he peered in our direction, doubtless seeing the white of my nightgown. He took two steps nearer the woods, but fear of will-o’-the-wisps must have kept him, for he hesitated. “Is a-anyone there?”

  “Caleb.” Edward’s voice was iron as he rose, revealing himself fully in the light. “Go back to your cot. Turn your face to the wall, and do not hear or see anything. Am I clear?”

  No one, not even Mama in her most obstinate mood, would have disobeyed an order given in that tone. The hall boy didn’t even nod, but set the lantern on the ground and plowed his way indoors.

  Edward staggered to the nearest tree. Hand on hip, he pinched the bridge of his nose, his breathing strained. When he finally spoke, he scarcely sounded in control of himself. “Go back to bed now, Julia, lest I do something rash.”

  My legs were ungainly and wet linen clung to my body and water dripped from the ends of my hair as I stood. Even in the dark I could see bracken stained my nightgown. I hesitated, waiting for Edward to say something—anything.

  His jaw firm, he kept his gaze fixed in the distance, as if determined not to see me in my soaked nightclothes.

  “Edward,” I pleaded, not certain what I needed him to say, what I needed to hear.

  “Now!” he shouted.

  Tears clotting my throat, I turned and raced back to Am Meer. To my mind, he had narrowly escaped me and knew it. He would not again risk such an entrapment.

  The cottage hall appeared dark upon my reentrance. The hall boy’s cot creaked as I plodded past. There was little doubt what the poor boy must have thought his vicar to be doing, and there I found a small morsel of comfort. Perhaps one mind might be set free tonight, if nothing else.

  But once in my chambers, my legs gave way and I slid to the floor, where I covered my mouth, holding back tears of shame.

  The last day of Mama’s life still presides over my thoughts. I have no memory of conversation, no recollection of the usual noises that would have filled the house—the clunk of shoes, the scrape of coal scuttles. Did I touch Mama that day? It frustrates me not to be able to recall. All I have are fleeting images, impressions at best, soft and blurred. Mama patting Sarah’s knobby shoulder at breakfast. Mama bent over her sewing, the afternoon sun catching golden strands of her hair as she whiled away the last hours of her life. Darkness closing in about her as she blew out the flickering candle before retiring for the night.

  Since my arrival, my days at Am Meer had melded into a routine of needlework, reading, and the various other trifles that fill rainy days. Yet memories of Mama oppressed me. At odd hours and during small tasks, I wondered why she never confided the contents of those mysterious letters, or what had caused her great fear. For I had not yet learned that some secrets destroy their percipients, and she no more would have told me what was happening behind the scenes than a general would reveal his battle plans to the infantry unit he planned to sacrifice.

  Edward, on the other hand, was rather blunt about throwing me upon the altar.

  The morning following our tryst in the woods, pale sunlight filtered through the house, lifting spirits, making it impossible not to hope that our shocking behavior from last night might end up for my betterment. Had I not felt it in the trembling of his body, the crushing weight of his kisses? Had he not been drawn back to me when I wept? Had he not gathered me tenderly toward him? Memories would haunt him, I knew, working in my favor.

  By noon, I paced the house, certain that Edward would call. After the previous evening, he’d have to. He wouldn’t be a
gentleman otherwise. I occupied myself by imagining the secret looks we’d exchange while Mrs. Windham babbled. No doubt he’d be nervous, wondering how best to arrange a private moment with me—where I envisioned he’d fall to his knees, his voice contrite as he tried to explain what happened. And whenever I closed my eyes and relived the touch of his hands, the scratch of his cheek, the feel of his mouth on mine, it was impossible not to hope we’d find a way to renew the dangerous experiment.

  I was unprepared, therefore, for the events that were set in motion during the early hours of that afternoon. Boots sounded in the hall, followed by a light rapping on the drawing room door.

  “Come in,” I called out, feeling breathless over my luck. Both Mrs. Windham and Elizabeth had gone over the hill to check on a neighbor. Not wanting to risk missing Edward’s visit, I’d feigned a headache.

  Full of anticipation, I watched the door open.

