“What makes you think I hold anything against him? Has he accused me of some injustice in that regard?”
“Of course not, but anyone can see…” He sighs impatiently. “Look here, Jo, I know Arthur has inadvertently offended Agnes and you have taken her part.”
“You make it sound so trivial! Had you seen, as I have, how much Agnes has suffered as a result, you might judge differently. But he is your friend; I suppose I cannot expect you to side against him,” I concede with annoyance. “You have had the story from him, and I suppose in his telling, Agnes is the one at fault.”
“Arthur never uttered one word in disparagement of Miss Pittman, I assure you. In fact, he would not tell me a thing at first. Only after I badgered the unfortunate fellow with outlandish scenarios of my own invention did he finally think it best to set me straight. He told me that, seeing Miss Pittman apparently preferred another, he had attempted to free her from obligation to himself. She took it amiss. That is all I know for fact.” He pauses. “However, the rest I may deduce easily enough.”
“What might that be, Tom? By all means, do give me benefit of your vast wisdom and experience in these matters.”
“Is it not obvious?”
I respond only with a blank stare.
“Goodness, how slow you are, Jo. Why, it is perfectly clear that he also prefers another.”
“Of course,” I say with disdain. “That is why he was so quick to break it off with Agnes. It makes perfect sense. Who is she, pray? Someone with her dowry still in tact, no doubt.”
In contrast to my sharp tone, Tom adopts a teasing manner. “You have guessed it, Sister. I believe the young lady has quite a sizable fortune, although I doubt it much influenced our friend.”
“Forgive me, but I find that impossible to believe.”
“Nay, I daresay it is true, for the lady of whom I speak has many other attractive qualities capable of engaging a man’s affection – to name them, wit, tolerable good looks, a generous disposition, and an excellent family.”
“You sound as if you know her personally.”
“Oh, I do. I have been closely acquainted with her for years, and it is inconceivable that she could have escaped your notice. Can you not guess who I mean?”
“Honestly, Tom, why you think I should be interested, I haven’t the least idea,” I say, affecting nonchalance. In truth, I can barely contain my curiosity. If Tom has known the lady for years, she must be someone from our home county, I decide. But heiresses in the vicinity of Wallerton are scarce as hen’s teeth. I study my brother’s inscrutable face, and suddenly the light begins to dawn. “Oh, good lord! You do not mean me, do you? You cannot possibly think… No, Tom; I am wise to your game. You are up to your old tricks again, making mischief, as usual. Now, tell the truth. Arthur has never mentioned anything of the kind, has he?”
“Not one word. Still, I have eyes, haven’t I? I see the way he looks at you, and I know in what high esteem he holds you. I doubt he would admit the depth of his attachment, even to himself, but he cannot disguise it from his closest friend. I know him too well.”
“Oh, but it would be a disaster!” I cry, rising to my feet. “I pray you are wrong.”
“Really, Jo, I am surprised at you. I rather thought you might be pleased about it.”
“Pleased? I’m horrified!” I say, bringing my hands to my cheeks, which are hot with embarrassment. “Is it not bad enough that Arthur has most grievously injured dear Agnes? If it was in any way on my account, that only increases the crime, for it makes me an unwilling party to it. How could I ever reconcile myself to that?”
31
The Evening’s Entertainments
Tom’s speculation about Arthur’s true sentiments shocks me. I hastily excuse myself to my room – the same lovely bedchamber I used as a child – ostensibly to dress for dinner, my real purpose being to find composure in solitude.
Arthur in love with me: an alarming thought! But is it possible? I do not wish to believe it. Yet, now that Tom has suggested the idea, my instincts tell me it may be true. His unfailing benevolence to me, even in the face of my deliberate coldness, I supposed to be evidence of nothing more than friendship and a generous nature. However, looking back, perhaps there have been subtle clues suggesting special affection – an expressive look, a meaningful word, a tender clasp of the hand – but nothing overt, nothing that cannot be explained by some other circumstance. And I would much prefer to attribute it to anything other than love.
