The night at last arrived and so did our guests. Except for a Mr. Evans – a cousin of the Bickfords visiting from Surrey – everybody knew one another, so no formal ceremony and few introductions were necessary. Agnes soon gravitated to my side, favoring me with an embrace and a kiss as was the custom between us. She looked especially well. The plaits and curls of her golden hair adorned her head in an elaborate arrangement, and the sapphire muslin she wore mirrored and, in turn, enhanced the color of her eyes. Her fair face struggled to express an intense blend of emotions, lending her the additional appeal of a sympathetic heroine, a damsel in distress.
“Why, Agnes, whatever is the matter?” I asked her.
“Oh, my dearest friend, I am half agony, half delight! I hardly know how to behave. I so looked forward to tonight, and yet, now that it is here, all I can think of is that when it is over you will be leaving. How can I possibly enjoy myself with the knowledge of what will follow tomorrow?”
“Dear Agnes, you are such a sensitive lamb.” I found my friend’s inclination for seeing high drama in every circumstance both amusing and endearing. Indeed, I often thought it a great shame Agnes was so respectably situated, for she seemed to have been born for the stage.
“How I should love to have a season in Bath or London,” she continued. “I only wish you could take me with you. It will be so dreadfully dull here when you, your brothers, and Arthur are all gone away. How shall I bear the solitude?”
“Perhaps you could come and visit us in Bath once Papa is on the mend,” I suggested. “And in the meantime, I promise to write you about all my adventures.”
“Yes, I simply must hear from you very often, yet it will be exquisitely painful all the same to discover what I am missing.”
Despite her predictions of gloom, Agnes put her distress aside remarkably well in order to partake of the amusements the evening had to offer.
Meanwhile, I was far from neglected. The visiting Mr. Evans sought out an introduction and fawned over me so flagrantly that I felt sure someone had given him prior information of my monetary attractions, all twenty thousand of them. His overtures were so obvious as to be almost comical. The other present members of my band of suitors made every effort to please and charm me as well. No doubt they were keenly conscious that my imminent removal to Bath posed a considerable threat to their ambitions of securing my affection and fortune.
To break away from these unwelcome attentions, I sought out Mrs. Evensong. So close had been the fellowship between our two families that she was something like a second mother to me, and I a daughter to her. “My dear Mrs. Evensong, are you quite well?” I asked when I saw her. “You look a little pale.”
“You mustn’t always worry so much for me, my dear. I am very well today, very well indeed,” she answered in her mild way. “What a lovely evening this is, which comes as no surprise, of course; your mama is such an accomplished hostess. I sometimes envy her energy and efficiency in such matters.”
“There are few who can equal her, I grant you. How is little John? I’m afraid I have lately been remiss in my visits. Did he enjoy the tale of Mr. Pondwaddle?”
Mrs. Evensong broke into a lilting laugh at the reference to the story I had recently written as a present for her youngest son, a sweet but decidedly simple-minded boy of eleven. “He loves all your stories, Jo, but I think this one is his favorite. He insists I read it to him every night before bed and show him all the drawings as well.”
“Oh dear. I am pleased he likes it so much, but I have created a lot of work for you, it seems.”
“Nonsense. I think I enjoy it quite as much as John does. We shall both soon have it committed to memory at all events.”
“Well, I have another story idea running round in my head – about a little pig and his brothers this time. I shall send it along from Bath as soon as it is finished.”
Mrs. Bickford then pulled me to one side. “It is a shame about Miss Hunter, is it not?” she said conspiratorially.
“Why? What has happened? Is she ill?”
“No, my dear Miss Walker, it is something else entirely. She has broken off her engagement! Why, it is all over town. I thought sure you knew or I would never have presumed to mention it. I am no gossip, not like that horrid Mrs. Oddbody. In fact, she is the very person who told me about Miss Hunter. Personally, I tell no tales, so I will not say another word about it myself… except that it is a sad business when a girl from a good family behaves so irresponsibly.”
