For Myself Alone: A Jane Austen Inspired Novel

by Shannon Winslow

  Before John arrives, the post comes with the latest installment from Tom. He has been gone nearly two months and written with remarkable regularity – from Paris, Lyon, Barcelona, and various points along the French Mediterranean coast en route to Italy. As always, the letter is addressed to Mama. She eagerly opens it and scans the first few lines.

  “He has made it to Venice!” she informs my father and me. “‘It is a place of rare enchantment,’ he says, ‘quite set apart from the everyday world. It is not only the famous canals that distinguish Venice, but the unique style of the buildings. Here one can clearly discern the blended influences of eastern and western cultures. This place is an architect’s paradise. My sketch book is filling rapidly; at every turn, I find a prospect worth preserving on paper.’ And look, he has sent along some drawings for us.”

  Mama passes the pertinent page of the letter to me, which I share with Papa who is sitting by my side. There are three ink sketches. The first one, labeled “Ponte’s bridge across the Grand Canal at the Rialto,” reminds me a little of the Pultney Street bridge in Bath. The next is a detail of “typical Venetian style” picturing ornately fashioned arched windows and roof cornices very foreign-looking to my eye. The last drawing shows the heavily columned, arched, and domed façade of “Saint Mark’s Basilica.”

  “Imagine the hue and cry that would erupt if someone were to erect such an exotic structure in one of London’s finer neighborhoods,” Papa muses.

  “I daresay it had best not be attempted there, but it might look quite at home in Brighton, next to the Prince Regent’s outlandish Royal Pavilion,” I joke. “What else does Tom have to report, Mama?”

  “He says that the letters of introduction he carried with him from Oxford have opened many doors. Apparently they were instrumental in his making the acquaintance of an architect of some importance from London, a Mr. Meacham, who happened to be sojourning in Padua when Tom passed that way. He writes, ‘After listening to some of my ideas and looking at my drawings, Mr. Meacham invited me to come see him when I return to England, in order that we may continue our discussions. He would be in a position – and I dare to hope inclined – to assist me in my career.’ Well, what do you think of that, Jo?”

  “I think it nicely substantiates what I have always attested: Tom has talent. I am gratified that someone besides his sister has recognized it.”

  “Humph!” Papa exclaims. “‘My career,’ Tom says. I fear this scrap of encouragement has gone straight to his head, filling it with unrealistic expectations.”

  ~~*~~

  John and I embark upon our ride shortly after noon, I on Viola and he on an ancient gelding called Max. The plan is to make for the glade in order to gather some of the blackberries that grow in the brambles round its fringes. Viola is eager, as am I, to set a brisk pace; Max and John are not so well able to follow suit. So the refreshing gallop I had hoped for must come in fits and starts. I race off for a stretch and then wait for John to catch me up. Still and all, the cool air and the beauty of the wood, both tinged with the first hints of autumn, do not disappoint.

  At our destination, we tether our horses and begin the task before us. My pail fills quickly. John’s progress is slowed by his propensity to deposit at least half the berries into his mouth, the evidence of which stains his lips and fingers a rosy purple. As we work, the sun warms our backs and the laden vines alike, releasing the sweet scent of ripe fruit into the air.

  “Arthur will be home soon,” John remarks.

  “I know. I read his letter out for you, remember? You will be very happy to see him, I expect.”

  “Oh, yes.” Then his smile changes into a frown. “But I wish he would not always go away again.”

  Our employment and conversation are interrupted at this point by the sound of a horseman approaching. When he breaks into the sunlight of the clearing, we immediately recognize him. John nearly spills all the contents of his pail in his excitement, dropping it to the ground at once and breaking into a run to meet his brother. I am equally discomposed by the sight of Arthur, but for materially different reasons.

  After a few minutes, the two brothers come, hand in hand, to where I have continued my work.

  “Hello, Jo,” says Arthur, the earnestness in his voice matching the look he gives me.

  “Good afternoon, Arthur. I did not know that you were back.”