“What an infernal nuisance!” I complain aloud to the empty room. It seems we digress from bad to worse by degrees. Still, no need to panic. After all, there is no definite proof. Until there is, I plan to behave as if I do not suspect a thing, despite what Tom has said.
Although I advocate calm, I cannot entertain the notion of going down to dinner with any equanimity. If seeing Arthur has been awkward before, it seems utterly insupportable now. Yet there is no evading it; I must face him. My consolation is that he knows nothing of what Tom told me. Nothing has changed according to his view. Therefore, I have no more reason to be self-conscious in his presence than I had an hour ago. At least that is what I tell myself as I make my way to the dining room.
There is Arthur, standing near the head of the table with Frederick and Tom. The three of them turn when I enter; all eyes upon me. I stop short, feel my face flush, and retreat with a stammered excuse about helping Susan and Agnes find their way through Millwalk’s maze of stairways and halls. Only when I have these friendly reinforcements on either side of me do I return.
Frederick makes good on his pledge from six months prior. A fine meal – fit for nobility if not royalty – is spread before us. He has even remembered the promised fatted calf; the main course is indeed veal. With cordial conversation flowing freely round the table, I begin to be more at ease. Clearly, I am the only one who feels any constraint. I marvel at Agnes’s unruffled demeanor. To see her now, one would never guess she had so recently suffered a broken heart at the hands of the very man who sits opposite, sharing with her a sumptuous repast and polite banter.
Mama revels in the party atmosphere, liberally contributing her own discourse to the liveliness of the affair. I, on the other hand, keep my thoughts mostly to myself, being primarily occupied with watching Arthur’s behavior for any symptom of peculiar regard. Now that my senses are alert to it, the evidence seems everywhere apparent. Or is it only my imagination that whilst I discretely observe him, he studies me even more intently?
After dinner, when we reconvene in the drawing room, Arthur introduces a serious note into the dialogue. “Mrs. Walker, I understand from Jo that you visited my mother two days ago. I would be much obliged if you would give me your opinion of her health. If she is truly unwell, I should not linger here in Surrey for my own pleasure.”
“My dear boy, your concern does you credit,” she answers. “However, I truly believe there is no cause for alarm. Your mother is brought a little low, but no more so than on other occasions. I am confident that she will rally again as before. Her strength of spirit will carry her through this.”
“I trust you are right, Mrs. Walker. Still, my presence might be of some comfort, and I shall not be quite easy until I see her for myself. Frederick, as much as I appreciate your superb hospitality, I think I must cut short my visit. If you will give me leave to go, I shall ride for Hampshire at first light.”
“Of course, if you wish it,” says Frederick, “but it will be a sad loss to our party, old boy.”
Others join in expressing regret. Only Agnes and I remain silent on the subject.
“Well then, we must make merry tonight,” says Tom, “whilst you are still with us – hold nothing back. I think a little dancing would be the very thing if we can persuade Mama to play for us. We have just enough here to form a set of three couples. What do you say, Miss Pittman?”
“Oh, yes! Do let us have dancing, by all means,” she cries. “It wouldn’t be a proper house party without dancin
g. You will play for us, Mrs. Walker, will you not?”
“My skills are meager at best. But if you insist…”
“Then it is settled,” Tom concludes, rising to escort his mother to the instrument.
“Capital idea,” adds Frederick. “Arthur, give me a hand with this rug.”
Just that quickly the plan is resolved upon and set into motion. Being as fond of dancing as most of my sex, I have no initial disinclination for the idea – not until, in a flash of enlightenment, I realize what will happen next.
As Mama begins to play, Frederick leads Susan to the floor. Agnes, taking Tom’s arm, instructs Arthur, “You must be Jo’s partner tonight, for she cannot possibly dance with either of her brothers. It wouldn’t be at all suitable.”
“Of course. It will be my pleasure,” he says. Before I can do anything to avert it, Arthur advances toward me, hand outstretched.