“But, Mrs. Bickford, we cannot judge without all the facts. Perhaps Miss Hunter acted under severe provocation.”
“Her reasons do not signify in the least, Miss Walker. Reputation is everything, and now Miss Hunter will always be known as a jilt. No respectable man will have anything to do with her. My own son had an interest in her at one time, but I will make very certain he steers well clear of her in future. He has political ambitions, as you may know, and can ill afford to be tainted by questionable associations.”
Not wanting to listen to any more of Mrs. Bickford’s slander, I immediately excused myself and went to find Agnes. By my design, she and I were seated together at supper with Arthur, Tom, and Frederick gathered close about us as a cozy, protective shelter. Perhaps it was selfish of me, but I wanted one last evening with all of us together.
Our conversation that night focused little on Bath and more on the destinations of the three young men. Frederick embarked upon a detailed description of Millwalk, to which he would soon lay claim. The extent of the property and the size of the house far exceeded anything he could hope to receive from his own father, so he rightly counted himself a fortunate young man. He brimmed with confidence bordering on conceit – not an uncommon fault in a man of six-and-twenty with independent means – about his grand plans for improvements and his sanguine expectations of success.
No one took offence at his brass. In fact, Agnes, whose interest was obviously piqued, encouraged him to continue by asking for more particulars about the size and style of the house, the number of servants employed there, and at what distance the place was from Wallerton.
“It would be my pleasure and my honor to show you Millwalk personally sometime, Miss Pittman,” Fred continued. “I have it. Once I am settled, you must all come for a visit. The four of you can make an outing of it, for it is less than a day’s journey from here. I shall welcome you like royalty and kill the fatted calf for your dinner when you come, by Jove.”
“Oh, yes! It is the best plan in the world!” exclaimed Agnes, wild with delight.
“Capital idea, sir, but I hardly know when it might be arranged,” said Arthur. “Tom and I may be home from Oxford at Christmas, but the party to Bath probably will not, from what I understand. In any case, December is an inauspicious time for travel.”
“I suppose it must wait for spring, then,” I concluded.
Agnes protested. “That is an absolute age from now.”
“It cannot be helped,” said Tom, decisively. “Brother, on behalf of my friends, I accept your invitation. You may expect us at Easter. I warn you, though, we shall come hungry, so begin fattening that calf at once.” Frederick chuckled, and Tom continued. “Laying a feast fit for a king before us is the very least your conscience requires of you, Fred. I wager it troubles you severely when you consider your happy situation compared to mine and Arthur’s.”
“Must we reprise that same, sad tune, little brother? That tired complaint has lately grown quite thread bare. You really must resolve to give it up. Nonetheless, I shall overlook the offence this one last time. I stand by my offer and will expect to see you all at Easter,” he said with his recently perfected air of noblesse oblige.
Tom and Arthur shared the mutual misfortune of having been born as second sons to their gentlemen fathers. Whilst the eldest could expect to inherit nearly everything by no more superior merit than having had the good sense to be born first and male, the younger might receive nothing from his father beyond a gentleman’s education
and the advice to look to the military or the church to make his living. The latter was the profession chosen by both these second sons.
Tom’s situation was far from pitiful, his protestations of ill usage notwithstanding. Thanks to our uncle’s posthumous gift, he held the distinct advantage over his friend of having already secured a good parish. Once his education was complete, he would take orders and assume the post that would in all likelihood provide him a very comfortable living for the rest of his days. Although, when pressed, Tom admitted having little true enthusiasm for the calling, he seemed reconciled to his fate.
A religious vocation was more to Arthur’s taste but less immediately within his grasp, having no rich uncle, living or dead, to present him with such a fine rectory. Still, he was considered by all accounts to have a promising future. People who know about such things often remarked that Arthur’s excellent record at Oxford was bound to attract the notice of an influential patron, who might not only have the means to give him his start but the power to advance his career in years to come. Toward that end, Mr. Pittman had already undertaken to solicit his many connections on his future son-in-law’s behalf, a service the more necessary for the fact that Arthur’s own father had died some months earlier.