  “Yes, just. Mrs. Jones told me you and John were off after some berries, so I thought I might find you here.”

  John shades his eyes to peer up at his brother. “Cook says she will bake me a pie if I bring her enough.”

  “And how much have you collected thus far?” John retrieves his half-empty container and shows it to Arthur. “Hmm. I am no expert, of course, but I think it will be a very small pie unless you put more berries into your bucket… and fewer into your mouth,” Arthur adds with a laugh, examining his brother’s juice-stained face. “I will wait for you to finish, and then we can ride home together, all right?”

  This seems to satisfy John, who hurries back to the brambles with his pail, leaving me alone with Arthur. I try to cover my embarrassment by initiating a stroll round the glade and something that I hope will pass for light-hearted banter. It is of no use, however. The tension between us is palpable; the very air crackles with the strain of anticipation.

  When I think I can scarcely bear it another minute, Arthur breaks in. “My dearest Jo, forgive me for being so abrupt, but I must know my fate. Tell me then; have you considered the question I left with you before I went away?”

  “I have,” I say, my voice trembling despite my exertions to the contrary. “I have thought of little else over the last few weeks.”

  “And what is your answer, pray? Will you give me a reason not to accept the fellowship at Oxford?”

  I am moved by his supplicating tone, but I force myself to answer according to my prior resolve. “No, Arthur, I cannot. I think you had best take the fellowship.”

  I glimpse his crestfallen face before he turns and takes a few steps away. In silent agony I await his reaction, praying he is not too badly hurt.

  With his back still toward me, he presently says, “I understand … and I do not blame you, Jo. I probably had no right to hope. It was irrational of me to think that, once our friendship had been restored, you could easily make the leap to deeper feelings; that because I care for you so … so ardently, you must somehow feel the same for me.” With a heavy sigh, he faces me again. “It was a foolish delusion, and now you have kindly awakened me from it.”

  “I am sorry, Arthur, more so than you can possibly imagine. But consider, you have other, more worthwhile goals to think of, dreams which you have held far longer and dearer than this one. Your career ambitions are more important than any passing regard you may feel for me. They must take precedence. You are destined to do great things in the church – of that I am thoroughly convinced – and I would not hold you back for the world. You will rise farther and much more quickly without me.”

  I see in his face that my words bring him no relief.

  “That is small consolation. Even supposing it were true, success at such a cost would be an empty victory. High office can give no satisfaction if I am alone.” We both fall silent. The birds, however, continue soaring and singing all about us, unconscious of the crisis playing out before them. At length Arthur continues. “So you are quite certain you shall never be persuaded to care for me.”

  It is a statement of resignation, yet Arthur says it with the air of a man grasping at the last straw of hope left to him. My heart is cut to the quick. I have neither the will to hide from his searching gaze nor the courage to reply. All I can do is allow my expression to entreat his understanding and forgiveness.

  “What’s this that I see in your countenance, Jo?” he says, coming toward me. “A battle waging? Perhaps you have spoken with more decidedness than you feel. Is it possible that I still have some chance with you?”

  In my anguish, I begin pouri
ng out all my much-debated doubts and reservations: the inevitable objections at home, the want of sufficient income, my damaged reputation and adversaries. “…It is no good, Arthur! You must see that. You cannot marry me. On top of everything else, I should completely ruin your future chances. The whole thing is quite impossible!”

  Though I am crying as I speak, Arthur’s mouth has unaccountably stretched into a broad grin. His eyes shining, he then takes my hands and kisses each one, front and back. “My sweet, sweet friend,” he says with barely restrained fervor. “So you do care for me after all.”

  “I never said so,” I complain with the last morsel of my melting resolve.

  “I know, yet, if I may be so bold, your passionate protests have spoken for you. Now, my dear Josephine – for dear you will always be to me – let us have no more of these demurs and scruples. You must be completely honest with me this time. Say no if it must be, but I am praying you love me as I love you, body and soul.”