“Thank you,” I tell him, “but… I really do not care to dance.”
“Come, come, Josephine!” exclaims Agnes. “You must join us for we cannot attempt a dance with less than three couples. You know very well that such a thing is quite impossible.”
“You see our desperate situation, sister dear,” says Frederick. “I am afraid we simply cannot spare you. You must relent or we shall be obliged to give up the scheme entirely.”
I direct a pleading look at Tom, but help comes from a completely different quarter.
Arthur declares, “It is not fair to urge her in this manner. Let her choose for herself as well as the rest of us. If Jo is opposed to dancing tonight, surely we are capable of finding some other source of diversion.”
“No, Arthur,” I interrupt. “Thank you, but it’s all right. I have no serious objection, and it would be selfish of me to spoil everyone’s pleasure.”
“Well, if you are quite certain…” He offers his hand again. This time I take it.
I have accepted that same steady hand dozens of times before, but always in friendship. Everything is irrevocably altered now. For me, Arthur has changed over the course of the last three months from friend to foe, and as of tonight, unwelcome admirer. No wonder, then, that I sense an unfamiliar charge when our fingers meet this time. It gives me an odd, unsettled feeling in the hollow of my being as I rise to take my place opposite him. Fortunately, with only three couples, there will be little standing about or opportunity for conversation; the less time I have to stare across at Arthur, the better.
The first dance is a lively reel, and the one that succeeds it, nearly as demanding. Tom and Frederick then switch partners. For me, no change is possible; I dutifully carry on with Arthur when we resume, continuing thus until I am quite exhausted. Frederick, who looks rather done in himself, diplomatically calls for an intermission “that the ladies might receive benefit of rest and refreshments.”
“I remember well the last time I had the pleasure of dancing with you, Jo,” Arthur comments in a low voice.
“In Bath. Yes, how different things were then.”
“Indeed. That night you thought me the reluctant partner. Tonight it is you yourself who does not care to dance. I am sorry you have been placed in such an uncomfortable position. Still, it is good of you to put up with my company for the sake of the others.”
“I do it for Agnes, of course. She loves to dance, and I would endure anything, no matter how disagreeable, for her sake.”
My cutting words take immediate and devastating effect. Although I fully meant to wound him, the pain I see in his eyes gives me no satisfaction. For a moment, we stand mutely staring at one another before Arthur brakes away. “Excuse me,” he says quietly.
“Wait, Arthur…” But it is too late; he is already addressing the others.
“I need to make an early start of it in the morning, so I must leave you all now, which is likely to be regretted by no one so much as by myself. Although I suppose it means that the dancing is at an end. For that, I do apologize. Mrs. Walker, I am much obliged to you. Frederick, thank you once again for your hospitality. Good night everyone.” With a curt bow, he turns to go, despite the protestations of his friends.
Although I suffer lingering qualms over the manner of our parting, the rest of the company recovers from the disappointment of Arthur’s early departure soon enough. Tom calls for more music. He cannot persuade me, but both Susan and Agnes consent to play. Later, Mama proposes that the card table be set out for loo, the pursuit of which constitutes the balance of the evening’s entertainments.
After we at last part company for the night, I steal to Agnes’s room and tap lightly on the door. She lets me in. “Why, Jo, what do you do here?” she asks.
“I could not rest without speaking to you. I need to be convinced that you are well. You bore Arthur’s presence bravely, but it must have been a great strain on you to keep your countenance under such admirable control.”
“My dear, I told you I no longer care what he says or does.”
“I know that is what you claimed, but I confess I doubted your sincerity. I believed it no more than a boast to keep up your courage. Now then, tell me honestly, are you as indifferent to him as you evinced tonight?”
“’Tis not so much that I am indifferent to what has passed between us. That can never be. What is more to the point, I refuse to let him triumph over me.” There is a lilt in her voice as she continues. “Besides, I found everything else today so much to my liking that I could almost forget he existed. This house is divine; your mother and Susan so affable; and as for the kind attentions of your brothers… Well, let me just say that I do not think I could ever be miserable in such pleasant surroundings.” She begins to dance across the room. “So, what care I for Arthur Evensong?”