As supper continued, Arthur and Tom proceeded to regale us with stories of their varied activities and acquaintances at Oxford.
“Did we ever tell you about our unfortunate friend Mr. Higgins?” Tom asked. “A most unpromising scholar! And he had the worst luck of any person I ever saw, especially when it came to curfew violations. I swear if he was out five minutes after nine o’clock, the proctor’s bulldogs were sure to sniff it out.”
“Those fellows show no mercy,” Arthur added. “Poor Higgins. They finally sent him packing. I wonder what has become of him.”
“He’s not really a bad sort,” Tom added, “and they never once found him in any serious mischief. He was just too distracted by other things to be bothered with keeping track of time. I put it down to the simple fact that the fellow did not own a reliable watch,” he joked.
5
Taking Leave
Frederick left early next morning. He so keenly anticipated installing himself in his new home that he could hardly be prevailed upon to remain at Fairfield long enough to take some breakfast before setting forth to Millwalk. A carriage had been sent thence to collect the new master and his belongings. It awaited him whilst he hurriedly ate a few bites and bid us farewell.
Once he had gone, I seized the opportunity to broach a subject I had long contemplated. “Mama, Papa, I have a request to make of you,” I began rather more seriously than I intended. “It is about our trip to Bath. I have decided it would be best if no one there knows about my inheritance. I want us to be as we were before. I shall be just plain Miss Walker again, instead of an heiress.”
“I did not think being ‘plain’ was in fashion this year,” Tom quipped.
“That is very droll, Tom, but hardly helpful,” Mother scolded.
“Sorry.”
Father took a more serious view of the subject. “Has this bequest from your uncle really become such a burden that you would forsake it entirely? I would not have thought you capable of such ingratitude, Josephine.”
“No! Of course I am grateful. The inheritance itself is a good thing and Uncle was very kind to make me such a gift. The difficulty is that the knowledge of my inheritance has turned Wallerton into a camp full of fortune hunters. The motives of all single men are now suspect. And even the women treat me differently. I do not wish the same thing to happen in Bath. When I meet new people, Papa, I should like to know that any regard they show for me is sincere, not a symptom of avarice. I want to be valued for myself alone, not for my bank balance. Is that so difficult to understand?”
“It sounds reasonable enough, I grant you. However, I think you will find that reason has very little to do with the way society operates. It is all perceptions and appearances, money and manners, posturing and position. Although I should support any practical measure that might prevent you falling victim to a fortune hunter, Jo, you must be realistic. You must consider that concealing the information will limit your access to the good company that you can now command. You have the opportunity to raise yourself, to set your sights higher, to make a superior match. That is what I want for you… and what your uncle no doubt intended as well.”
“So, no more Mr. Summeride, Papa?”
“Mr. Summeride? I should think not! No poor parsons of any description for you, my dear. Everything has changed. We may now entertain much more elevated expectations, I daresay. With your fortune, you will be considered eligible in the eyes of many of the best families. By disclaiming it, you lose your advantage entirely.”
“I appreciate that fact, but it cannot be helped. My inheritance frees me from the constraint to marry, and I should much rather never marry at all than to find myself in an unhappy union.”
“Josephine!” Mother cried. “You cannot mean that you intend to end an old maid.”
“No, Mama. I make no such resolution, but there would be no disgrace in it either. A single woman of good fortune is always respectable. At present, I must say that I have very little intention of marrying. Yet, under the right circumstances, I suppose I might be persuaded. Agreeably married or not married at all, I am convinced I could be content either way. But I should be miserable bound for life to a man who does not care for me. That is what I am determined to avoid.”
“You present a strong case, Daughter; I find your arguments quite compelling,” Father admitted. “If you had been born a boy, I daresay you would have made a fine barrister.”