  To my disappointment, Caleb, the hall boy, ducked into the chamber, smelling of manure. Muck and straw clung to the bottom of his ragged trousers. His hair mussy and his face scarlet, he mumbled a few incoherent words and extended a sealed note.

  To mask my bewilderment, I smiled. Pride lifted my chin as I took up the page, but my hands were ice. It boded ill. Never before had Edward sent me a note. He’d always come in person. With calmness I did not feel, I retook my seat and broke the seal.

  I saw at once no gentleman had penned the letter, but a madman. The words were wild, scrawled in sporadic and uneven lines. Dried ink blotted the paper, revealing he’d not even tapped aside the extra ink before writing. Entire paragraphs were smudged and showed evidence that he’d carelessly rested his hand on the page.

  Yet it was the words themselves that bore the strongest testimony of how deep Edward’s madness went.

  J,

  How heavy my heart is within me. My hand barely manages to hold the pen, my eyes to see the page. Yet write I must. Too long have I neglected my conscience. Too long have I served my tenderest affections in its stead. In weakness, I acted as no gentleman, no servant of God ought. I have shamed myself, disgraced you, and caused one of my little ones to stumble.

  I am undone.

  How shall I instruct others to abandon all for the Kingdom of God when I cannot? I delude myself with lies. Yet I will free myself as my sense of duty, my sense of right demands.

  No more will I blind myself into believing that as a gentleman I cannot break troth with you. I have used my delusion to offer up a crippled lamb while withholding the pure and unblemished one. Did not Shechaniah put away his very children and wife? Abraham withheld not his own son. Shall I do less? Shall I, a teacher, do less?

  What utter nonsense you must think I write. And nonsense I will write, though you are blind and deaf. For even as I scrawl the words that will forever rive us, I cannot withhold my soul from you. You, who once were my very heart.

  Would that you could see me and understand. This action rips my soul in twain; it severs my right hand. Mere ink stained on parchment cannot express my agony. Yet I will not come in person.

  Long have I known what I needed to do, and I will delay no longer. Julia, release me from our betrothal.

  I beg you,

  E

  I read and reread the note, half numb with shock, half stinging with rejection. Every remembrance of last night now felt foolish and cockeyed. With a flush of shame, I wondered how I had deluded myself into thinking otherwise.

  “He . . . he said to wait for your answer.” Caleb stared at his feet.

  Harsh words, insulting words that my mother and father would have flung at each other, crossed my mind. I choked on them while smothering back angry tears. For a full minute, I remained silent, for it would not do for Edward to learn I’d crumbled at his rejection. When I could speak again, my words were hard and cold. “Tell him I shall give him whatever he desires.”

  Goggle-eyed, Caleb stood riveted.

  “Go!” I commanded, not realizing at the time how my words could be misconstrued, nor dreaming that someday they would be printed and reprinted in every paper in the land, further sullying my name.

  As the hall boy hied from the room, I stormed to the hearth. Out of countenance, I shredded the note, then lit a match and watched it curl in the flames. Over and over I told myself I didn’t need or want him. But the sting remained.

  As momentous an occasion as Edward’s first and presumably last direct letter to me was, it was the second letter, which arrived later that evening, that took precedence. After tea, a set of hooves filled the lane leading to Am Meer, followed by a banging on our door.

  Elizabeth gave a gasp of annoyance. “Oh, what can that harridan want now?”

  For once Mrs. Windham did not rebuke Elizabeth. Only it was not Lady Foxmore’s footman who darkened the entry. A moment later, the housekeeper tiptoed into the room and whispered in Mrs. Windham’s ear, handing her a brown packet tied with string.

  Mrs. Windham peered at the name on the parcel, then stared at me. “Julia, what on earth? This just arrived for you, but upon my word, the sender had not the patience to send it post, but paid a horseman to deliver it.” She handed the packet to me, then waved away her housekeeper and said, “Hannah, go tell the man that the lady in question received the package. You saw it with your own eyes. Send him away now. Tip him if you must.”

  Stirred from my stupor, I took up the mysterious parcel. For half a second, hope flared that Edward had come to his senses, but then I realized he’d have been more discreet. As the knot in the string was tight, I signalled for Mrs. Windham’s housewife. Aware of my greater wish, Mrs. Windham retrieved only the scissors.