“Extraordinary. It seems I might have spared myself a great deal of worry on your account.”
“Yes, you might have done, had you only believed me before! Now you may at least sleep easy tonight, and Arthur will be gone in the morning.”
“So much the better.”
32
Plans for Improvements
How I wish that I could more speedily adopt Agnes’s philosophy for dealing with my feelings about Arthur. Whereas my friend has successfully resolved that what he has done will spoil neither her current enjoyment nor future plans, I can boast no such emotional detachment. Had he not seemed such an icon of uprightness to me in the past, perhaps Arthur’s downfall would not continue to grieve me so. As it is, I remain sorely disconsolate on the subject with no remedy in sight.
Such reflections as these keep my mind occupied until sleep at last overtakes me. I awake quite early the next day to take up the same chain of thought again. Upon hearing some noise outdoors, I slip from my bed, cross to the window, and draw the heavy damask drapery aside a few inches. Every room on the west front looks across a lawn to the beginning of the avenue immediately beyond tall iron palisades and gates, although these are indistinct at present. It has rained during the night, and a heavy morning mist blankets the ground rendering every distant article in ghostly guise.
The objects close at hand I can discern clearly enough. A horse and two figures – Mr. Evensong and a stable boy – converge on the drive. Arthur mounts up and takes one last look at the house. For a moment, I think he might see me, though if he does he betrays no sign of it. After a parting word to the lad, he sets off and is soon swallowed up by the fog.
As I watch him disappear, I remind myself what a relief it will be to have Arthur – and the inner turmoil he creates for me – gone from Millwalk. Yet the way we parted last night continues to trouble me. My conscience accuses me of deliberate cruelty. With the subsequent assurance of Agnes’s well-being in view, my rudeness to him now seems unnecessarily harsh. Still, if it serves to discourage him from cherishing any unrealistic hopes about me, perhaps insolence has been the wisest, and ultimately kindest, course. In any case, it is over and done – no sense in beating the thing dead when it cannot be changed.
I go about my morning toilet slowly.
There is no need to hurry downstairs; the others, in all likelihood, are not yet stirring. A faint rap on my door soon gives evidence of at least one exception. I open to find Susan standing there in her dressing gown.
“May I come in?” she asks in little more than a whisper. “I could not sleep, so I thought I would take a chance that you might be awake as well.”
“Of course. Come in, by all means. I hope you are not ill or that you find your accommodations uncomfortable.”
“No, not at all. I rarely sleep well the first night in a new place. That cannot be the origin of your restlessness though; you have been here countless times before.”
“True, and yet never under these peculiar circumstances. Ah, well, the cause of the variance is now gone, so we may all be more at our ease today.”
“A peculiar variance? Is that how you think of Mr. Evensong? I might call him many things, but never that. Still, if his presence upsets you, then I am glad he is gone.”
“Oh, Susan, you are only aware of half the story. You know that I cannot forgive him for abandoning Agnes. Now the plot has taken another turn, and for the worse, I’m afraid. I have to tell somebody, but my dear, you must not breathe a word of this, especially not to Agnes.”
“What on earth…”
I pull Susan over to sit beside me on the bed. “My brother Tom believes that Arthur – oh, I can scarcely bring myself to say the words – that Arthur has thrown Agnes over because he cares for me!”
“Is that what he told you? No wonder, then, that you have been so little like yourself.”
“So you can appreciate my vexation.”
“…and the awkwardness of your situation, yes. The assertion that Mr. Evensong cares for you, I can well believe. I suspected as much myself. As for the rest, I should not hazard an opinion. In my experience, venturing to ascribe motives to another person’s behavior is a singularly perilous undertaking. I believe we have both fallen victim to that sort of error.”
“How do you mean?”
For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel Page 20