“As for that, I might have made a fine barrister as a woman if it were allowed. At present, though, all I seek is your discretion. Shall I have it, sir?”
“I still believe it is a mistake. You should not hide your light under a bushel. However, I will agree to let you try it your way for now. You will always have your fortune to fall back on in the end.”
I then reminded Tom of the similar promise I had exacted from him months before. “Oxford is not that far from Bath, and gossip travels quickly. If news of my inheritance becomes known at your college, it could spoil everything, Tom. You must stand by your pledge that you will not say a word about it.”
“I shall keep my promise,” said Tom with mock resignation, “though it costs me dearly. More than once already I have had to hold my peace as a friend told me how much he should like to meet an agreeable girl with fifteen or twenty thousand pounds. I daresay I could have pocketed a tidy profit by now, making introductions for a price.”
Mother rebuked him for such a shocking speech. I just laughed, and then went on, “Pray, do be serious, Tom. You do not think Arthur has told anyone either, do you?”
“You needn’t be uneasy on that head, Jo. Arthur is the last man whom you should suspect of discussing a lady’s affairs out of turn.”
The next morning, that same Mr. Evensong called at Fairfield to collect Tom for their return to Oxford. He sat with me whilst Tom finished getting his things in order upstairs. After a few pleasantries, I ventured, “I daresay you are not sorry to be returning to your college, Arthur. With your education nearly complete, you must be impatient to get on with your career.”
“I should be in more hurry to finish at Oxford had I the road ahead clearly in view.”
“According to Agnes, you have your future mapped out for the next twenty years complete,” I teased. “Come now, Arthur, there is no need for false modesty between friends. Admit it; you have your eye on a bishopric and a seat in the House of Lords.”
He colored profusely and looked down at his folded hands mumbling, “You will say that I have a pretty high opinion of myself to even think of it.”
“No, I will say you have a healthy ambition. Whether you can live up to that ambition remains to be seen, Mr. Evensong. Your friends may think very well of you indeed, but you will have to prove yourself to others in the
end.”
“I shall be grateful to anyone who will give me the opportunity to try. That is all I can say for it.” Presently, he continued in a new line. “So, I perceive that you are very enthusiastic about this expedition to Bath, Jo.”
“Why, I have traveled so little that every fresh place would be interesting to me.”
“Then I trust you will not be disappointed. It is said to be quite a stylish town. Agnes certainly envies you your trip. She complains that everybody has somewhere to go excepting herself.”
“You have already called on her to say your farewell, then?”
“Yes, on my way here. According to how she carried on, one would think she had not a single friend left in the world. You know her disposition.”
“It is only natural that she should be excessively sorry to see you go.”
“Thank you for the kind sentiment, but to own the truth, I believe she grieves more over your departure than mine. She is grown relatively accustomed to my absences whereas she has never had to do without you for so long before. I do sympathize with her.”
Papa came downstairs at this juncture and abruptly interrupted our conversation. “Ah, Mr. Evensong. I thought I heard your voice. You must excuse my daughter now. Josephine, you are needed upstairs.”
I found little to do upstairs other than to accompany Tom back down, as he was ready to set off. Mama made a valiant effort to keep her composure in the face of Tom’s departure, but she could not quell the quiet tears that flowed just as they had the day before when Frederick took leave. Watching Arthur and my brother ride away down the long drive, I felt a few pangs at the separation myself. I tarried on the front porch and waved once more when Arthur looked back just before reaching the road and disappearing behind the hedgerow.
My melancholy reflections on the parting lingered only a very few minutes after the riders were lost from sight. Then a bolt of excitement raced through me as I comprehended that, with both my brothers now gone, the next event on the calendar was my own departure. We had talked about it for weeks, and all the plans were long since made. Yet it had never seemed real until that moment. “Two days from now, we will be on our way to Bath!” I said aloud before rushing back into the house to begin final preparations.
For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel Page 3