  I cry out, “Of course I do, Arthur, but…”

  “Then no more objections! Agree to be my wife and all the rest we shall work out together. I know I have precious little to offer you at present. If you accept me, I’m afraid it must be for myself alone.”

  I stare at him in wonder, forcibly struck by his words. “For myself alone,” I repeat. It is a sign. How can I fault his logic or reject a petition based on such a plea, when it is precisely the consideration I have so long yearned for? I suddenly realize he has already offered to take me on those terms, and I have no reasonable excuse for denying him the same mark of respect.

  A great peace floods over me, a peace which I can only represent by the image of the jumbled bits of a puzzle all at once settling into their proper positions. My misgivings drop away, one by one, as the completed picture falls into place before my eyes. It is a predestined design of sublime order and beauty. Arthur and I belong together; it is as simple as that.

  “Yes,” I say, acknowledging the whole of it.

  Without another word, he gathers me to himself where, I notice, the curve of my body fits perfectly next to his. I forget all else. With my eyes closed, I drink in the moment – the scent of Arthur’s skin, the warmth of his breath in my hair, the texture of his coat against my cheek, and his heart booming in my ear. For minutes we remain in this attitude. We cleave together, silently basking in the afternoon sun and in all the pleasurable implications of our new understanding.

  In Arthur’s arms, I begin to comprehend what has been missing from my picture of connubial bliss. There is an intenseness of feeling in our embrace that is new to me – a unity of spirit, and a powerful longing for a deeper oneness in every other sense. It threatens to overwhelm me. I know Arthur is aware of it too, for all at once he releases me and puts a prudent distance between us again.

  When we have both recovered our composure, he offers me his arm and we resume our stroll round the clearing. John continues at his occupation with no apparent awareness of the monumental changes taking place in the lives of the two people who hold his concerns most dear.

  “Are you absolutely certain, Arthur?” I ask presently. “To sacrifice what might have been a brilliant career for …”

  “My dear girl, you take far too much responsibility upon yourself. And I must protest against writing off my career so quickly. I am by no means convinced that such persons as you claim as your enemies hold my fate in their hands. Moreover, if anybody must have the credit for undermining my career prospects, it is I. For I made myself an adversary of Mr. Randolph Pierce long before you incurred his displeasure. Remember?”

  “I suppose that is true. Why did you turn down his offer? I have always wondered.”

  “As well you might then, for you apparently guessed nothing of my true sentiments at the time. I hardly acknowledged them to myself. However, now you must see how insupportable it would have been. The disadvantages of Mr. Pierce’s questionable character aside, nothing could have tempted me to accept a position where I would have been forced to continually witness your devotion to another man, to see you at his side by day and know you lay in his arms…” He closes his eyes and shudders. “Forgive me, Jo, but I could not have endured it. I made my choice then and there that, come what may, my future would be guided by personal conviction rather than blind ambition. Now I have my reward,” he says, pressing my arm with his own.

  I smile at the compliment but remind him, “You do not have me yet, sir, nor shall you for some time to come, I fear. You are currently in no position to take a wife.”

  “But I soon shall be. In one respect, my luck has already changed. My professional fortunes are bound to follow.” Pausing, Arthur raises my chin until our eyes meet. Then he brushes my lips with a tender kiss, a tantalizing sample of what is to come. “Say that you will wait for me, Jo.”

  “I will,” I answer, strangely out of breath, “but I pray you will not keep me waiting long. I suddenly find I am quite impatient for you to make a married woman of me, Mr. Evensong.”

  “As am I, Miss Walker, I assure you. As am I.”

  43

  Epilogue

  I have just filled the last page of my diary, which is entirely fitting since I am closing one chapter of my life and beginning another. Months have passed since that glorious encounter in the glade where Arthur and I confessed our love. Never once from that time until this have I had reason to regret the choice I made then. Whilst it is true that the waiting is a source of daily torment, the suspense is almost over now.