  One thought beset all others as I severed the twine. My time had ended, and I’d failed. The week’s end would find me in Scotland. There hadn’t been time for Lady Foxmore to find me a husband.

  “Open it already,” Elizabeth demanded.

  A single sheet of parchment waited within, and to my amazement, a hundred-pound note fluttered to the table. Scrawled in a masculine hand, the letter read:

  Provisions for your upcoming trip to Scotland. Purchase your needs for the next two years.

  Your Guardian

  While Mrs. Windham reached for the money, I crumpled the letter. Elizabeth’s face scrunched. “Who on earth sent you money?”

  Stunned, I stared at the amount, then recovered enough to say, “It doesn’t say.”

  “Well, her guardian, obviously,” Mrs. Windham said. “And I call it positively providential too. In another month, I might have had to sacrifice one of your gowns and dye it black for her.”

  My heart fluttered as it always did when I lied. “Now that I think upon it, it was mentioned he might send money for my wardrobe.”

  Elizabeth frowned, then half rose from her chair to squint at the address on the brown wrapping. “That doesn’t match the handwriting from our correspondence with that Simmons person.”

  “It was Simon,” Mrs. Windham corrected. “Of all the nonsense! Who cares if the handwriting matches?”

  Elizabeth’s eyes screwed. “If you ask me—ooohhh!”

  “What?” Mrs. Windham gripped the arms of her chair.

  “It’s Greenham!” Elizabeth snatched the brown wrapping. “Mama, it’s Mr. Greenham. I’m convinced of it.” And then the story tumbled out of how he’d joined us while Lady Foxmore outlined her prerequisites, including my finding a new wardrobe. When she finished, Elizabeth triumphantly handed the wrapping to her mother.

  My face burned as Mrs. Windham unfolded spectacles and silently studied the handwriting. Elizabeth hovered over her chair, gripping its backrest, clearly waiting for the censure that was to follow. Though I knew Mr. Greenham innocent, I preferred to keep speculation on him and away from my guardian.

  “Mr. Greenham in love with our Julia?” Wonderment filled Mrs. Windham’s voice. “Just think, Elizabeth, how this could elevate us, too.”

  “Mama!”

  Mrs. Windham slapped the parchment on her la
p. “Mr. Greenham madly in love with our Julia. Oh, we must make haste. Oh dear, oh my! I am quite convinced he is most anxious to wed. Why else risk advancing her money? I always said he was a pernickety dresser and would someday require the same of his wife, did I not, Elizabeth?”

  Elizabeth wrinkled her nose. “No, you did not. This is ludicrous. He is not in love with Julia. He’s scarcely acquainted with her.”

  “Yes, yes, quite right.” Mrs. Windham bit her thumbnail. “We must take careful pains never to let him see her true personality. Julia, on all accounts, you must not speak with him. Let him discover afterwards what he has married.”

  “Mama, that’s not what I meant.”

  “This has the power to advance us all.” Mrs. Windham waved the banknote high. “Elizabeth, on my troth, this will secure you someone far better than Mr. Henry Auburn.”

  “Oh, honestly, Mama!”

  “By George, I will not tolerate languishing about for mere Auburns when within months we’ll be traversing the highest circles.”

  Elizabeth ripped the money from her hands. “Julia is not going to accept this. Even you must acknowledge the impropriety. She can no more accept this than she can abandon mourning. She’d be shunned—”

  “I acknowledge no such thing!” Mrs. Windham said. “There’s nothing improper, so long as Mr. Greenham eventually weds her.” She faced me. “Julia, you must take careful pains to submit to some of his caresses, but not all. Entice him, only be sure—”

  “Mama!”

  “Well, we must make some grains of allowance, considering the difference in station.” Mrs. Windham removed her spectacles. “A man of his status rarely takes notice of an inferior, unless—” here she gave an uncomfortable bob—“but so long as you withhold—” she bobbed her head twice—“it will force him to wed you. Trust me.”

  Elizabeth’s hands flew to shield either side of her face. “Mama, for shame! Fie, fie. Oh, imagine if Mrs. Elliston were here to hear you.”