  Tomorrow Arthur and I will be married at the same little stone church in Wallerton where we were both christened, he two years before me; where we saw each other every Sunday of our lives growing up; and where our neighbors – and, indeed, we ourselves – had originally expected each of us to be united with someone entirely different. To be sure, the setting will be far less majestic than the London cathedral where Agnes and Mr. Cox took their vows over a year ago, and even modest by comparison to Susan’s parish church in Kent where she will wed Mr. Ramsey in January. Still, despite the limited length of the nave and the unimpressive height of the vault, I expect to be quite thoroughly married at the end of the day, which is all I want.

  To my mind, Wallerton church is precisely the right size to comfortably hold all our family and true friends. Susan will be my bridesmaid. Agnes, who did not take the news of my engagement to Arthur with as much philosophy as I had hoped, emphatically declined the office. Although I attempted to clear away the past difficulty, presenting her the same account of the misunderstanding that Arthur gave to me, she will not yet allow the justice of his explanation. Her implacable resentment has hurt me deeply, and perhaps one day she will repent of it. But for now, all intercourse between us is at an end. I am through making excuses for her bad behavior and allowances for the weaknesses of her character.

  Dear little John is to stand up as groomsman and, after we return from our wedding trip to Ireland, he shall come to live with us. Robert raised no objection when we suggested the idea, and Arthur and I would have it no other way. The matter is thus settled to everybody’s liking. I know Mrs. Evensong would have approved, both of our marriage and of the arrangements made for John. We continue to mourn her loss, yet I make no doubt that we shall feel her benevolent presence with us tomorrow all the same.

  My father will walk me down the aisle and bestow my hand on Arthur. I warrant this will pain him far less than it once might have done. He has had a full year to accustom himself to the idea, during which time pressure was brought to bear on our behalf by my mother. One day, according to her telling of the story, she reminded Papa about Maria and Mr. March, pointing out that, despite their equally unpromising beginning, their marriage has been blessed with three fine children, unexpected prosperity, and a vast deal of contentment. My father, who I believe knows the couple in question every bit as intimately as does my mother, was apparently persuaded by this compelling illustration to give his consent, albeit begrudgingly.

  “Upon my
honor, Josephine, I had hoped to see you do better for yourself as to fortune,” he said on the occasion. “A man of some little property would have suited my ambitions very well. Mr. Arthur Evensong may prove a great success in the end, but as of this moment, I have seen very little evidence of his genius. If it will be any satisfaction to you, however, to be told that I believe his character to be in other respects irreproachable, I am ready to confess it. Beyond that, all I can do is wish you – improbable as it may be – the same measure of happiness I have enjoyed with your excellent mother these many years.”

  My excellent mother – for indeed so she is – has given the match her more enthusiastic endorsement. She is neither troubled by disappointed past expectations nor misgivings for my future. And, having foreseen the outcome months before I myself thought it possible, she boasts the added gratification of having begun to be happy for me well in advance of everybody else.

  Both my brothers are returned to Fairfield for the wedding. Frederick came from Millwalk two weeks ago claiming he wished the favor of extra time with his sister (as if we will not be meeting with the greatest frequency after I am married). His noble assertion notwithstanding, I notice that he takes his duty to our neighbors at least as seriously as his duty to me, for he has called upon the Pittmans almost every day since his arrival. I daresay the once-pined-for Agnes is quite forgot, and her sister Judith – now a blooming young lady of nineteen – is the likely cause of Frederick’s liberal attentions.

  Tom, who had planned to be away on the continent for at least a twelve-month, cut his trip short at the urging of Mr. Meacham. After meeting in Italy, they continued their exchange of ideas by correspondence until their mutual respect and like-minded purposes clearly demanded that the possibility of a more permanent professional relationship be explored. Hence, for the last several months, Tom has resided in London, flourishing under Mr. Meacham’s tutelage. Having recently accepted the offer to purchase a share in the business, Tom’s future solidly resides in that vocation now. He will give no more nervous sermons, I am happy to say.